The march ended at the gates of the city.
The bishop's army—rows of spearmen, clerics, and armored knights—halted at the command. Standards bearing the sigil of the High Church lifted high against a sky gone wrong. Though it was daytime, dark clouds smothered the sun, casting the streets in a gray half-light.
The gates stood wide open. No defenders waited. No herald called challenge. Only silence.
A murmur spread through the front ranks. Soldiers glanced at one another, their boots crunching against untouched gravel. Even the horses tossed their heads uneasily, sensing the wrongness that lay beyond.
The bishop himself rode forward. His robes were heavy with silver thread, his crosier tipped with a shard of sanctified crystal. His voice was steady, but his brow furrowed.
"Where are the guards?"
No answer came.
He raised a hand. The vanguard advanced cautiously, shields raised, eyes darting across the gate towers. But the towers were empty. No arrows loosed. No sentries stirred.
They entered.
Inside, the streets yawned open like veins stripped of blood. Stalls stood abandoned, their goods rotting. Doors swung ajar, creaking faintly in the wind. Windows gaped like hollow eyes.
No children played.
No merchants shouted.
No voices prayed.
Only silence.
And yet—the silence felt loud. Every step echoed too sharply. Every breath of wind carried the weight of something watching.
The soldiers muttered.
"This isn't right."
"It's cursed."
"Not even a stray dog…"
The bishop silenced them with a raised hand, but even his voice faltered as he said: "This city should hold thousands. Where are they?"
He looked up. The clouds boiled low, blocking the sun, casting the city in perpetual dusk. Shadows pooled unnaturally in the alleys.
It was not abandonment. It was erasure.
The army reached the central square. The fountain stood clean. Too clean. The cobblestones gleamed as if washed, but there was no water running.
One knight bent down, running a gloved hand across the stone. He stared, pale.
"It's warm."
Another touched the fountain rim. "Like fresh blood, but… there's nothing here."
The bishop dismounted. His silver crosier struck the stone with a sharp note. He whispered a prayer, eyes narrowing as he scanned the plaza.
He felt it then—a trace, faint but undeniable. Something vast had fed here.
He straightened, his expression darkening.
"This was not desertion. This was consumption."
The soldiers shifted uneasily. Their armor clinked in nervous rhythm.
Overhead, thunder rolled faintly through the clouds.
The bishop turned toward the northern horizon.
"Something has left this place," he said. "And it waits ahead."
The Bishop's March
The ghost city offered no answers. Only questions.
The bishop's army searched every street, every alley, every cellar. They found no corpses. No signs of struggle. Only silence and an absence that pressed like a weight on their lungs.
When his scouts returned, their faces were pale.
"My lord," one said, "the gates were never broken. There are no signs of siege. It is as though they walked into the square… and vanished."
The bishop stood at the fountain, eyes fixed on the stone. His crosier hummed faintly with sanctified resonance, detecting traces the soldiers could not feel.
He felt it clearly: the essence of thousands poured into a single void.
His jaw tightened. "This city has been consumed."
The word rippled through the knights and clerics. Some crossed themselves. Others muttered prayers.
He raised his staff higher. "This is tied to the cathedral collapse. We march there at once."
The order carried weight. Hooves struck stone, boots clattered, and the army moved. They left the city behind, banners snapping in the wind, silvered armor catching what little light pierced the roiling clouds.
Behind them, the gates swung slowly shut, though no hands touched them.
Far beyond the walls, the world changed.
The forest grew thick, its trees old and knotted, their roots gripping the earth like claws. Under one such giant, its trunk wide enough to swallow a house, Noctis rested.
He sat with his back against the bark, crimson trench coat draped loosely around him, Blood Katana propped across his knees. The air here was heavy with loam and damp moss. Every breath tasted of earth instead of iron.
For the first time since entering the city, he allowed himself stillness.
His veins still burned with the feast. The doctrines of adventurers, captains, and soldiers pulsed in rhythm with his heart. Every blink of his eyes showed him angles, vectors, rhythms of battle even where there was no fight. His mind replayed the plaza—every scream, every gush of blood—turning memory into lesson.
The Grid whispered constantly now, a lattice etched across his vision, its branches alive with light. He could feel Predator Sovereign bending closer to Stage 2, where even the world itself might become his hunting ground.
Yet here, beneath the tree, he looked almost serene.
He tipped his head back, watching the storm clouds roll across the horizon. Somewhere behind them, the bishop's army moved, their silver banners bright against the dusk.
Noctis smiled faintly.
"They think the cathedral holds answers," he murmured. His hand traced the hilt of the katana. "Let them walk to their own graves."
The forest wind sighed through the branches. Shadows shifted at his feet, curling like loyal hounds.
Noctis closed his eyes. For now, he rested. The hunt would begin again soon.
The forest stretched endless.
Noctis moved beneath its canopy when the sun set, shadows his cloak, silence his companion. By day, he remained hidden, resting beneath roots, stone hollows, or in the crooks of ancient trees. The bishop's men would march under daylight; he would not.
He traveled parallel to the road, never on it. The road was too open, too exposed. In the forest, he could see without being seen. The earth muffled his steps. His aura slipped into the dark like smoke.
It made the journey slower. What might have been a single day's march stretched into three. But the slow pace had its use. The woods were not empty.
The Beasts
On the first night, a pack of wolves trailed him. Their eyes glowed faint in the brush, yellow circles darting between trees. They thought him prey.
Noctis stopped. His violet gaze cut through the dark.
[Skill: Blood Chains] snapped outward, binding three mid-leap. His fangs sank into one throat before the others even hit the ground. Their howls ended in whimpers, then silence. He drank them dry.
[Beast Essence +1][Node Unlocked: Wolf Instinct — enhanced pack-hunting reflexes, usable solo.]
He licked his lips, wiping blood from his chin. "Even beasts bow."
On the second night, a bear stumbled across his path, massive and scarred, half-blind but fierce. Its roar shook branches loose.
Noctis welcomed it.
The beast charged. He drew the Blood Katana. One cut—[Skill: Apex Line II]—split the bear from crown to gut. Steam rose as blood poured across roots.
He knelt, drinking.
[Beast Essence +2][Node Unlocked: Ursine Endurance — temporary resistance to blunt force and fatigue.]
His muscles flexed harder, thicker. Endurance wove deeper into the Grid.
On the third night, wingbeats stirred above. An owlbear descended, claws ripping bark, beak snapping like a cleaver.
Noctis laughed quietly. "Good."
He invoked [Skill: Shadow Volley II]. Phantasmal arrows split into a storm, piercing wings, throat, and belly. The beast screeched, toppled, and thrashed in the dirt. Noctis stepped in, fangs finishing the job.
[Beast Essence +3][Node Unlocked: Predator's Echo — enhanced senses, overlapping animal instincts fused into his own perception.]
The forest grew quieter after that. No predator dared follow.
The Beast-Kin Tree
By the time the third dawn came, his Beast-Kin Tree glowed with new nodes:
Wolf Instinct — reflexes sharpened.
Ursine Endurance — body hardened.
Predator's Echo — layered senses.
Each essence folded into the lattice of Predator Sovereign, weaving beast nature with human doctrine. He no longer hunted like a man. He hunted like every predator at once.
Arrival
When night fell on the third day, the forest thinned. Lanterns glimmered faint in the distance. A wall rose on the horizon—stone, spiked with wood palisades, torches burning along its length. Beyond it, rooftops clustered, smoke rising into the dark.
Another city.
Noctis crouched among the trees, watching from the shadows.
The bishop's men were nowhere in sight. The roads carried only traders and common folk. The city did not yet know it stood next in line for erasure.
Noctis's lips curled. "Another feast."
The city walls rose taller as he approached. Not a fortress like the cathedral's garrison, but still sturdy—stone cut clean, topped with palisades, torchlight flickering along the battlements. Lanterns swayed at intervals. The watch changed on the hour.
Noctis stayed hidden in the treeline, crouched low, eyes narrowing as he studied.
The guard rotations were sloppy. Two on the gate at all times, four more drifting lazily along the wall. None looked outward with suspicion; all seemed more concerned with chatter and lantern smoke.
Adventurers came and went freely. He spotted a pair of spearmen in mismatched armor leaving at dusk, followed by three robed mages in animated conversation. Hunters came back with deer slung over shoulders. Merchants rolled carts in and out, haggling even before reaching the market.
It was no barracks-town. This city lived. Breathed. Trusted its walls.
He studied the guards a little longer—their lazy rotations, their distracted chatter, the way they glanced inward more than outward. Adventurers strode in and out with no questions, merchants bickered with the watch as though danger was an afterthought.
Noctis smiled faintly."Blind fools," he murmured. "They don't even see me coming."
The Disguise
In the forest, he stripped bark-fiber and animal hide, weaving it into a rough hood. His crimson coat lay beneath, but the hood drew shadows across his face. A wanderer's outline. Ordinary. Unnoticed.
For the first time since his awakening, he walked toward a city not as a phantom in the walls, but as a man on the road. His boots struck dirt openly. His stride measured, calm.
The guards stiffened as he approached the gate.
"Halt!" one barked. The man stepped forward, spear leveled across the traveler's path. His partner eyed Noctis up and down, suspicion in the furrow of his brow.
"You there," the first said. "Name. Business. Where are you from?"
Binding Stare at the Gate
Noctis lifted his head. The hood shadowed his face, but his eyes gleamed faint violet.
[Skill: Allure's Gaze III — Binding Stare]
The guard froze. His grip loosened on the spear. His partner's jaw slackened, his voice stumbling as though forgetting the next word.
"You will let me through," Noctis said evenly.
Their eyes dulled. The tension drained.
"Yes… traveler," the first murmured. He stepped aside. The spear angled down."Go on," said the second, voice hollow.
Noctis passed between them without breaking stride.
Within the Walls
The city opened before him.
Lanterns lined the streets, glowing amber against the night. Merchants still packed stalls, shouting half-hearted deals to stragglers. Taverns spilled laughter and music, adventurers boasting of contracts and kills. A smith quenched steel in a side alley, the hiss of water loud in the dark.
It was alive. Vibrant. Completely unaware.
Noctis walked among them, hood low, no longer hunted but hidden in plain sight. The predator had entered not as shadow, but as neighbor.
He smiled faintly.
"This time," he thought, "I'll savor it."
The city shifted as night deepened.
Stalls shuttered. Canvas awnings were rolled back, merchants shouting last offers as they swept coins and scraps into wooden chests. The smell of spiced meat and stale bread lingered on the air, fading as the market square emptied. Lanterns swung overhead, casting narrow bands of gold across cobblestones.
Noctis walked the streets slowly, hood drawn low, the hem of his crimson coat hidden beneath bark-fiber cloth. His steps matched the tired cadence of other travelers, unremarkable, unnoticed.
The city was dying for the night.
Children were pulled indoors. Shop doors barred. Dogs barked once and then went quiet. The silence grew between buildings, broken only by the creak of shutters and the hiss of oil lamps being extinguished one by one.
But not everywhere.
Down one street, light spilled in waves of amber from tall, glass-paned windows. The sound of voices rolled with it—laughter, shouts, the scrape of chairs, mugs slamming against wood.
A tavern.
The Door Opens
Noctis paused outside. His eyes narrowed faintly. Shadows flickered inside, blurred by lamplight and smoke. He caught fragments of conversation—boasts, wagers, curses—each word marked by the confidence of men and women who thought themselves safe inside walls.
He smiled. "Blind fools."
He pushed the door open.
Warmth struck him first, heavy with roasted meat, beer, and sweat. The noise rose, breaking around him like a tide. Adventurers leaned at tables, dice clattering in corners, a bard strumming a half-broken lute. Serving girls wove between chairs with trays, dodging greedy hands.
Noctis stepped inside.
A Stranger Among Them
The tavern barely glanced at him.
One man, half-drunk, lifted his mug. "Another wanderer, eh? Got coin, stranger? Then you've got a seat."
Laughter rippled across the nearest tables. Dice rolled again. A mug spilled.
Noctis moved deeper, his hood shadowing his face. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. To them, he was another tired traveler. To him, they were all catalogued prey.
He studied them as he walked.
Two swordsmen in mismatched armor, both scarred from real fights. Their blood would carry doctrine of parry and counter.
Three robed mages, young, loud, their fingers stained with chalk and ink. Their blood would taste of sparks and untested arcana.
A hunter, fletching arrows even while drinking, his quiver laid across the table. His doctrine would sharpen ranged precision.
A pair of mercenaries, broad-shouldered, still bearing half-dried blood on their boots. Fresh from a job. Their essence would feed endurance nodes.
And everywhere else, the softer prey—laborers, merchants, drifters—voices dull with ale, hearts dull with safety.
Noctis reached the bar and set one coin on the counter. The barkeep glanced at him, grunted, and poured ale into a cracked mug.
Noctis took it, but did not drink. He simply stood, eyes half-lidded, listening.
The Watcher
The tavern noise washed over him—stories of beasts slain in the woods, complaints about the guard pay, rumors of the cathedral collapse miles away.
That last one made him tilt his head.
"…said the church lost half a dozen priests when the roof fell. Heard they sent a bishop down to investigate."
"Bah. Just priests fighting over relics. Doesn't matter here."
"Still, odd times. And have you noticed? Less caravans coming in this week. Roads ain't right."
Noctis's smile flickered. The shadow of pursuit still stretched behind him, even here.
But no one in this tavern suspected the truth—that the predator they spoke of sat with his hand curled around a mug at their bar.
He sipped once, letting the bitter ale coat his tongue. It was nothing compared to blood. But the act mattered. It made him invisible.
The Closing Scene
The tavern swelled with noise again—laughter, boasts, a sudden argument over dice. Two men shoved chairs back, hands on hilts, voices raised.
Noctis turned from the bar and let the chaos blur around him. He moved to a shadowed table at the far wall, sat down, and set the mug aside untouched.
He folded his hands and waited.
This city was alive. Vibrant. Unaware. The hunt would come, but not yet.
For tonight, he was only a shadow in the corner, watching.
The tavern's din rose and fell like the tide. Adventurers argued over contracts, merchants complained about tariffs, and farmers muttered about grain prices set by lords far away. Noctis sat quietly in the corner, mug untouched, hood shadowing his face. He let the noise wash over him, sorting it like a ledger.
Rumors threaded through the chaos.
"…taxes raised again. Nobles are fighting each other more than they're fighting the demons…""…a baron in the east was executed—beheaded in the square by order of the king himself…""…church sending bishops everywhere since the cathedral collapse. Some say it wasn't an accident.""…if war breaks out, this city will be one of the first taken. No army, just guards and mercenaries."
Noctis listened, filing each word into the Grid alongside the doctrines of sword, spear, shield, and mage. Politics meant movement. Movement meant blood.
A shadow fell over his table. A young maid placed a small glass of amber liquor before him. "On the house," she said with a nervous smile.
Noctis tilted his head, studying her. Youthful, hair tied back in a loose braid, fingers still red from carrying hot dishes. Her pulse beat fast, though she forced cheer into her voice.
He lifted the glass, swirled it once, and smiled faintly back at her.
The maid's face colored. She bowed quickly and turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
"Are there rooms upstairs?"
She blinked, then nodded. "Yes, sir. This tavern is also an inn. We have several available."
"I will stay," Noctis said. "For several nights."
Her smile returned. "Of course. Will you be paying nightly, or for the week?"
Noctis frowned faintly. He had no coins. None of their stamped silver or copper.
Instead, he reached into his coat. His fingers closed around a shard from the Grid itself—a blood-forged ruby, crimson light faintly pulsing inside like a heartbeat. He set it on the table.
"Will this suffice?"
The maid's breath caught. Her eyes widened. Whispers spread instantly through the tavern.
"A ruby…""Too fine for a traveler…""Rich fool."
Noctis's acute hearing caught the rest, low and ugly.
"…take it from him tonight…""…follow him to his room, cut his throat while he sleeps…""…split the gem three ways…"
Noctis smiled faintly, hiding his teeth behind the rim of his glass. Blind fools. They don't even know they're walking into their graves.
The maid hurried to the counter, whispered to the barkeep, then disappeared behind a side door. A moment later, the owner emerged—a heavyset man with a grizzled beard, apron stained with old ale. He carried the ruby carefully in both hands, as if afraid it might burn him.
"Traveler," the owner said, voice low but respectful. "This gem… it's too much. Far too much. I could house you a year and it would not match its worth. I cannot accept without…" He faltered. "…without owing."
Noctis shook his head. "Keep it. I'll take jobs later, for actual coin. Consider the difference your profit."
The owner stared, then slowly bowed his head. "As you say." He tucked the ruby away with almost religious reverence.
The maid returned, this time more hesitant, carrying a small lantern. "Your room is ready, sir. Please, follow me."
Noctis rose, hood low, and followed her up the wooden staircase. The tavern noise dulled with every step, replaced by the creak of boards and the faint drip of rain on shutters.
She opened a door, set the lantern inside, and turned with a small bow. "Will this room suffice?"
Noctis stepped past her, letting the door close.
The violet gleam of his eyes lit in the dim.
[Skill: Allure's Gaze III — Binding Stare]
The maid froze, breath caught, pupils dilating. Her smile faltered, replaced with slack obedience.
"Tell me," Noctis said quietly, "everything you've heard. About this city. About its lords. About the kingdom's troubles. All of it."
"Yes, master," she whispered, her voice hollow and bound.