The creature writhed in pain, howling, its flesh unraveling like old rope around the wound Lin had struck. Black ichor spilled in thick globs, hissing where it hit the ground, filling the air with the stink of ash and ruin. The others stepped back, not out of fear—but out of surprise.
So did Lin.
His chest heaved. His arms trembled. The blade dripped with something unnatural, alive even in death.
They can die.
The thought echoed, desperate and hungry.
And before he could stop himself—before pain or logic or the sheer weight of reality could restrain him—Lin surged forward.
It wasn't bravery.
It was stupid, hollow hope.
Hope that he could do it again.
Hope that it wasn't a fluke.
Hope that if he moved quickly, if he pressed forward, if he struck now, he might turn the tide.
He screamed—not a war cry, but something raw and frayed, torn from the deepest pit of his being. His legs barely carried him forward, driven by momentum and nothing else. His broken wrist was useless, the other hand barely gripping the hilt of the dagger slick with blood and ichor.
The beasts didn't retreat.
They were waiting.
The first hit came from the side—a clawed limb smashing into his ribs like a swinging log. He felt bones snap, crack, fold inward. Air left his lungs in a wet gasp. He was airborne before he realized what had happened, then crashing into stone with a sound that would have killed someone else.
He tried to stand.
A foot—heavy, jointed wrong, ending in a splintered hoof—slammed down onto his back, pinning him. He howled, twisting, but another blow came, this time to his temple.
The world blinked out, then back in—colors wrong, shapes distorted.
He was lifted, slammed, tossed like garbage.
Something sharp raked across his thigh—muscle peeled like bark.
Another claw tore down his arm—ripping through flesh, catching bone.
The dagger slipped again. He scrambled, fumbling blindly, but a hand—no, a mass of fingers—closed around his neck and dragged him upward.
He dangled.
Bleeding.
Trembling.
Dying.
The creature holding him tilted its head, studying him. Its mouth was a vertical slit down the center of its face, opening slowly to reveal rows of needle-like teeth, wet and humming with some dark vibration.
He choked.
Blood bubbled from his mouth.
(I was wrong.)
(It wasn't a sign. It was an accident. Luck. Nothing more.)
(I thought I understood the rules—thought maybe there was a path forward. That if I just believed hard enough, if I pushed forward, I could change something. But this world doesn't care about belief. It doesn't reward effort. It devours.)
His vision blurred. His limbs refused to answer him now. The pressure around his neck tightened. The edge of consciousness crept in.
But still—something inside him wouldn't die.
A voice. Small. Harsh. Familiar.
(I saw them. Those hunters. Those crew member, all of them—torn apart by a single magical beast. Not one. Not two. Dozens. People trained to kill. Armed. Organized. Reduced to meat in seconds.)
(And i thought i could live small in a world like that? Thought i could hide? That someone else would protect me?)
(No one's coming.)
(I was a warrior once, the strongest player so why will I be scared? Why will I be?)
The creature raised him higher, as if offering him to the dark above.
(This world doesn't allow the weak to survive. Not unless the strong pity them. And pity is rare as mercy.)
It opened its mouth wide.
(You have to fight. Not to win—)
(*—but to exist.)
Lin screamed.
Not in defiance.
Not in fear.
But in revelation.
The Nam Ara dagger was still there—stuck in the meat of his boot where he'd jammed it, a last-ditch effort when his hand failed. He jerked his leg, twisting his ankle brutally, and the blade came free.
Before the beast could bite—before it could take him fully—he swung.
Not clean. Not skillful. Not brave.
Just desperate.
The dagger stabbed into the thing's jaw, piercing the soft joint beneath it. It wasn't deep. It wasn't even well-aimed.
But it hurt.
The creature shrieked, dropping him.
Lin hit the ground hard. Something in his shoulder dislocated.
He rolled.
Coughed blood.
Stared up at the looming horde with one eye swollen shut, the other bloodied.
And laughed.
A cracked, ruined laugh.
(I'll die here. Maybe not today. But here, in this kind of place, in this kind of world. It's only a matter of time.)
(But before that… I will fight.)
(*I will fight even if my bones are powder. Even if my skin hangs from me in ribbons. Even if I have to hold the blade in my teeth.)
(Because that's what this world demands.)
(And I am done being the one who gets devoured.)
They surrounded him again, monstrous silhouettes framed in the twitching half-light of the tower. The air buzzed with the scent of ichor, blood, sweat—smoke from things that shouldn't burn.
Lin stood on shaking legs, half hunched, one eye swollen shut, his mouth a mess of blood and broken teeth. His shoulder hung wrong, twitching with every heartbeat. His breathing was sharp and irregular—every inhale a stabbing knife in his side.
But he stood.
The Nam Ara dagger was in his working hand—his only hand now. The other hung useless at his side, fingers twitching spasmodically. The blade was warm. Heavy. Coated in the blood of something that shouldn't exist.
He looked down at it. For a moment, the tower vanished. The monsters vanished. The pain, the blood, the stench—all of it faded.
And in its place—
Her.
Nam Ara.
Sharp eyes, voice like iron cooled in sorrow. A woman who had never flinched, never hesitated. The day he met her, she barely looked at him. The day she died, she was all he saw.
She had fought when others fled. She had shielded him, when he was still too useless to even run.
And she had died.
Face down in the mud, her weapon in her hand, body broken—but not defeated.
He remembered her falling, not screaming. Not crying. Just turning, making sure he was running.
And he hadn't even made it far before she was gone.
(She died… making sure I got to see another day.)
(She didn't have to. No one else did. But she chose to. That was her final act.)
(She died doing what no one else did. And she died knowing she saved someone.)
(If that's what it means to be a hunter…) Lin raised the dagger to his chest, pressing the cold edge against his skin, over the ragged beat of his heart.
(Then I'll be a hunter. In this world of monsters and ruin—I will be the one who stands.)
He took one step forward.
The beasts tensed.
(I won't fail you, Nam Ara.)
He took another. The pain lit every nerve in his body on fire.
(You saved my life. For that, I swear—)
His voice was low. Cracked. Barely more than a whisper.
"I will make your death mean something."
He charged.
Not because he had energy left. Not because he believed he'd win.
Because the only way out was through.
The first beast lunged—and Lin dropped low, sliding on broken knees, ramming the dagger upward into its gut. The blade pierced soft, unseen flesh. The creature howled as it stumbled back, dragging loops of blackened viscera from the wound. But it didn't die.
It came back swinging.
The second caught him across the ribs with a claw like a rusted scythe. His body arced sideways, rag-dolled against a support beam. He hit hard, spat blood—but twisted as he fell and slashed a second creature's knee. It buckled, letting out a choked gurgle, but still didn't fall.
He was too slow.
Too hurt.
But he didn't stop.
A fourth came at him. He ducked beneath its lunge, planted the dagger deep into its side, and twisted. Black blood coated his arm. The creature screamed and collapsed—but even as it fell, it slashed him across the chest with its dying breath.
Three deep gashes. More blood. More pain.
He stumbled. Fell to one knee. And rose again.
(This is what it costs, he thought. To kill them. To survive. There is no clean victory. No graceful duel. Just brutality. Just blood.)
He screamed. Not a word. Just fury.
Rage.
It consumed him. Fueled him. Nam Ara's memory burned in his chest, hotter than pain. Hotter than fear.
He spun as one circled behind him—drove the dagger straight into its face, into the open eye socket. It twitched. Shuddered. And went still.
Another kill.
Another step forward.
But the cost mounted.
He was limping now, dragging one leg. His arm trembled so violently the dagger shook in his grip. His body was streaked with torn flesh, his vision narrowed to a tunnel of red.
A fifth beast roared.
He turned too slowly.
Its claw tore across his back, ripping open flesh that had barely held together. He fell forward, his face smashing into stone, nose breaking on impact.
The dagger skittered out of his grip.
(No—NO—)
He reached for it with trembling fingers.
The beast was behind him, stepping closer, too close.
(Not like this. Not when I've come this far. Not when I've killed for this. I won't die like this—)
His fingers closed on the hilt.
He rolled just as the beast leapt.
The dagger stabbed upward.
Right under the jaw.
Straight into the brain.
It spasmed. Twitched. Collapsed on top of him.
He screamed under its weight, shoving it off with what little strength he had left. Something tore in his shoulder as he did.
He couldn't feel his legs now.
Couldn't hear his own breath.
Just the pounding of blood and the static roar of death closing in.
Two beasts left.
They hesitated.
He stood.
Stumbled.
And charged.
He barely saw the claws coming.
They tore through him like paper.
One ripped open his chest—muscle peeled back, ribs visible.
The other raked his thigh. He dropped again.
This time, he didn't rise quickly.
But he did rise.
Barely.
He spat out a tooth. Blood flooded his throat.
And he grinned through it.
"You're next."
He hurled the dagger.
It was a reckless move.
It was also the only one left.
The blade spun end over end—singing, humming with fury and flame and memory.
It struck.
Not deep. Not hard.
But it hit.
Right under the beast's arm.
The wound smoked.
It screeched—loud and long.
And collapsed.
Lin hobbled to the last one, dragging one foot behind the other.
The final beast looked at him. There was no fear in it. But there was… pause.
Recognition.
Lin raised the dagger again.
"This is what a hunter does."
He stabbed.
"I was not the hunted here, in this tower I was never the hunted."
Again.
"In this tower."
And again.
"I am the hunter and I will kill every last one who call they're my enemy, they won't see the next day."
The creature screamed.
Then stilled.
And then—silence.
Real silence.
For a long moment, Lin stood among the corpses, trembling.
Then, slowly, he fell to his knees.
The pain caught up all at once.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
But as his vision dimmed, as his head dropped to the floor littered with blood and broken flesh, he smiled.
(I did it. I killed them.)
(All of them)
(Nam Ara… I hope you saw that.)
(I hope you know you didn't save the wrong person.)
Darkness swam at the edges of his mind.
But he didn't fear it this time.
He had earned it.