The coarse gravel crunched beneath Belial's boots as he landed silently behind the Blind Witness, the air quivering with the residual energy of his descent. Dust swirled gently around him, stirred by the force of his arrival, settling like a faint shroud over the barren landscape. He rose with deliberate slowness, his movements precise, almost ritualistic, as he drew his blade from its scabbard. The metal whoshed, a low, menacing hiss that cut through the stillness of the night. The air thickened, heavy with the metallic tang of iron and the faint, otherworldly scent of ether. Belial's eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto the creature before him. They didn't blink. They didn't flinch.
This was it.
The Blind Witness. The thing that should have perished in the first light of dawn all those months ago. A beast he'd watched tumble with him into the forest, their bodies broken at the edge of the cliff. Belial had clawed his way back from that darkness, his bones shattered, his spirit frayed. And yet, somehow, the monster had survived too.
And it wasn't just alive.
It was stronger.
That was the curse of the haunted system—a cruel cycle of death and rebirth, each iteration more vicious, more attuned to its prey. If Belial didn't kill it now, it would return again. And again. Each time worse. Each time stronger. Each time more intimately aware of his weaknesses, as if the system itself had woven his flaws into the creature's essence.
The Blind Witness turned slowly, its towering form casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the moonlight. Impossibly tall, it loomed over the battlefield, its black sockets reflecting no light, only an endless depth that seemed to pull at Belial's soul. It didn't speak. It never needed to. Its presence was a voice all its own, a silent roar that pressed against his chest like a physical weight.
Belial stood barely to its waist.
He spat to the side, a sharp gesture of defiance, and kicked off his boots. The cold earth bit into his bare feet, grounding him in the moment. No point in holding anything back now. His toes curled against the stone, scraping shallow lines into the surface as he dropped into a low stance. His breath slowed, each inhale deliberate, each exhale measured. The hum of ether whispered through his blood, an ancient rhythm that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
Dark energy began to coil around him, not just as an aura, but as essence—raw, primal, alive. His fingers thickened, nails elongating into wicked claws, each digit laced with glowing purple veins that pulsed in sync with his heart. The veins crawled up his arms like molten rivers, snaking toward his shoulders, where a jagged plate erupted from his flesh, armor-like and asymmetrical, its edges sharp enough to cleave stone. His forearms hardened into dark scales, each one catching the moonlight with the glint of polished obsidian. His chest remained mostly human, taut and muscular, but those same veins spidered outward from the center of his sternum, spreading like living cracks beneath his skin. From his abdomen downward, the transformation was complete—black, armor-like scales layered over his thighs and shins, plates overlapping with inhuman precision. His feet had become talons, curved and thick, their tips carving shallow grooves into the stone with every subtle shift of his weight.
He stood taller now, not because he had grown, but because power radiated from him in waves, distorting the air around him. This was his demonic form. His true form. The part of him that had been forged in the crucible of oblivion, tempered by pain and rage and an unyielding will to survive.
Belial exhaled once, his breath misting in the cold night air, and focused.
The Blind Witness began to move. Slowly at first, its massive form shifting with an eerie grace, then with sudden clarity, it dropped into a low stance, mirroring his own. Belial's eyes widened. This wasn't random mimicry. The creature knew what it was doing. Its legs spread into a loose, balanced stance, its center of gravity tight, its tail curling behind for counterbalance. Its arms hung at just the right angle to strike or block, its body coiled like a predator poised to spring.
A stance of a seasoned fighter.
Belial blinked, his mind racing. What was this thing? He had fought Dusked Hollows before, twisted, feral creatures driven by rage and instinct, their movements sloppy and chaotic. But this… this was calculated. Methodical. Intelligent. The cursed system had evolved it, refined it into something far beyond its origins.
And then, impossibly, the Blind Witness shrank. Not visibly, but intentionally. Its form compressed, streamlined, adapting to mirror Belial's own. Two meters tall now, its body was lean and efficient, every movement precise. Belial had never seen anything like it. His breath caught in his throat, a rare flicker of unease stirring in his chest.
They stood eye to eye now, predator and prey indistinguishable in their mirrored stances. The air between them crackled with tension, the ether humming like a taut wire ready to snap.
Then, without warning, Belial shifted again—sliding into the Eight Direction Stance. His core rotated slightly, knees bent, sword angled low, his free hand lifted and ready to deflect or strike. It was a stance designed for unpredictable engagement, allowing motion in all directions, control over movement and terrain. His muscles tensed, his senses sharpened, the world narrowing to the creature before him.
No words. No thoughts.
Belial lunged.
Death Dance: Black Wind.
His body vanished in a blur of motion, the air screaming as he unleashed a whirlwind of randomized slashes. His blade carved streaks of light into the darkness, each strike a lethal arc of steel and ether. He attacked from all angles overhead, below, sideways, diagonal—his feet dancing across the stone as the ether behind each blow pushed his speed to near invisibility. The slashes blurred together into a storm of edges and afterimages, forming a spiral of death aimed squarely at the Blind Witness.
But the creature didn't retreat.
It charged.
With a jarring, animalistic force, it moved through the slashes like a ghost in a hurricane, its claws flashing as it closed the distance. Belial's eyes widened, his instincts screaming as the gap between them vanished. He barely managed to intercept the charge with his blade, metal clanging against claw in a pulse of energy that shook the earth.
The impact struck like a cannon blast.
The ground beneath them fractured, spiderwebs of cracks radiating outward from the point of collision. Belial was hurled backward, his feet digging trenches across the battlefield as he crashed through rubble and skidded to a stop thirty meters away. Dust exploded around him, a choking cloud that stung his eyes. His back slammed into the wall of a jagged boulder, the force driving the air from his lungs. He coughed once, blood flecking his lips, and fell to a knee.
His hands trembled, his grip on the blade faltering for a moment. His arms ached, the muscles screaming from the sheer force of the impact. He looked down at his sword, his eyes narrowing at the thin crack that had formed along the flat of the edge. It wasn't deep, yet but it was real. Proof of the creature's power.
That force.
That power.
This was no Dusked Hollow.
Belial's breathing came in short, sharp gasps, his heart thundering in his chest. He forced himself to stand, his talons scraping against the stone as he steadied himself. His gaze locked onto the Blind Witness, its form still and silent in the settling dust. This wasn't just a remnant of his past battle. This was something else. Something far worse.
This was the strength of a Prime Hollow.