The night air reeked of rot and blood.
Captain Berrin crouched in the brush near Wildroot Pass, his palm pressed against the damp earth, sword unsheathed and eyes locked on the treeline. Thirty soldiers knelt behind him, armor dull and patched, breaths shallow. None were cultivators. Not truly. Just ordinary men clinging to courage, enhanced only by potion-drawn strength and talismanic protection.
Only Berrin had touched the Awakening Realm—mid-stage. It set him apart, gave him speed and perception, but even he wasn't confident against what they now hunted.
Feral-tier Night Hollows.
The beasts weren't divine or mutated—they were regular creatures twisted by residual spiritual energy into something more.
And they killed like they were born to it.
"Two confirmed," whispered Scout Doran, barely audible through the fog. "Devoured a livestock caravan and half a shepherding family. Torn limbs. No survivors."
Berrin's jaw tightened. "And their path?"
"South. They'll be here in less than an hour."
He nodded. "Positions. Defensive wedge. Shields in front. Binders prep your seals."
The soldiers moved with reluctant precision, forming a crescent around the shallow ravine. Glowing symbols were drawn on the ground. Parchment talismans were pressed to armor. Potions uncorked. Some muttered prayers. Most simply waited.
A crow screamed in the distance.
Then came the silence.
No insects. No wind. The air died, replaced by a heartbeat in every ear.
And then—they came.
The first Night Hollow tore through the treeline with a bellow that made lungs tighten. Six legs, the front four like scythes, its flesh writhing with black growths, skin torn back over muscle that pulsed like magma. It was nearly ten feet tall when it reared. No eyes. Just a mouthful of teeth.
The second didn't howl. It simply appeared—crashing through a flanking ridge, catching the soldiers in a pincer.
Berrin shouted, "Shields up!"
Too slow.
The front-most soldier was impaled—three spears through his chest, armor splitting like fruit. The Hollow lifted him, still twitching, and hurled him backward. He struck a tree. Bones shattered on impact.
The left flank fared worse. The second beast swept its claws in a wide arc. Flesh, not armor, yielded. Men screamed as torsos were opened like satchels. One soldier stumbled forward, trying to drag his legs—only to realize they were no longer attached.
"Hold!" Berrin roared. He lunged forward, aura flaring. Mid-stage Awakening Realm power surged through his limbs. His sword met the first beast's forelimb with a clang that sent sparks into the mist.
The blade bit in—deep. The creature shrieked, black ichor spraying.
But it didn't retreat. It rammed him.
Berrin flew backward, crashed through a small boulder, and rolled into the mud. His shoulder screamed in pain.
He spat blood, shoved a talisman into the ground—one marked with spiral glyphs and firm, elegant inkwork.
It pulsed.
And then it exploded in light.
The fireball it conjured didn't sputter or flicker like the lesser seals.
It howled—pure heat compressed into a singular blast. It engulfed the Hollow's left side in a furious column of flame. Flesh cracked. Bone glowed. The scream that followed was not animal.
It was agony.
The other soldiers stared, stunned.
"Ghost Ink Scholar," muttered one soldier.
"Fireball Talisman. Strongest I've ever seen," said another.
But there was no time to marvel.
The second Hollow leapt atop a group of shield-bearers, flattening three beneath its bulk. One man's ribcage collapsed with a wet crunch. Another was torn in half, legs flung one way, arms the other. Screams rose and were abruptly cut off.
"Rear squad—reinforce left!" Berrin bellowed, climbing to his feet.
Soldiers ran—those who could. A veteran named Jordy slammed a Minor Barrier Seal onto the ground. Blue shimmer snapped up around them, catching the Hollow mid-lunge.
The shield held.
But only the one drawn with clean, geometric lines.
The others—a mix from local crafters—flickered and shattered. Three soldiers screamed as claws punctured their stomachs. One lost his lower jaw in a single swipe. Another tried to flee and was grabbed, lifted, and ripped apart like cloth.
Blood sprayed the glyphs. They hissed.
"Potions! Enchantments!"
Two warriors drank enhancement brews. One doubled in size, muscles rippling unnaturally. His axe cracked the Hollow's foreleg. The creature shrieked.
A second fighter used a strength rune. He moved faster than humanly possible—leaping, stabbing, retreating. He lasted thirty seconds before a tail struck him. His skull caved in.
Berrin activated Wind Step and blurred across the glade, sword slicing along the Hollow's exposed rib. The blade sparked, gouging deep.
A claw raked his thigh. Pain shot up his spine, but he endured.
He flipped backward, slamming a second talisman to the dirt—another fireball, identical to the last.
The explosion consumed half the beast's face.
It screamed, flesh melting, bone exposed.
"Now!" Berrin shouted.
Archers let loose. Blessed arrows, talisman-tipped, struck the charred tissue. The Hollow staggered. It spun wildly, its body beginning to fail.
A spearman leapt in—brave. Stupid. He drove his weapon into the open wound.
The Hollow reacted. Snapped him in half with its jaws.
But the opening was enough.
Berrin activated one final talisman.
Fireball. But stronger.
He threw it directly into the Hollow's smoldering skull.
The resulting detonation shattered trees and sent shockwaves through the ground.
The beast fell—at last. Its body cracked, leaking molten blood.
The second creature, badly injured, turned and fled into the woods.
Berrin did not pursue. He collapsed, panting, armor shredded, blood matting his cloak.
The clearing was silent save for the moans of the dying.
Of thirty, only eight remained standing. Three would not last the hour.
One cried over a friend's corpse, cradling his broken head.
Another stared blankly, arms soaked in guts.
Berrin forced himself upright.
"Burn the fallen. All of them. No corruption risk."
His men obeyed in silence.
They stacked bodies. They lit flames. The smoke that rose smelled of pain.
He walked toward the talisman fragments. The ones that had failed were ash.
But the ones that bore the ink of the Ghost Ink Scholar still shimmered faintly, even burned.
He stared at them.
"If we hadn't had those," he whispered, "none of us would be breathing."
He had met the scholar once—quiet, ink-stained, unassuming. But in this moment, he didn't need the face. He needed the fire.
What mattered was the fire.
And that, for one more night, the monsters had been stopped.
But only just.