The Grey Monk and Damien tore across the sand, moving with speed no mortal could hope to mirror. Each stride kicked up plumes of dust, boots carving through dunes as the desert howled beneath them. The distant screeches of predators closed in, a rising symphony of hunger and madness.
Ahead, the hounds surged like a tide of nightmares.
They galloped low to the ground, bodies gaunt and skeletal, ash-gray skin stretched thin over jagged bone. Dozens of them thundered forward in unison, their barbed tails whipping the sand, black smoke trailing from their vertical jaws. Their faces, if they could be called that, were sheathed in stitched leather; the metal grates where eyes should have been glowed faintly red as they locked onto their prey.
The leader ran at the front, larger than the rest. Its jaw gaped impossibly wide, splitting the stitched leather like rotting canvas as it bared glass-shard fangs slick with smoke. It didn't bark. It didn't snarl. It only opened wide, as if the very idea of sound had been replaced with hunger.
Damien darted ahead of the monk with ease. The grey-robed giant, though fast, moved with a deliberate weight, each step heavy with strength. Damien, in contrast, cut through the desert like a blade. He suspected the system's enhancements didn't level the playing field; they amplified it, a multiplier, not an equalizer.
Which meant Damien was faster.
But the monk? Stronger.
A valuable thing to remember, should their interests ever diverge.
Still, Damien wasn't thinking about betrayal, not yet.
Right now, death was coming in the form of thirty ravenous hounds, and he was smiling.
His lips curled into a grin as they closed the distance, blood surging hot in his veins. It had been too long since he'd killed anything with his own hands.
'It's going to be a blood bath!'
The lead hound's leather mask gleamed under the sun as it charged. Its legs pumped like pistons. The whole pack stormed behind it, fleshless, starving, and unstoppable.
'Fifty feet.'
The ground shook.
'Forty.'
The leader lowered its head, ready to pounce.
'Thirty.'
Their eyes glowed a dull, hellish red.
"Now!" Damien barked.
He and the monk slammed to a halt, heels digging deep into the sand. Grit flew up in a wave behind them.
The hounds didn't stop.
They surged forward, blinded by bloodlust.
Damien reached back, arm cocked. In each hand: a yellow fruit, blood-slick, clutched tightly by the stems. One was heavier than the other, as Jenna's blood had soaked completely through it.
He hurled them.
The one in his right hand sailed farther, arcing into the center of the charging pack. The other spun toward the front line, tumbling lazily end over end.
Still, the hounds came.
Not one flinched.
Not one noticed.
Their claws tore across the sand, their jaws yawning wide enough to bite a man in half. The stench of rot and ash filled the air.
And above them, the fruits hung in the air—perfect, gleaming, almost serene.
Time slowed.
Damien exhaled through his nose, a small smile forming on his face.
'Boom.'
Both fruits made contact.
Then—
Hell ignited.
Twin eruptions burst from the sand, one after another. A flash of yellow-white light engulfed the front ranks of the pack. A thunderous shockwave shattered the silence. Fire bloomed like a flower of judgment, ripping through the hounds in a chorus of yelps and screeches.
Flesh tore, leather masks burst apart, and spines cracked. Smoke and gore filled the air as dismembered limbs and bone fragments rained back to the earth.
Damien shielded his eyes, grinning against the heat. The blast painted the sky with flame and blood, and when the smoke cleared—
A small crater remained.
And only six monsters.
The survivors fanned out, snarling through their stitched leather masks, vents rattling with each breath like rusted machinery coming to life. Three hounds split toward Damien, three toward the Grey Monk, who had instinctively distanced himself. They fought on opposite ends of the crater—two separate duels born from the same storm.
Damien stood in the sand, breath sharp in his lungs, dagger raised. The silver blade shimmered with a faint glint, a simple one-star weapon, and all he had. Blood dripped from a shallow slash on his forearm, the black sleeve torn open to reveal pale skin beneath.
It stung, but it wouldn't slow him.
The first hound lunged. A blur of ash-gray muscle and exposed bone, its leather-covered jaws splitting down the middle like a curtain tearing apart. Its mouth opened far too wide, revealing fangs shaped like shattered glass.
Damien sidestepped it smoothly, pivoting into a counter-strike aimed at its ribs.
But he never landed it.
The beast's barbed tail lashed toward his face mid-motion. He instinctively lifted his dagger to block, only for the second hound to burst in from the front, jaws wide, gunning for his throat.
He snapped his leg up and drove a brutal kick into its bony chest, right through the small gap between the spikes. The hound was hurled backward, tumbling across the sand in a whirlwind of limbs.
But there was no time to breathe.
The third hound struck from behind, and the first came from the right, jaws snapping shut like bear traps.
Damien spun, lashing his blade at the one on his right. But its mouth clamped down on the dagger mid-swing. Smoke hissed from its vents as it overpowered him, pressing forward. Damien's boots skidded in the sand. Then, he was down.
The third hound leapt, its split maw wide, black smoke trailing from its tongue as it descended. Damien raised his free arm just in time.
Its fangs punctured deep into his forearm.
The pain was searing. His blood soaked through his shirt in seconds.
Rage surged into his brain like wildfire.
'How dare they?'
He gritted his teeth, eyes locking onto the hound on top of him, the one holding his blade in its jaws. Behind them, he heard the scrabbling sprint of the second hound, already recovered, already closing the distance.
He had seconds.
With one brutal motion, Damien slammed his foot upward, driving it into the beast's groin, the softest spot not armored in bone or covered in spikes.
The hound shrieked and recoiled. Its jaws loosened.
Damien ripped the dagger free and, in the same fluid breath, jammed it up beneath the black leather mask, driving the blade straight through the creature's skull.
The beast went limp, dead before it hit the ground.
He turned on instinct. Blood still ran from his arm, but he ignored it.
The second hound, still latched onto him, didn't get a chance to react.
Damien rammed the dagger forward, angling it perfectly through one of the rusted metal slits in its eyeplate.
It pierced the brain. Another yelp, and another body hit the sand.
He stood, spinning to face the final hound.
But he was too slow.
The beast slammed into him full force, ribs like iron bars driving into Damien's chest. He was lifted off his feet, flying backwards, tumbling across the sand like a ragdoll.
Dust exploded in his wake.
Damien didn't stay down.
His ribs ached from the impact, lungs straining to catch breath, but nothing felt broken. Just bruised, bruised and pissed.
He shoved himself off the sand, coughing as grains clung to his face and lips. The grit scraped against his teeth, dry and bitter, but he didn't care.
His eyes locked onto the final hound barreling toward him, a streak of ashen muscle and stitched leather, claws tearing through the sand.
And Damien grinned.
A sharp, wicked thing.
'No more friends, little pup. I can play with you now.'
The old thrill sparked to life inside him. The same one he used to feel back on Earth before the trials, before the desert. Back when hunting was a job. When violence had been art.
Now, it was just instinct.
The hound lunged, but Damien flowed around it like water. He twisted past its snapping jaws and slashed into its ribs with a smooth flick of his dagger. Blood hissed from the wound, dark and steaming in the sun.
The beast spun, barbed tail lashing, but Damien was already moving. A step, a pivot, a slash. Another wound.
He didn't just dodge. He danced.
Every motion was fluid, precise, rehearsed a thousand times in the dark corners of training rooms and bloodstained alleys. He was a weapon forged young, polished through years of killing.
The hound didn't stand a chance.
It tried to keep up, but each second drained more life from it. Gashes opened along its sides, its movements grew sluggish, and its snarls cracked into wheezing huffs.
Finally, it stumbled, slowed, and then stopped.
Damien stood over it, dagger gleaming, and drove the final blow through the side of its throat.
It crumpled.
He squatted in front of the corpse, grinning at its slack, stitched leather face. Then, with mockery in his fingertips, he tapped one of the rusted metal vents where its eyes should've been.
"Anyone home?"
But before he could enjoy the joke, something changed.
The corpse began to shimmer, a light, bright yellow, almost golden, web of cracks spreading across its body. The dead hound pulsed once, then slowly dissolved into sparkling fragments.
It was the same kind of glow Damien saw when summoning his dagger.
Then came the calm, monotone voice.
"Half-star: Ashen Grey Hellhound slain. Converting into XP."
Damien blinked.
He stared at the fading light, eyebrows raised.
"…Huh."
Without hesitation, he summoned the runes by pressing on his mark.
He stared for a moment.
Then laughed.
"Well, that's new."