The silence that descended after the final squeal of the dying Gloomsmile felt heavier, denser than any silence Devon had ever experienced. It was a silence born of emptiness, a vacuum left by a mental assault that had been brutally extinguished. The black ring on her finger still radiated a piercing chill, an anchor of ice in an ocean of adrenaline that should have been churning within her. She stared at the shapeless black blob at her feet, and the emotions that should have been there—disgust, horror, even triumph—were all absent, replaced by a cold, predatory curiosity.
She crouched, crossbow still clutched tightly in one hand. Its bolt, with its spiraled obsidian blade, was embedded squarely in the densest part of the creature's mass. With a methodical, unhesitating movement, Devon gripped the carbon fiber shaft and pulled. There was no resistance from flesh or bone. It felt like drawing a stick from thick, oily mud. A wet, sickening 'schlorp' sound echoed as the bolt came free, and the wound did not bleed. Instead, it merely pulsed softly before the inky black fluid that comprised the creature's body slowly flowed back to seal the hole, as if the injury had never been. Yet, life had departed the blob. The creature began to dissolve from its edges, devolving into a puddle of crude oil that evaporated into thin black smoke smelling of sulfur and stale regret. Within minutes, nothing remained but a damp, dark stain on the leaves and the bolt now slick with viscous black matter in her hand.
Devon examined the bolt closely, turning it in the fading lavender light. She did not clean it. This was data. This was evidence. She re-sheathed it in the quiver on her back, separating it from the others. She would study it later.
She glanced at the woven basket in her pack, now full of still-slightly-wriggling fish and various strange plants she had painstakingly gathered. Then she looked up at the sky. The pale lavender of the horizon was beginning to be stained with streaks of orange and deep purple. Night would soon fall, and this forest, even the "safer" parts, was not a welcoming place for those who wandered in darkness. Gathering her belongings—the pack now heavy with her spoils, and the crossbow that felt like an extension of her will—Devon began the trek back toward the cabin.
The journey back was different. She no longer walked with the wariness of prey. She moved with the awareness of a hunter. Her crossbow was no longer slung over her shoulder; she held it low, ready to raise in an instant, her eyes constantly scanning the lengthening shadows between the silver birch trees. Every rustle of leaves, every strange birdcall, no longer triggered a surge of fear. Instead, all was processed through the cold filter of the black ring on her finger: Was it a threat? Was it food? Or was it irrelevant? She was a machine of analysis moving through a world that had once been an incomprehensible hell.
Until finally, through a break in the trees, she saw it: the dark silhouette of the log cabin, standing solid and silent like a monument in the wilderness. A strange, unexpected wave of emotion—not happiness, not relief, but something akin to belonging—washed over her. She had left this place this morning a hesitant amateur. She returned a provider. She was coming home.
She stepped inside, the silence and the scent of old wood greeting her like a familiar embrace. The first thing she did was light the lantern in the main room, using the red magic stone in her pocket with a touch that now felt like habit. The warm, golden light danced across the walls, banishing the creeping darkness and making the room feel like an impenetrable fortress. She laid out her spoils on the sturdy kitchen table: the silver-scaled fish, the strange roots, the brightly colored mushrooms, and the dark, glistening berries. The bounty of her newfound knowledge.
But before she could indulge her most basic needs, there was a ritual to be performed. Discipline. Order. A legacy from Corvus. She returned to the cellar, the lantern light in her hand casting macabre shadows from the gruesome specimen jars. She walked past them without a glance, heading to the armory. Carefully, she unstrung the crossbow, cleaned the grime from its mechanism, and hung it back in its proper place. She removed the bolt slick with Gloomsmile ichor, placing it on the workbench for later analysis, and rearranged the remaining bolts in their case. Weapons were tools, and tools must be maintained.
As she turned to leave, her eyes fell upon the massive map on the wall, now illuminated by the flickering light of her lantern. She stepped closer, her fingers tracing the meticulously drawn lines. Yesterday, she had seen it as a record of murder. Now, she saw it as an atlas. She found a small spot marked with a neat red circle, with a tiny notation beside it: "Rest." Rest. A place of rest. Home. The location of the cabin.
And then she saw where it was. The cabin was on the edge of the Silverwood Forest, the relatively calmer woods she was in now. But to the east, only a few kilometers away, the demarcations on the map grew darker, thicker, and the area was labeled in Corvus's sharp, slanted handwriting: "The Monster Wood." The place where she had first opened her eyes in this world. The place where the nightmare wolves had hunted her. The place where the giant leeches had tried to drain her blood.
"Why…?" she whispered to the silent room. "Why would Corvus choose to live in a place like this?"
It was not a decision born of desperation. It was a strategic choice. He lived on the doorstep of hell. He had placed himself on the frontier, with unlimited access to his most gruesome and fertile natural laboratory. He hadn't fled the monsters; he lived next door to them, studying them, dissecting them, and most likely, hunting them for their parts.
Then, Devon's eyes were drawn to the very center of the vast Monster Wood. There was an area circled with thick black ink, a blind spot on the map where no topographical details were drawn. Inside the circle, there was only one word, written in ominous capital letters: "ONYX."
A shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room ran down her spine. Onyx. The name itself felt heavy, dense, like darkness made solid. She recalled the Corvus notebooks she had read, the ones on monster anatomy. Many of the strangest and most unnatural specimens had a note of origin: "Source: Onyx Gate." The Gloomsmile. The notebook on aberrant creatures she took mentioned its origin from Onyx. This was the heart of darkness. Ground zero of nightmare.
She pulled her gaze away from Onyx, letting her eyes roam the rest of the map. She saw the names of great and magnificent places, which now felt like real locations, not just words in a story. There was "Ironpeak," the dwarven stronghold carved into the northern mountains, marked with the symbol of a hammer and anvil. There was "Silverwood," the elegant elven capital to the west, marked with the symbol of an intricate silver leaf. There were bustling port cities along the southern coast, and vast human kingdoms in the central plains. This world was vast, teeming with civilization, politics, and history. And she, Devon, was trapped here, in the cabin of a legendary serial killer, on the edge of the world's darkest abyss.
After that, with her mind reeling from this vast new reality, Devon returned to the main room. It was time to focus on what she could control. It was time to eat.
She began to clean her spoils. First, the fish. She took up Corvus's hunting knife, the keen blade feeling right in her hand. She had never cleaned a fish in her life. But she had watched it done in survival videos in her old world, and she had a near-photographic memory. She worked with a cold, methodical precision. A slit along the belly. A swift pull to remove the entrails. A firm scraping with the back of the blade to remove the silver scales. The process was brutal, messy, and deeply satisfying. She was turning living creatures into sustenance.
Next, the plants. She reopened Corvus's journal on the table, comparing each leaf, each root, to the meticulously drawn sketches. The "Moss Tongue" mushrooms she brushed free of dirt. The "Dagger Root" roots she peeled carefully, the pale white flesh looking like yams. She found several stalks of what Corvus called "King's Grass," the leaves smelling of a mix of pepper and lemon, and chopped them finely for seasoning. She was an apothecary, a chef, working from the scripture of a mad botanist.
She found a large, heavy iron cauldron, hanging it over the fire she had rekindled in the hearth. She conjured water into it using her water magic, then began to add her ingredients. Chunks of fish, slices of mushroom, and hunks of root. She sprinkled in the chopped "King's Grass" and a handful of crushed "Night Berries," which immediately turned the clear water a rich, dark purple. The aroma that began to fill the cabin was utterly alien, yet deeply appetizing—savory, spicy, with a hint of strange sweetness.
Until finally, the fish stew was ready. She ladled it into a large wooden bowl. The fragrant steam billowed up into her face. She took a wooden spoon, sat on the floor in front of the crackling fire, and took her first bite.
It tasted… incredible. The fish was tender and sweet, the spice from the roots danced on her tongue, and the mushrooms had a chewy texture and an earthy flavor. The purple broth was rich and complex. It was the best meal she had ever eaten, not because of its gourmet quality, but because she had earned it. Every ingredient was a product of her knowledge, her effort, and her will to survive.
As she ate her stew, she reached for one of the thick tomes she had pulled from the bookshelf earlier. This was not a field journal; it was more like a bestiary, a meticulously compiled encyclopedia of monsters. The cover was made of a black leather she didn't recognize, and the title was embossed in simple silver lettering: "Anatomy of Fear."
She opened it. The pages were filled with Corvus's same neat, slanted handwriting, but the sketches within were the stuff of nightmares. There were incredibly detailed anatomical drawings of the most gruesome creatures. She flipped through the pages, seeing diagrams of the respiratory systems of the gloom wolves, studies of the reproductive organs of armored insects, and analyses of the acidic composition of the saliva of the monster she saw on her first day.
And then, she found it. A page dedicated to the creature she had just killed. At the top of the page, written in clear, precise letters: "Gloomsmile."
The sketch was so detailed that it made Devon's stomach churn, even with the ring suppressing her emotions. Corvus had drawn the creature from multiple angles, with cross-sections showing its semi-liquid structure. There was a detailed diagram of its bone "mask," and a close-up study of its unblinking eyes and its mouth full of needle-like teeth. Beneath the sketch, the description began:
- Type Name: Gloomsmile.
- Class: Lesser Darkness Creature.
- Origin: Onyx. Commonly found near the Gates or in areas with high levels of emotional despair.
- Physical Characteristics: Semi-amorphous body, resembling a mass of viscous black fluid that forms only a torso and head. The face is a plate of grayish-white bone, most likely formed from the calcified residue of its victims. The eyes are large and bulging, lacking eyelids, giving the impression of a constant, unbroken predatory stare. The mouth is unnaturally wide, filled with rows of small, uneven teeth, frozen in an expression that resembles a grotesque smile or laugh. This smile does not change, even when the creature is enraged or dying.*
Devon paused reading for a moment, her stew forgotten. The description was chillingly accurate. She continued.
Behavior & Attack Methods: Gloomsmiles are psychic predators. They rarely, if ever, attack physically first. They prefer to stalk from the shadows, observing their prey from a distance. Their primary attack is mental infiltration. They emit a low, gurgling laugh that resonates directly within the victim's mind, even though their mouths do not move. They use the victim's own memories to create incredibly vivid auditory and visual illusions, often taking the form of lost loved ones or sources of past trauma. The goal is to unravel the victim's mind, triggering fear, loneliness, and guilt. The creatures literally feed on these emotions; the more fear the victim experiences, the denser and stronger its semi-liquid body becomes.
Devon's heart beat a little faster, a sensation that strangely managed to pierce the cold calm of the ring. That was what had happened to her. The illusions of Kaito and Rina. The whispers.
Weaknesses: Despite their impressive abilities, Gloomsmiles are physically one of the weakest creatures to emerge from Onyx. Courage is poison to them; if the prey is not afraid, or if their mental assault fails, they become extremely vulnerable. They can be killed instantly with a single well-placed physical attack to the head, or to the center of their chest mass where their psychic core resides. Alone, they are weak. However, they often hunt in groups called 'Choirs,' and the combined mental assault of multiple Gloomsmiles can drive even the strongest minds to madness.
Devon put down her spoon. She stared at the black ring on her finger. So that was it. The creature had attacked her, but the ring hadn't just stopped the illusions; it had extinguished the source of its fuel—her fear. Without fear to feed on, the creature's attack had been useless.
She had won not because she was strong or brave. She had won because this legacy from Corvus Nightshade had robbed her of her ability to feel fear. She looked back at the book, then at the stew in her bowl, then at the fire dancing in the hearth.