The ash and heat clung to Thomas like a second skin as he crested the ridge overlooking the molten plain. Rivers of fire snaked across the obsidian plateau, bubbling and hissing, while jagged spires jutted skyward like the teeth of some colossal beast. The Circle of Runes pulsed far to the north, faint and distant, but its green light seemed to color every shadow and crevice with menace.
Liora slithered beside him, body coiling over the jagged rocks with fluid, serpentine grace. Eddric moved behind, long limbs flexing unnaturally with each step, claws tapping against black stone. The three of them had survived the fall, survived the first horrors of the Circle—but now came the next lesson. Survival required action. Hunting. Feeding. Learning to dominate, even in this alien form.
"The first hunt," Liora whispered, voice hissing like smoke. "You must kill or consume. The Circle demands it. Hunger is not weakness. Hunger is instinct. Deny it, and it will consume you in ways you cannot control."
Thomas flexed his claws experimentally, molten veins flaring faintly. The instinct was already there, gnawing at him: the need to feed, to strike, to test his strength. But a fragment of his human self recoiled. He remembered Brackenford, the water wheel, the feel of dirt under his hands. Could he really take a life here? Could he embrace the hunger without losing what little humanity remained?
Before he could answer, a shriek tore through the air. From a fissure in the obsidian plain, a lesser demon erupted—a twisted creature, malformed and jagged, limbs bent at impossible angles, skin mottled with glowing veins. Its eyes, if they could be called that, burned with a predatory hunger. Its maw opened impossibly wide, teeth glinting with molten fire.
"Strike!" Liora hissed. "Do not hesitate. Hesitation is death."
Thomas lunged, claws slicing through the thick, heated air. The lesser demon twisted, snapping its limbs toward him, and for a moment Thomas thought he would be shredded. But instinct guided him, and molten energy pulsed along his arms, hardening his claws and giving him the strength to deflect the blows. He struck again, claws sinking into flesh and molten bone. The creature screamed, a terrible sound halfway between human and beast.
Eddric flanked from the side, long arms striking with precision. The lesser demon howled, staggered, and Thomas seized the opening, slashing across its torso. Molten blood sprayed across the obsidian rocks, hissing as it hit the surface, and the creature collapsed, writhing. Its screams faded, leaving only the faint glow of molten veins as it convulsed in death—or transformation.
Thomas took a step back, chest heaving. The heat of exertion, the strain on his newly transformed body, left him trembling. Yet he felt a thrill, primal and raw. He had survived the encounter. He had struck first, struck hard, and lived. Survival demanded action, and he had taken it.
Liora moved beside him, eyes glimmering with approval. "Good. You learn quickly. The Circle tests the weak first. Lesser demons, weak prey—they sharpen your instincts, teach you patience, teach you the taste of survival. But soon, you will face greater challenges. Do not grow complacent."
Eddric crouched, examining the fallen demon. "These are fragments of those who came before," he muttered. "Their energy lingers. If we are clever, we can absorb it—strength, instinct, knowledge. But it is dangerous. The hunger is stronger in these remains."
Thomas nodded slowly, flexing claws. His veins pulsed brightly, a dangerous mixture of instinct, power, and lingering human thought. He understood the balance now: fight, consume, and adapt, without letting the hunger erase what remained of his self.
They pressed on, moving cautiously across the jagged plain. Shadows flickered at the edges of their vision, remnants of other fallen humans, other demons twisted by sin. Some moved too quickly to track, leaving only the echo of screams. Others crawled or slithered, whispering fragments of memories or warnings, remnants of past mistakes. Thomas realized that knowledge here was as vital as strength. Observation could save a life just as surely as claws or molten power.
A fissure opened suddenly beneath their feet, hot air erupting in a geyser of molten fire. Thomas leaped, claws sinking into the obsidian edge, and felt the heat ripple along his body. Liora twisted through the air to land beside him, while Eddric's limbs extended unnaturally to brace against the rock.
"Watch the ground!" Liora hissed. "The hellscape itself hunts. One wrong step, one moment of distraction, and you are lost."
Thomas's eyes scanned the terrain, noting fissures, unstable spires, and molten streams. Survival here required more than instinct—it demanded constant awareness. Each step was a calculation, each movement a gamble. The environment itself was a predator, as much as the demons that roamed it.
They moved deeper into the plateau, where the molten rivers twisted like veins through black rock. From the shadows, another lesser demon lunged, fast and jagged, its body twisted into a terrifying shape. Thomas reacted instinctively, claws slashing as he propelled himself sideways, narrowly avoiding its snapping limbs. Liora coiled around the creature, restraining it with strength that seemed unnatural even for a demon. Eddric struck from behind, long limbs slicing through molten flesh.
The battle was brief, brutal, and precise. The lesser demon collapsed into molten ash, leaving only faintly glowing veins on the ground as the residue of its existence. Thomas breathed heavily, molten blood pulsing along his arms, veins glowing brighter with each beat. He realized that killing here was not just about survival—it was a lesson in control, in mastery, in understanding the nature of power.
By the end of the hunt, Thomas, Liora, and Eddric had traversed miles of molten plains, jagged obsidian spires, and ash fields. Each encounter with a lesser demon had taught them something new: patience, timing, observation, and restraint. Thomas's claws ached, his molten veins pulsed with exhaustion and exhilaration, but he felt the first real stirrings of confidence.
He looked out across the plateau, toward the distant Circle of Runes, glowing faintly green. The screams of the newly turned echoed in the empty sky, but Thomas no longer flinched. The hunt had changed him. He was no longer merely reacting. He was learning, adapting, surviving.
Liora coiled beside him, eyes glinting. "Good. You have learned the first lesson: hunt, strike, and survive. But remember—this is only the beginning. The Circle watches, and Malrik watches. The true test will come when survival is not enough."
Thomas flexed his claws, molten veins flaring brightly. He understood now: survival required strength, cunning, and control of the hunger that pulsed inside him. The Circle demanded it, the hellscape demanded it, and Malrik—looming somewhere across the plateau—would ensure it.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, chest rising and falling as the heat pressed in on him. He was no longer human, but he was alive. He had survived the first hunt. And in the distance, the Circle of Runes pulsed, a constant reminder that survival here was only the first step.
Thomas Hale, clawed, molten, and wary, had learned the first real lesson of hell: hunt, survive, adapt—or be consumed entirely.