Kael crouched lower, peering through the fractured concrete at the swarm of Infernal Imps causing a ruckus around the rift. They were an ugl
Kael crouched lower, peering through the fractured concrete at the swarm of Infernal Imps causing a ruckus around the rift. They were an ugly bunch—three feet of malice and madness with bulging eyes, spindly limbs, and skin like scorched leather. About fifty of the little bastards, all yipping and shrieking as they clawed at each other over scraps of meat.
But that wasn't just any meat.
As Kael enhanced his sight, the truth hit him like a gut punch. Scattered among the chaos were torn clothes, scorched backpacks, and bones—fresh ones. Rookie Hunters, most likely. Probably eager little idiots who thought a swarm of Level 3 Imps would be their ticket to glory. Too bad they learned the food chain rule the hard way: anything that can eat you, will.
"Shit," Kael muttered, scowling.
He opened his status screen and scrolled through his arsenal, weighing his options. A straight fight was suicide—but Kael never did things straight. He did them creatively. Desperately. Violently.
"Alright," he muttered, rubbing his chin. "Ironhide Mutation first. Turn myself into a walking tank. Then Lupine Howl to throw their tiny brains into chaos. Let the panic do the work for me. And finally... light 'em up like a damn storm cloud."
With a steadying breath, Kael summoned his magic. A low hum resonated beneath his skin as it hardened beneath his clothes—Ironhide Mutation activating. His nerves tingled, then dulled. He wouldn't be invincible, but he could take a few hits and keep smiling through the pain.
He drew one of his daggers—black steel, curved and cruel—and activated Primal Rend. A faint shimmer coated the blade, and his fingernails elongated into claw-like extensions. The wild magic that pulsed through him howled to be unleashed.
He grinned, then disappeared in a burst of mist, courtesy of Phase Step.
Kael reappeared at the bottom of the channel in a swirl of vapor, crouched like a predator. Dozens of red eyes snapped to him. The Imps screeched, their toothy mouths open wide as they slammed their weapons on the ground like cracked-out war drums.
"Showtime," Kael growled.
He inhaled deeply, chest expanding, and unleashed Lupine Howl.
The sound wasn't just noise—it was pure terror wrapped in a guttural roar. The Imps froze. Some dropped their weapons. Others fell to the ground, twitching. A few turned and ran like their asses were on fire.
Kael bolted forward, claws and dagger tearing into the panicked swarm. He moved like a shadow on a blood-high—ducking, spinning, gutting anything that moved. Black blood sprayed across the cracked cement as he danced his lethal waltz.
Then he raised his hand, magic crackling between his fingers, and unleashed a lightning spell.
Arcs of purple energy slammed into the fleeing Imps, frying them mid-screech. The air filled with the scent of ozone and roasted imp flesh.
Within five minutes, it was over.
Silence hung in the channel, broken only by the faint sizzle of smoldering corpses. Kael stood at the center of the carnage, breathing hard, slick with blood—most of it not his.
He chuckled, breathless and bitter.
"Fifty against one... and I'm still here." He shook his head and grinned. "Guess I'm either getting stronger or just more suicidal."
A soft ding echoed in his mind.
[Congratulations! 1,200 XP gained from slaying a swarm of Infernal Imps.]
Kael rolled his shoulders, joints popping, and muttered, "Status," craning his neck toward the HUD.
***
"PRIMORDIAN SYSTEM HUD"
📛 Name: Kael Bloodfang [20]
Health: 1430/1530 [+500HP] [+2HP/sec.] - Noble Awakening.
Mana: 660/910
Spiritual Energy: 700/870
🧬 Species: Hybrid (Human/Lycan)
💢 Class: Warbrand Summoner [Novice] / Primal Artificer [Novice]
📉 Rank: Omega Lycan [Novice]
📈 Level: 10 (3350/10000 XP)
🔰 Hunter Tier: E-Rank
📍 Location: Outer Edge—Ashgarde Reach City, Rift Zone 3
Attribute Value Buffs/Effects
🦾 Strength | 112 [+14/3] [10] | +6 — Lycan Strength — Omega/ Noble Awakening.
🤸 Dexterity | 86 [+10/3] [10] | +3 — Lycan Speed — Omega/ Noble Awakening.
🧠 Intelligence | 65 [+9/3] | +3 — Class Bonus — Warbrand Summoner
🧘 Spirit | 87 [+9/3] [10] | +6 — Class Bonus — Warbrand Summoner
💠 Mana | 91 [+12/3] | +6 — Class Bonus — Warbrand Summoner
❤️ Vitality | 103 [+6/3] | +3 — Lycan Vitality — Omega
🧗 Cultivation | 144 [+9/3] | +6 — Primal Artificer
Skill Buffs/Debuffs:
Passive Health Regeneration +2 per second
Enhances all senses by 20%
***
Attribute Point Available: 20
Skill Points Available: 12
Soul Credits: 1650
***
Kael stared at the screen, arms crossed, his lip twitching. Each Infernal Imp was worth a measly 30 soul credits. Peanuts. Not that he expected anything more from a creature who had a brain the size of a pebble. Still, it added up.
"Vermin rates apply," he muttered. "Figures."
Without further delay, he got to work, his boots squelching through the remains as he moved from corpse to corpse, piling the twitching bodies into a single grotesque mound. The only useful components from the little monsters were their tongues and eyes—though what kind of depraved alchemist needed those specifically, Kael wasn't exactly eager to find out. He had a strong suspicion it involved potions he never wanted near his mouth or skin.
Once his dagger was wiped clean and gleaming again—well, as much as it could gleam while coated in imp grime—Kael placed a hand on the pile.
"Cultivate."
The pile shimmered, disintegrating into threads of pale blue Aether, which spun into the air like fireflies in reverse. Fifty small, marble-sized cores hovered in front of him—clean, dense, and brimming with energy.
But one thing stood out among the rest: a singular orb of deep red-black metal, glowing faintly with ember-like cracks along its surface.
"Eva?" Kael asked, already guessing this was something special.
"Hellforged Iron," Eva confirmed. "It's a low-grade alloy, but highly durable. Excellent for melee enhancement. Besides raw durability, it adds Inferno Bleed to critical strikes—a debuff that can't be cured by standard potions. You'll need to purge the demonic energy before the wound stops bleeding. Nasty stuff."
Kael's mouth curled into a half-smile. "Nice. Nothing says 'fuck you' like turning a person into a walking colander."
He reached out, plucking the Hellforged Iron from the air along with the floating cores, and tucked them safely into his pocket dimension. Another win. Another step toward survival with style.
But the brief satisfaction soured the moment he turned and saw what the Infernal Imps had left behind.
Clothes torn to shreds, boots gnawed at the seams, and bones—stripped clean. The blood was still wet in some places. Kael's chest tightened.
Even after everything he'd seen, it still got to him. These weren't faceless corpses. They were people—rookie Hunters who'd probably just awakened, wide-eyed and eager, thinking they could make a name for themselves. What they got instead was death by a hundred bites. And the worst part? The Imps didn't wait until you stopped screaming.
Kael clenched his fists, claws digging into his palms until thin lines of blood welled up.
This wouldn't have happened anywhere but Ashgarde Reach—the garbage dump of the world, where the ARC Division swept its unwanted souls. The city of outcasts, criminals, and those too poor or too broken to leave.
His eyes landed on the busted comms watches, still barely clinging to the Hunters' bare-boned wrists. Flickering screens. Cracked glass. He wasn't here to loot their corpses. He was here to make sure someone knew what had happened.
He crouched, gently unfastening the comms.
"Eva," he whispered, brushing a tear from his cheek. "Can I store their remains... temporarily?"
There was a pause. Then her voice softened.
"Yes. The pocket dimension can store corpses of both creatures and humans. You're doing the right thing, Kael. Even if you couldn't save them, you're giving their families something most people here never get—answers."
Kael gave a small nod, throat tight. One by one, he gathered the bones, placing them gently in his dimensional space. As each form disappeared, a slot in his inventory grayed out.
Four slots. Four lives lost in a ditch with no glory, no headlines—just blood and silence. He retrieved their bags too—nothing valuable, just scraps of supplies. He stored them anyway. Maybe their families would want them. Maybe not.
But they'd know.
Finally, he turned away from the blood-soaked channel, the smell of scorched meat and sulfur thick in the air. He headed back toward the city, boots dragging slightly.
He was exhausted. And starving.
🐺⚙️"༒ The Howl of the Forsaken ༒"⚙️🐺
Kael arrived at the gates of the megacity just as the sun bled out behind the jagged mountain range in the distance. The dying light cast the city's rusting towers in gold and crimson hues, which—on any other day—might've looked dramatic. Poetic, even.
To Kael? It just looked like the city was on fire again.
He let out a sigh of relief, his body aching in places he didn't even know had nerves. The detour had been almost worth it. Razor-bladed hornets the size of trash cans had shown up like a mid-level boss fight, buzzing around like they owned the sky. Naturally, Kael had introduced them to lightning—directly to the thorax. The hornets sizzled and popped like overripe fruit, leaving behind a modest haul of metal cores and regular Aether ones.
His soul tokens now sat at a satisfying 2,250. Not bad for a stroll through hell.
He passed through the towering gates, entering the decontamination chamber with the enthusiasm of someone who'd rather be anywhere else. Jets of sterilizing mist hissed from hidden vents, scrubbing blood, ichor, and god-knows-what-else from his clothes and skin.
Kael smirked. The ARC Division was obsessed with hygiene—forcing everyone through this glorified magic car wash—while conveniently ignoring the smoggy soup they all breathed inside the city. If hypocrisy were an element, the ARC Division would've bottled and weaponized it by now.
Once sufficiently sterilized and steamed like a dumpling, he stepped out, dragged himself through processing, and flashed his comms watch at the scanner. A sterile ding later, the gates hissed open, welcoming him back into the rotting heart of civilization.
He made his way to the transport hub, where decrepit rail trams and hover shuttles buzzed and creaked. As usual, the place smelled like oil, ozone, and despair.
It was going to be a long trek home.
An hour later, Kael trudged through the same cracked walkways and blinking neon signs toward his shabby apartment. The building loomed like a crooked tooth against the skyline—half condemned, wholly depressing. And still somehow his.
He stared up at it with a frown.
"Why do I still rent this place?"
He had a perfectly usable chamber in the Forge now—his room in the Chamber of Echoes was ten times safer, smelled less like mildew and neighbor sweat, and came with zero chance of getting stabbed by a junkie in the stairwell. But ditching the apartment came with its own set of complications.
The Bloodhowl Syndicate, for starters.
They had a lovely habit of sniffing around when something—or someone—went missing. Especially if that someone happened to suddenly stop paying rent, drop off the map, or stop leaving blood samples at their favorite diner.
And then there was his landlord. A "sort of friend," in the same way a venomous snake might be a "sort of pet" if it only bit you occasionally. The man was also an informant for the Bloodhowl Syndicate, which meant any sudden disappearance would ping alarms up and down the chain.
Nope. If Kael just vanished, the syndicate would definitely start asking questions. Questions like: "Where did he go?" and "Does he owe us money?" or the ever-favorite: "Is his bloodline worth auctioning off?"
And that brought Kael to the Syndicate's illustrious leader—someone he'd never met, but had heard just enough whispers about to keep him up at night. An exiled noble from the Lycan Empire. Apparently charming, sadistic, and, for some unfathomable reason, intrigued by Kael.
Which was never a good thing. People like that didn't get intrigued unless they smelled power, secrets... or both.
Kael kicked a rusted can out of his path and shoved his hands into his coat pockets.
Yeah, this whole fake-civilian act was wearing thin. But until he figured out what the hell the Syndicate really wanted with him—or until he was strong enough to make them regret wanting anything at all—he'd keep pretending.
Apartment it was. For now.