The air in the small provincial town, nestled unassumingly near the imposing eastern sprawl of Aerion, hung thick with more than just the usual morning dampness. Fear, palpable as the mist clinging to the eaves of the tightly shuttered houses, coiled around the central square, its epicenter the brutalized ruin that had, until yesterday, been the mayor's residence.
It stood now like a desecrated corpse, walls ripped asunder as if by giant claws, windows blown outwards in jagged shards, the very timbers splintered and gouged. Dark stains, already crusting brown under the weak dawn light, painted grotesque patterns across the ravaged stonework and pooled sluggishly on the churned earth before the threshold.
Four figures stood before the wreckage, their presence a stark contrast to the huddled fear radiating from the few townsfolk daring to peek from behind barred doors. They were investigators, dispatched from Aerion Central Command, their professional detachment a thin veneer over the grim reality confronting them.
Brena, designated leader for this assignment, stood motionless, a study in controlled observation, Rank4. Her sea-blue eyes, sharp and analytical beneath a furrowed brow, missed nothing - the angle of the claw marks raked deep into the wood, the spatter patterns of blood hinting at extreme violence, the subtle indentation near a broken window suggesting something heavy had crashed through. Her expression, usually composed, held a flicker of confusion, a slight tightening around her lips that betrayed the unsettling nature of the scene. Even for a high-ranking member of the Bureau, accustomed to the darker facets of Tehra, this level of frenzied destruction felt… excessive.
Beside her, Danz and Halb, both solid Rank 3 investigators, moved cautiously towards the main entrance. Danz, built like a garrison battering ram, crouched low, examining a particularly vicious set of gouges near the shattered doorframe, his broad face grimacing in distaste. Halb, leaner, more watchful, kept his hand near the long spear strapped to his back, his eyes constantly scanning the periphery, alert for any lingering threat.
"Your thoughts?" Brena's voice finally broke the heavy silence, calm but edged with the sharpness of command.
Danz straightened, rubbing a gloved finger over a patch of dried blood on the stone steps. "Werewolf," he stated gruffly, his assessment immediate, pragmatic. "High-level, most likely. These claw marks… the depth, the spacing… distinctive. Seen similar patterns before, usually when they lose control during the transformation or in a blood rage. Takes significant force to tear apart reinforced timber and stone like this. The mayor wouldn't have stood a chance, even with his guards." Reports indicated the mayor himself possessed rudimentary Rank 1 capabilities, bolstered by two loyal Rank 2 town guards - all now numbered among the dead within the ruin.
Halb nodded slowly in agreement, his gaze sweeping the upper floors where windows gaped like empty sockets. "We can't discount the possibility. A Werewolf powerful enough to overwhelm three trained individuals, two of them Rank 2… it's operating well above the typical feral threat level. Definitely pushing Rank 3, maybe even bordering on Rank 4 itself if it was fully enraged."
Brena considered their assessment, her gaze drifting back to the carnage. A powerful Werewolf was the logical conclusion, fitting the evidence. "The possibility is high," she conceded, her voice measured. Then, her attention shifted, her piercing blue eyes settling on the fourth member of their team, who stood slightly apart, silent, his focus seemingly fixed on the blood-soaked ground near the threshold. "Henry? Your assessment?"
Henry didn't respond immediately. He stood with a stillness that belied the storm of information flooding his senses. Since arriving, his Mystic Sense had been fully active, passively mapping the immediate area, but more acutely, dissecting the lingering scents clinging to the damp morning air, scents obscured from normal perception by the passage of time and the overlying metallic tang of death.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, filtering the input. Three distinct blood signatures, the Sense confirmed with chilling clarity. The sharp, coppery scent of human blood, tragically familiar. The foul, musky stench of a Werewolf, laced with primal rage and something akin to… confusion? Pain? And beneath it, fainter, more insidious, a third scent - cloying, strangely sweet, with an undertone reminiscent of aged, expensive wine. Vampire. The recognition was instantaneous, dredged from fragmented lore texts Sophia had once insisted he study, cross-referenced with the unique signature his Sense assigned to different forms of undeath and arcane corruption.
He couldn't reveal the true source of his knowledge, the certainty provided by the Mystic Sense. The anomaly Archbishop Ralph had detected during his ascension, the subsequent scrutiny, Brena's own watchful presence - it all demanded caution. His abilities were a secret weapon, but also a potential vulnerability, a deviation that could draw unwanted attention from powers far more dangerous than any Werewolf. He needed a plausible explanation, something rooted in observation, not uncanny perception.
He finally looked up, meeting Brena's expectant gaze, his expression carefully neutral. "I concur with Danz and Halb regarding the Werewolf," he began, his voice calm, steady. "The physical evidence is undeniable." He paused, allowing a thoughtful frown to touch his features, as if piecing together disparate clues. "However… I believe the Werewolf may not have acted alone. Or perhaps… it wasn't the only participant in the violence."
He gestured vaguely towards a patch of disturbed earth where the blood pooling seemed subtly different, darker. "There are conflicting traces here. It suggests… a confrontation. Perhaps the Werewolf fought another entity before, or during, the attack on the mayor?" He let the question hang, then added, adopting an air of recalling obscure knowledge, "The residual scent… it's unusual. Faint, almost sweet, like spoiled wine. I recall reading something similar in older bestiaries regarding… certain nocturnal blood-feeders." He deliberately kept it vague, attributing it to research rather than direct sensory input. "Vampire, perhaps?"
Brena's sharp eyes narrowed slightly, not with suspicion, but with impressiveness. She hadn't expected such a nuanced observation from the newly transferred Rank 3 soldier, known more for his field resilience than his arcane knowledge. "An interesting hypothesis, Henry," she acknowledged, her tone holding a note of genuine consideration. "Your observation aligns with certain discrepancies I've detected."
She stepped forward, closer to the ruined doorway, her hand tracing unseen patterns in the air. A faint, intricate circle of pale blue light coalesced around her wrist, pulsing gently as she focused her will. "My own senses confirm the lingering aether signatures of three distinct entities beyond the victims. One is undoubtedly Lupine, consistent with a Werewolf. The others…" She frowned, the magical analysis yielding ambiguous results. "One signature is faint, clouded, difficult to isolate. The third…" She trailed off, then her eyes sharpened. "There are also definite traces of high-level domination magic woven into the ambient energy here. And something else…" She knelt, touching a smear on the broken flagstones. "Chemical residue. Narcotic compounds, likely designed to induce aggression or frenzy."
She rose, the spell circle dissipating, her expression hardening. "Someone controlled the Werewolf. Used a combination of coercive magic and potent drugs. Perhaps," she looked directly at Henry, her mind mirroring his earlier, unspoken deduction, "because the creature was too strong, its will too resistant for domination magic alone. The drugs were necessary to break its control, incite the required level of violence."
The implications were chilling. This wasn't a simple monstrous rampage. It was orchestrated. Calculated.
"A coordinated attack involving a powerful Werewolf, a likely Vampire controller, domination magic, and specialized drugs…" Henry murmured, piecing it together. "This escalates things considerably."
Brena nodded grimly. "Precisely. Which is why, effective immediately, this mission is upgraded. Designation: C-Rank. Maintain maximum vigilance. We are dealing with at least one Rank 4 entity, possibly two, and sophisticated methods. Our target isn't just the beast; it's the hand guiding it."
A new tension settled over the small team. C-Rank. A significant jump from the initial assessment, implying threats capable of devastating entire towns, requiring coordinated efforts from experienced Rankers.
"They could be long gone by now…" Henry began, considering the time elapsed since the attack, but a subtle flicker at the edge of his Mystic Sense cut him off. A faint, fading crimson trail, barely perceptible, leading away from the house, towards the shadowed tree line bordering the town. Blood. Not human. Not Werewolf. The Vampire's trail.
He moved towards it, feigning a discovery based on mundane observation. "Wait. There are tracks here. Faint, but leading away from the main path. Drag marks… and these droplets." He pointed towards the barely visible stains leading into a patch of damp earth near a collapsed garden wall. "Looks like our controller didn't escape entirely unscathed either."
Brena moved quickly to his side, her eyes confirming his 'discovery'. The trail was subtle, easily missed, but undeniably present. "Good work, Henry." She straightened, her gaze sweeping towards the distant woods. "The trail leads towards the forest." She turned back to the others. "Danz, Halb - conduct a final sweep of the town perimeter, check for any other signs, interview any witnesses brave enough to talk. Henry, you're with me. We follow this trail."
There was no argument. The scent was fresh, relatively speaking. Their best chance lay in immediate pursuit before the trail grew cold or was washed away by the forecasted afternoon rain.
As Danz and Halb moved off, Henry fell into step beside Brena, their path taking them away from the grieving town, towards the silent, looming edge of the ancient woods. The transition was abrupt. One moment they were amidst the sad remnants of civilization, the next plunged into the deep green twilight beneath a canopy so thick it seemed to swallow the sun. The air grew cooler, heavy with the scent of damp earth, decaying leaves, and the subtle, underlying tension of the wild.
They followed the faint traces - a broken twig here, a disturbed patch of moss there, the occasional dark droplet almost lost against the forest floor. Henry's Mystic Sense was their true guide, tracking the fading crimson signature that pulsed weakly ahead, but he kept the knowledge hidden, pointing out physical signs Brena's sharp eyes could corroborate. They moved swiftly but cautiously, weapons ready, senses strained, acutely aware that they were entering territory where their quarry might hold the advantage.
For nearly two hours, they pushed deeper, the forest growing wilder, more primeval. The trail grew fainter still, the crimson signature in Henry's perception weakening, threatening to dissipate entirely. Finally, as the sun began its slow descent, painting the slivers of sky visible through the canopy in hues of orange and bruised purple, the last discernible drop of blood vanished near a shallow, moss-choked stream. The trail was cold.
Brena halted, frustration etched onto her features. She scanned the dense undergrowth, the shadowed tree trunks, searching for any sign, any clue. Nothing. "Damn it," she muttered, striking a fist against a nearby tree trunk. "Lost him."
She looked at Henry, the dimming light catching the sharp planes of her face. "We can't risk pushing further in this light. Too easy to walk into an ambush. We make camp here, resume the search at first light." She sighed, the sound heavy with fatigue and the weight of responsibility. "Report back to Danz and Halb via signal stone. Standard defensive perimeter."
Later, huddled near a small, smokeless fire Brena conjured with a controlled burst of arcane energy, a fragile pocket of warmth against the encroaching chill of the forest night, Henry found himself wrestling with a familiar restlessness. The hotel room back in town, the shared camaraderie of the team - even Brena's demanding presence - felt preferable to this tense isolation in the deepening gloom.
He chewed mechanically on a strip of dried meat from his ration pack, his thoughts inevitably drifting, as they often did in quiet moments, to Sophia. He pictured her smile, the warmth in her amber eyes, the easy comfort of her presence. Their small apartment, now feeling like a distant sanctuary. He had only just started this new path with the Bureau, this life supposedly built together, yet already duty had pulled him away, thrust him back into the familiar shadows. A familiar ache, the ache of separation, settled in his chest.
He pushed the thoughts aside, forcing his focus back to the mission. Brena was right; continuing blindly in the dark was reckless. But the trail was cold. The Vampire - likely Rank 4, judging by the ease with which it seemingly dispatched the Werewolf and escaped Brena's senses - could be miles away by dawn. Or… it could be close. Watching. Waiting.
Mystic Sense range: seventy meters passive, active two hundred. The thought surfaced unbidden. He had roughly two hours of active scan time remaining for the day, factoring in the brief checks earlier. Enough to scout the immediate vicinity, perhaps pick up the trail again if the Vampire hadn't moved far. The risk was significant - depleting his reserves alone in the dark forest. But the potential reward… finding the target, preventing further bloodshed…
He glanced at Brena. She sat across the small fire, eyes closed, seemingly meditating, conserving her own energy. He rose silently, stretching casually. "Going to check the perimeter," he murmured, keeping his voice low.
Brena nodded fractionally, not opening her eyes. "Stay within signal range. Don't be reckless."
Henry melted into the deeper shadows beyond the firelight's reach. Once out of Brena's direct line of sight, he stopped, closing his eyes, focusing inward. Mystic Sense, active. Two hundred meters.
The spectral map of the forest bloomed in his mind's eye - trees, rocks, the slow movement of small nocturnal creatures. He swept the radius, searching for that faint, tell-tale crimson signature. Nothing within the immediate vicinity. He pushed the Sense further, following the direction the trail had been leading. Deeper into the woods.
He moved silently, guided by the mental map, a ghost navigating the tangible darkness. Branches whipped at his face, unseen roots threatened to trip him, but the Sense provided unerring guidance. He moved for nearly an hour, pushing deeper than was perhaps prudent, the familiar drain on his aether reserves becoming noticeable, a dull ache behind his eyes. The two-hour limit was approaching.
Then, a jolt. Not a hostile signature, but something else. A concentration of lingering energy, cold and lifeless, tainted with the scent of decay and… wolf. He altered course, moving towards the disturbance.
And found it. Sprawled amidst a thicket of thorny bushes, illuminated by the weak moonlight filtering through a break in the canopy, lay the corpse. Massive, powerfully muscled, covered in dark, matted fur now slick with drying blood and forest mud. The Werewolf.
Its eyes were wide, glassy, fixed in a final rictus of surprise or agony. Human blood, dark and crusted, still stained its formidable fangs and wicked claws - confirmation, if any were needed, that this was indeed the beast responsible for the carnage at the mayor's house.
Henry knelt beside the body, his senses taking in the scene with cold precision. The metallic tang of werewolf blood mingled with the damp earth. But it wasn't the presence of the corpse that sent a chill down his spine. It was the cause of death.
Two wounds. Only two. A clean, deep puncture wound through the thick muscle and bone of the neck, severing the spine instantly. And another, equally precise, driven straight through the beast's powerful chest, directly piercing the heart. The edges of the heart wound were… slightly ragged, almost scooped out. Efficient. Brutal. Cold.
"Impossible…" Henry breathed the word aloud, the sound swallowed by the forest silence. This creature, likely Rank 3 bordering on Rank 4, capable of tearing through stone and guardsmen, dispatched with such surgical lethality? By a Vampire known primarily for control magic and stealth? It didn't fit. This kill spoke of overwhelming power, speed, and ruthless precision far exceeding a typical Rank 4 encounter.
He hadn't moved more than a few paces from the Werewolf's corpse, his mind grappling with the discrepancy, when his Mystic Sense screamed a sudden, violent warning. Incoming! Fast! Hostile!
A massive, dark shape erupted from the dense undergrowth directly ahead, moving with terrifying speed, crashing through bushes like a living battering ram. A furious roar split the night air.
"Damn it!" Henry reacted purely on instinct, throwing himself sideways, spinning into a defensive stance as the creature burst into the moonlit clearing.
Blazemaul. The recognition was instant, confirmed by the visual details matching the bestiary descriptions. Nearly two and a half meters tall at the shoulder, a living wall of black fur and dense muscle. On each powerful foreleg, three wickedly sharp bones, easily half a meter long, protruded backward like ivory spurs. Its own claws, thick as daggers, glowed with an internal, pulsing red heat, radiating palpable waves of searing energy. And its eyes - not the mindless red of simple beasts, but a burning, focused ferocity. Rank 3. At least.
Thud! The Blazemaul's first blow, a colossal downward slam of its foreleg, impacted the earth where Henry had stood a fraction of a second before. The ground shuddered, dirt and rock spraying outwards, leaving a crater deep enough to bury a man.
Henry, already moving, used the momentum of his evasion to launch a counter. His sword, drawn in a silver arc, whistled through the air, aimed in a sweeping horizontal slash across the beast's exposed chest.
Clang! Instead of biting into flesh, the blade met an unyielding barrier. The three backward-curving bone spurs on the Blazemaul's forearm had snapped up with blinding speed, deflecting the blow with contemptuous ease. Sparks flew, the impact jarring Henry's arm to the shoulder.
He immediately sprang back, putting distance between himself and the monster, his Mystic Sense frantically mapping the immediate threat zone. A murky red aura pulsed around the Blazemaul in his perception, indicating its attack range and the intensity of its hostile intent. Tactical hunter, not just brute force, Henry registered grimly. This wasn't a panicked beast; it was deliberately trying to kill him.
The Blazemaul roared again, the sound vibrating in Henry's chest. The red glow on its claws intensified, heating the air around them. It charged, not in a straight line, but in a series of powerful, weaving lunges, swiping and slamming with those searing claws, each blow carrying lethal force, aiming to overwhelm, to crush.
Henry didn't try to meet the assault head-on. His Rank 3 strength, even augmented by the Sanctuary Seal's passive reserves, was likely no match for the creature's raw power. Instead, he relied on speed, agility, and the precognitive edge granted by the Mystic Sense. He became a phantom, weaving through the deadly dance, the Blazemaul's claws tearing through empty air, smashing against tree trunks, gouging deep furrows in the earth where he had been moments before. He focused solely on evasion, letting the beast expend its energy, forcing it into clumsy overextensions. Predict, evade, conserve, the mantra ran through his mind. Wait for the opening.
The tactic, though physically demanding, proved effective. The Blazemaul, accustomed to overwhelming prey quickly, grew visibly frustrated. Its movements became slightly less coordinated, its roars more ragged, its breathing heavy, gusts of hot, fetid air blasting from its muzzle. The intense glow on its claws flickered, momentarily dimming. Now.
Henry saw his chance. As the bear lunged again, slightly off balance, he didn't dodge laterally. He surged forward, directly into the perceived danger zone, channeling his aether, focusing it into the tip of his blade, the metal humming faintly with contained power. He feinted a powerful overhead slash, drawing the beast's instinctive defense - the six bone spurs snapping upwards like a cage, anticipating the blow to its head.
But the blow never landed. At the last possible instant, Henry shifted the angle of attack, converting the downward slash into a lightning-fast thrust. His blade bypassed the raised bone guard entirely, angling sharply upwards. Piercing Fang!
The sword tip, guided by the unwavering certainty of the Mystic Sense, found its mark - the vulnerable, less protected flesh beneath the Blazemaul's thick jaw, driving deep into its throat.
A choked, wet gurgle replaced the anticipated roar. The Blazemaul staggered, thick, dark blood spraying like crimson rain in the moonlight. It thrashed wildly for a moment, claws tearing impotently at the air, before collapsing, its massive frame hitting the forest floor with the impact of a felled tree. Silence returned, broken only by Henry's own ragged breathing and the dripping sound of blood soaking into the leaf litter.
He stood over the cooling corpse, body trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the residual adrenaline, the sharp, visceral thrill of hard-won survival. He had faced a Rank 3 monster, a creature capable of tearing him limb from limb, and emerged victorious through calculation and skill.
He quickly scanned the area again with his Mystic Sense, pushing the range out. Nothing. The forest was quiet, empty, save for the two massive corpses - Werewolf and Blazemaul - lying mere yards apart. Two powerful creatures, slain with chilling efficiency. Someone had killed the Werewolf. Someone had likely sicced the Blazemaul on him, perhaps as a test, perhaps as a distraction, perhaps merely to dispose of a troublesome witness.
Someone is doing this, the thought echoed, colder this time. Someone is watching.
He sheathed his bloodied sword, turning slowly, casually, as if merely surveying the surroundings. But his Mystic Sense remained fully active, focused, probing the shadows beyond the clearing. And there it was. Unmoving. Undeniably present within the two-hundred-meter radius. Not the energy signature of a beast, nor the ambient hum of the forest. The distinct, low-level aetheric signature of a human, carefully concealed behind a thick cluster of ancient oaks.
Watcher.