The memory of the purple-eyed Hallowed was a cold, constant motivator. Its mocking voice, a dry, rustling whisper in his mind, had seared a new resolve into his soul. Arthur was no longer just a survivor; he was a student. And his teacher was a monster, a chilling reflection of what he might become. The lesson was simple: adapt or be consumed.
For the next three days, Arthur became a ghost, a silent hunter in a city of the dead. He avoided the main streets and open spaces, sticking to the rooftops and the forgotten back alleys. He was no longer just running; he was training. His newfound strength and speed were raw, untamed forces, and he needed to learn to control them, to make them an extension of his will. He leaped across gaps between buildings, his landings becoming smoother, more silent with each attempt. He climbed the skeletal remains of fire escapes, his grip sure and his movements effortless. The city, once a labyrinth of despair, was now his personal training ground.
He fed regularly, but carefully. He targeted the weakest Hallowed, their souls a faint, silvery light, their forms more dust than flesh. He learned to sense the spiritual residue of a Hallowed's soul before he even saw the creature, a faint, metallic taste on his tongue, a low hum in his veins. He had become a connoisseur of death, a ghoul of the spiritual world. The process of consumption was still a jarring, violent experience, a flash of a life that was now gone, a fleeting memory of a name, a face, a moment of joy or despair, then the profound, cold stillness. Each consumption chipped away at his humanity, a small, but noticeable erosion of his empathy. He could still remember the man in the park, the laughing child, but now the memory was more faded, more distant, like a photograph yellowed by time. He found himself thinking less and less about the world before, and more about the world now. The hunger was his new reality.
He began to notice the subtle differences between the Hallowed. The vast majority were the mindless, shambling drones, their souls a faint, white light. But there were others. The ones with a sickly yellow glow, their movements more erratic, their groans louder, more pained. These were the ones who had died in fear, their souls so twisted by terror that they had become a different kind of monster. Then there were the ones with a dull, coppery orange hue, their forms more robust, their movements more purposeful. These were the ones who had died with a fierce, unyielding resolve, their souls clinging to a twisted semblance of life. He learned to avoid the yellow-hued ones; their erratic movements made them unpredictable, and their souls, a bitter, rancid taste on his tongue, were hardly worth the effort. The orange-hued ones, however, were a different story. They were a challenge, their souls a richer, more potent energy that left him feeling stronger, more alive.
He was not just a hunter; he was a scholar of death, a cartographer of the spiritual wasteland. He mapped the city not by street names or landmarks, but by the spiritual residue of the dead. He knew which alleys held a bounty of weak, easily consumed Hallowed, and which were to be avoided due to the lingering presence of more powerful, more dangerous Revenants.
One evening, as the sun, a pale, sickly orange, dipped below the horizon, Arthur found himself in a forgotten industrial district. The air was thick with the stench of oil and rust, and the skeletal remains of colossal machinery lay scattered across the landscape like the bones of a dead god. He was following the trail of a particularly potent orange-hued Hallowed, its essence a tantalizing whisper in his mind, a promise of a power he craved.
He found it in the belly of a derelict foundry, a towering monument to a past age of industry. The Hallowed was a massive, hulking figure, its form more solid than others, its limbs twisted into grotesque, metallic appendages. Its eyes, a dull, coppery orange, were fixed on a point in the darkness, a vacant, unsettling stare that spoke of a deep, unyielding rage. This was a Hallowed that had died in a fury, its soul so consumed by a final, violent moment that it had transformed its very being.
This was a true test. He couldn't just rush in. He had to be smart. He had to use the environment, to use his new-found abilities to his advantage. He moved silently, his footsteps absorbed by the thick layer of dust and grime on the floor. He scaled the rusting remains of a conveyor belt, his movements fluid and silent, a ghost in the machine. He was no longer just a fighter; he was a tactician. He was learning to be a predator.
From his perch high above, he watched as the Hallowed, a force of pure, unadulterated rage, smashed its metallic fists against the rusted hull of a boiler. The noise was deafening, a symphony of metal on metal that echoed through the cavernous space. This was not a mindless drone; this was a creature of immense power, a walking embodiment of a final, violent moment.
Arthur waited. He watched. He studied. He learned. He learned that the Hallowed, for all its power, was predictable. It was a creature of pure, unthinking rage. Its movements were powerful, but they were also slow, deliberate, and predictable. Arthur saw a weakness, a chink in its spiritual armor. The Hallowed's soul, for all its potency, was unguarded at its back, a small, faint glimmer of orange that pulsed with a rhythmic, predictable beat.
He waited for the right moment, for the Hallowed to turn its back to him, and then he struck. He launched himself from his perch, his short sword a blur of steel, his movements a graceful, silent arc of controlled power. The Hallowed, for all its strength, was too slow. It turned, its orange eyes widening in a silent, horrified surprise, but it was too late. Arthur's blade, a weapon he had forged in the fires of a dying world, plunged into the Hallowed's back, finding the small, unguarded pocket of spiritual energy. The Hallowed went down with a shuddering crash, its metallic form collapsing into a pile of twisted metal and rotted flesh. The orange essence, a blindingly bright beacon of power, surged from its form, and Arthur, for the first time, was not just a hunter; he was a harvester. He was a collector. He was a predator.
He knelt, his hands outstretched, and consumed. The experience was more intense than before, a flash of a life lived in rage and despair, a life that had ended in a violent, brutal moment. But there was also a profound sense of purpose, a cold, unyielding resolve that flowed into him, filling the hollow void in his soul. The hunger was gone, replaced by a deep, powerful sense of fulfillment. His veins, once a faint network of black, now pulsed with a vibrant, orange glow. His senses were sharper, his body stronger. He felt the echo of the Hallowed's rage, a cold, silent fury that resided in his soul, a tool to be used, not a force to be feared. He was not a demon. He was not a hero. He was a Revenant. And he had just leveled up.