Zarek moved forward step by careful step, his fingertips brushing against the jagged stone walls of the cave. The damp rock scraped against his skin, grounding him, keeping him upright as the darkness swallowed everything in sight. Every stride felt uncertain, his feet dragging against unseen ground, never sure whether the next step would be solid earth or a sudden drop.
From the depths ahead, bloodthirsty howls echoed, laced with killing intent so raw it pressed against his chest like a physical weight. Each one resounded through the cavern like a force of nature, primal and merciless, and every echo sent a shiver racing down his spine.
Though he clenched his jaw, unwilling to admit it, fear was spreading through him like frost. Goosebumps prickled across his skin, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck rose as though the darkness itself was watching him. A faint numbness crept along his arms and legs, dulling his movements until even lifting his feet felt like dragging boulders.
His legs grew heavy.
"Just my luck…" Zarek muttered under his breath before halting mid-complaint. What good would whining do? He had already learned the bitter truth that the world didn't care for grievances. Complaints didn't save lives.
Things could always be worse.
Forcing his panic down, Zarek steadied himself with a deep breath and reviewed what he knew—what scraps of knowledge he had pulled from The World of Good and Evil.
This world was called Eternal Dawn.
The novel's author hadn't wasted many words on history, but a single line in the first chapter had revealed enough: this place had once been just like Earth. Ordinary cities, ordinary people.
And then the portals appeared.
On that single, cursed night, monsters poured from rifts across every major city. Half of humanity had been wiped out before dawn broke.
The survivors would call it the First Great Cataclysm.
Just when extinction loomed, they had appeared.
"The Awakeners…" Zarek's whisper echoed faintly, his eyes flashing with sharp resolve.
Ordinary men and women who had suddenly awakened powers, chosen by some unseen system. They gained classes, they grew strong by killing monsters, and they leveled up. These first Awakeners had clawed a bloody path through the chaos, securing a fragile future for humanity.
The novel's story began one hundred years after that first cataclysm. First. The word itself had been deliberate foreshadowing. If there was a first, then another catastrophe was bound to follow. Zarek didn't know when it would strike, but he remembered the author's hints: it would be the looming threat overshadowing everything.
What unsettled him most was his uncertainty—was this moment aligned with the story's beginning, or some time before? Unlike the usual tropes, he hadn't inherited the memories of the body he now inhabited.
Not that he cared. Memories might have helped in the short term, but in the long run? They would have been chains, a burden he didn't want.
His wandering thoughts were cut short as his foot caught against something. He stumbled forward, barely regaining his balance before hitting the ground.
Clink! Metal rang sharply in the silence, echoing behind him.
"Oh… right. I almost forgot about it."
The bag.
Amid the terror of being chased, he had shoved survival above all else, completely forgetting to check the one item left in his possession.
Lowering himself to the ground, he unfastened the bag and sifted through its contents. His expectations were low—the body's previous owner had been running for his life. Anything useful would have already been spent in desperation.
But luck, for once, favored him.
His hand closed around something cold, solid, and sharp. His pulse quickened.
"Bingo! A dagger—just what I needed."
The moment the weapon settled into his grip, reassurance bloomed in his chest. The howls echoing in the cave no longer pressed down on him with quite the same suffocating weight. The fear still lingered, but with steel in his hand, it felt bearable. Survivable.
Things were looking up.
"If only…" The thought formed unbidden. If only there was some light.
Whether through cruel irony or divine intervention, his wish was granted.
A faint glow appeared in the distance. It wavered, dim and blood-tinged, moving steadily closer through the oppressive dark.
Zarek's expression stiffened. His gut twisted, a dreadful premonition sinking into his bones.
Moving light.
Nothing good ever came from that.
His grip on the dagger trembled. Without thinking, he began to back away, his breaths shallow, his body on edge.
And then—
"Where did it go?"
The light was gone.
A piercing chill swept through the tunnel, like the cave itself had drawn breath. Shadows clung to Zarek, wrapping around his body like living restraints. His limbs locked. His heart thundered in his chest, yet his body refused to move. To any observer, he would have looked like a statue carved from terror itself.
Then, just as suddenly, the grip loosened. The suffocating darkness retreated.
Everything was still.
Until the scream.
"Arghhh!"
Agony tore through Zarek as his own voice broke the silence. His veins bulged across his face like writhing earthworms, his features twisted in sheer terror.
His hand—the one clutching the dagger—was bent at a grotesque, impossible angle, as though his bones were nothing but soaked cloth.
The pain was unbearable. It drowned out every other thought, every shred of excitement he had once felt about being transmigrated into this world. All of it—gone. There was only pain, sharp and unrelenting, consuming his heart, his mind, his very soul.
His screams filled the cavern, raw and desperate.
Blood seeped across the stone. His cries echoed and twisted through the tunnels, a beacon to whatever horrors lurked in the dark.
And then they came.
Red lights—dozens of them—flickered into existence, glowing with sinister hunger as they drifted closer, circling his misery like vultures.
Despite the torment, Zarek was not completely gone. A fragile thread of sanity clung to him, whispering in his thoughts.
Why… why, just why?
Why do I have to exist only to suffer?
Why me? Every time. Every world. Every chance. If suffering exists, it hunts me down.
The crimson lights pulsed closer, but his silent despair meant nothing to them. Monsters did not care. Monsters only fed.
.....
Splash!
A silver arc of light cleaved through the night, followed by a wet spray of blood that painted the grasslands red.
An impossibly handsome young man stood amidst the carnage, his crimson hair glinting beneath the moonlight like strands of blood woven into silk. His expression was cold, indifferent, as if the slaughter before him was no more significant than cutting weeds.
At his feet lay the remains of wolves, massive beasts as large as oxen. Their snowy fur glistened under the starlight, now matted with crimson. More than ten of them circled still, their hackles raised, but none dared to advance. Their gleaming white coats reflected the blade in his hand—pristine, silver, unstained by the blood it had shed.
They outnumbered him. Yet not one moved an inch closer.
Fear gripped them.
The young man paid them no mind. His gaze was fixed instead on the dozen red orbs that hovered above the wolves, their glow flickering hungrily in the dark.
A single word echoed in his mind:
"Fear Eaters."
As their name suggested—monsters that feasted on fear itself.