I darted behind the nearest tree, the bark digging into my back as I caught my breath. My legs trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer weight of what stood ahead.
That thing… was a monster.
Far beyond what I had fought. Its presence alone was suffocating.
"Aunt," I whispered, glancing at her. "Help her!"
My aunt blinked, then scoffed with a smirk tugging at her lips. "Help her? Don't be timid, boy. That cute little thing doesn't even know it's about to die."
She smiled. Not in mockery—but in absolute confidence.
"Your mother's much stronger than that."
Then it began.
A blur of fur and fangs shot across the clearing. My mother. No—the monster that raised me.
From the moment she lunged, it was no contest.
The beast responded on instinct, all snapping jaws and brute force. But Mother… she didn't move like a wild animal. She moved like a storm sculpted by intention—precise, lethal, almost graceful.
Her claws slashed through the air in silent arcs, her body twisting mid-lunge, feinting and striking with terrifying control. The beast's roars turned to howls—desperate, panicked, futile.
To any outsider, it might've looked like a wild brawl.
But to me? This was art. The kind only those trained to kill could understand.
I watched, stunned. Not just at her strength… but at the way she held back. She could've ended it in seconds. Instead, she let it wear itself out—toyed with it, like an apex predator reminding the food chain who ruled it.
And then—silence.
The beast collapsed, its body hitting the earth with a dull thud.
Blood splattered the ferns. Steam rose from its wounds.
Then she turned.
That face—fierce, bloodstained, fangs still bared—softened the moment her eyes met mine.
"Kael!" she rushed to me. "Are you alright, my son?"
The same creature that had just danced with death now crouched before me like a worried mother hen. Her voice cracked with worry, her eyes scanned me for wounds as if I were made of glass.
I blinked up at her.
This… this was the kind of contradiction that shook me. A monster on the outside. A mother on the inside.
"I'm okay," I managed. "You… really tore it apart."
She chuckled softly, pulling me into a hug that reeked of blood and warmth. "Of course I did. What kind of mother would I be if I let something hurt you?"
I wanted to say something clever—but all I could do was stand there, buried in her arms.
We didn't speak much more. Just a moment. Just enough.
Then she rose, grabbed the carcass with her teeth, and together—with my aunt flanking us—we dragged the slain beast back toward the village.
And though my body still trembled…
It wasn't from fear anymore.
When we stepped past the thick roots marking the village's edge, the silence shattered.
Voices.
Dozens of them.
A swarm of whispers buzzed like flies in the wind.
"Did you hear? She dragged a beast in with her pup again."
"Tch, no way the runt did anything. His mother probably handed it to him on a silver fang."
"A shadow of the old alpha. Poor Kaelir..."
"He couldn't even dodge a landslide."
My ears twitched with each word, each jab.
And there were more this time—not just young wolves. Grown ones too. Warriors. Mothers. Even old crones hunched in the moss. Their tails twitched with disdain, their eyes pretending not to look at me while clearly aiming their scorn.
But before I could say anything, my aunt's tail lashed.
"You filth-ridden worms," she snarled, stepping forward. "If you have something to say, say it to me."
Some of them stepped back. Others shrank into the ferns, pretending they hadn't spoken.
I sighed. "Aunt, don't bother with them. They aren't worth it."
Her head jerked toward me. "They crossed the line, Kael. Even worms need to be reminded what happens when they spit at a lion."
Before I could answer, a voice thicker than the rest cut through the noise.
"Well, well… isn't this a sight."
I turned.
An older wolf approached, greying fur streaked with time but not weakness. He walked with the gait of someone who had once stood closer to the top. Beside him trotted a smaller wolf cub, not much older than me—two to three moons, tops. The elder's eyes glinted, not with warmth… but something colder. Like the bitter taste of memories that curdled into hate.
His name was Varok. A semi-elder, once advisor to the previous alpha. My father.
"Isn't this the wife and pup of the late Kaelir?" he asked, his tone coated in fake courtesy.
My mother's eyes narrowed. "What do you want, Varok?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, his eyes traveled to the dead beast at our feet. "I just wonder… why parade this around? Why try to pretend your son defeated something worth mentioning?"
My claws dug into the earth, but Mother stayed calm.
"Because he did defeat it."
"Oh, I see." He smiled, but it was more a baring of teeth. "So the cub who couldn't outrun a landslide is suddenly a hunter now? How… inspiring."
My aunt growled low.
But he wasn't done.
"I suppose we'll see in the coming bloodline ritual. See just how much of Kaelir truly lives in this one," he nodded at me, eyes cold. "Though honestly… it would insult the old alpha's memory to call this child his heir."
The word hung like a knife between us.
I didn't move. Didn't speak. But my blood boiled.
"Let's go," Mother said sharply.
As we turned, I saw his son still staring at me—expression unreadable. Not cruel. Not kind. Just watching.
They'd been born the same season as me. But where I was hated for my father's shadow, he was pitied for failing to live up to it.
Back at home, the quiet was louder than the gossip.
Mother set the beast's body aside and finally sat down, sighing heavily.
"I know you heard all that," she said.
"I'm not deaf."
"Then ignore it," she said. "What matters isn't what they say now—but what they'll have to say after the bloodline ritual."
I looked at her. "You've mentioned that before. What… actually happens in that ritual?"
She paused, then nodded.
"You're old enough to know a little. Every year, before the next mating season begins, the young who were born before it must undergo the ritual. The Council of Elders performs it—they're the real power in the tribe, even above the alpha. Once it's done, you'll be considered an adult."
I frowned. "So they judge your bloodline?"
"They awaken it. At least, the part that can be awakened based on how strong your body, mind, and instincts have grown. The purer and stronger you are… the more of your bloodline answers the call."
She stood, eyes fierce.
"That's why you must focus on getting stronger. Level up. Evolve. Refine your instincts. Because when that ritual comes…" She knelt and touched my snout gently. "I want them all to see exactly who you are."
---
I nodded, biting back the storm inside.
Strength. Instinct. Growth.
That's how I'd prove I wasn't a shadow.
I was the next step forward.
Then—ding.
> [Main Quest Unlocked]
Prove your worth.
Objective: Become as strong as you can before the bloodline ritual.
Rewards: ???
Penalty: ???
A grin tugged at my lips.
"Looks like even fate wants to see me rise," I whispered.
Then my legs gave out beneath me.
Exhaustion. Tension. Too much, too fast. I collapsed into the moss, drifting into sleep before my head even hit the stone.
But just before the darkness took me…
> [Devour Core Function: Unlocked]
You may now devour your first monster core.
My eyes fluttered.
Then the grin returned before sleep claimed me.
Time to eat.
Far beyond the savage depths of the Hollowborn Labyrinth, on the opposite end of the continent, a newly formed adventuring party stepped cautiously into the gloom of another ancient dungeon—the Gallows Depths. It was a forsaken ruin, long declared cleared by guilds, yet whispers of disappearances had begun again—too many to ignore.
The air was thick, heavy with rot and silence. Stale blood clung to the cracked walls. The ground bore marks of struggle. Yet there were no signs of monsters. Only the dragging marks... as if something—or someone—had been pulled deeper.
"We shouldn't be here," muttered the rogue, her hand tightening on her blade. "This place is dead."
"No," the mage whispered, his voice trembling. "Something in here is very much alive."
Before they could retreat, the shadows writhed—masked figures cloaked in crimson and black surged forth, bearing cursed sigils and hollow eyes. One by one, the adventurers were overwhelmed, silenced by needles laced with demonic venom.
They awoke bound in chains of bone, deep in an altar chamber carved from the dungeon's very heart. Pillars of stitched flesh and blackened obsidian surrounded a blood-soaked dais. The only light came from a fire that didn't burn—it devoured.
A robed priest stepped forward, his voice not a chant but a sermon, thick with madness.
"Blood of the gifted... souls of the daring... for he who stirs beneath the roots of power... grant the flesh of kings to the hands of shadows."
Their screams were drowned beneath the sound of a massive gear turning below them—stone grinding against stone.
And when the last blade fell... the altar sank.
Downward.
Through tunnels long forgotten.
Beneath sealed catacombs.
Until it stopped in a vaulted chamber, lined with ancient banners—ones bearing the royal crest of the Eirenthal Empire.
There, in the depths beneath the imperial capital, the altar bloomed in a pool of blood.
A voice echoed from the shadows—not the emperor's, but something deeper, older.
Then, from the black flame, the cult priest whispered one final line in a tongue not heard in ages:
"When the Tenth Fang falls and the Hollowborn awakens… our King of Ash and Hunger shall walk the world again."