The morning sun pierced the mist over the village, but tension gripped the air tighter than any winter chill.
The duel had been accepted.
Kael'thas versus Drevyn, the prideful grandson of Elder Malgron.
Two days from now.
And today…
was the beginning of the reckoning.
---
Kael sat outside his den.
Newly evolved limbs shifted under him, adjusting to the weight of change.
His body throbbed—stronger, leaner, but unfamiliar.
Scars from Gavrlok's battle whispered warnings beneath his skin.
That's when he heard her.
His mother's voice. Calm, but dangerously quiet.
"So. A duel?"
He didn't turn.
He knew that tone.
She stepped beside him and sat, watching the cliffs in silence.
"I saw your face at the altar. Should've known you'd pull something reckless the moment I blinked."
Kael winced.
"I didn't plan it. But Drevyn—"
"I don't care about Drevyn," she snapped, then sighed.
"I care about you. You're strong, Kael. But not invincible. I lost your father to pride. I won't lose you to the same damn thing."
He looked away.
"I just… don't want to be weak anymore."
She placed a hand on his shoulder. Gentle. Steady.
"Then get stronger. But not by throwing yourself into a fire you're not ready for."
---
A sharp whistle broke the silence.
"Speaking of fire…"
His aunt appeared, stretching with a lazy grin.
"Since you're so eager to test your shiny new limbs—how about we make sure they don't collapse on you mid-duel?"
Kael blinked.
"You're training me?"
"To hell and back," she said sweetly.
"Starting now."
His mother groaned.
"Just don't break anything vital."
"No promises."
---
Later that morning, Kael, Rava, and Grum followed her to the southern grove—an ancient training field nestled just outside the sacred ring.
Grum scratched his chin.
"So we're helping Kael not trip over his own legs?"
"Something like that," Rava smirked. "Or die."
Kael tried to stay focused.
His body was faster, stronger…
But something still felt off.
Balance. Timing.
Every movement came a beat too soon—or too late.
His aunt clapped her hands once.
"Alright, pups. Ground-up rebuild. Movement drills. Dodging. Then full-contact. Let's see if he survives the warm-up."
---
As he trained, muscle memory clashed with something deeper.
Instincts.
Kael moved like a beast…
But sometimes—just sometimes—he slid into stances that didn't belong in this world.
Precise. Fluid. Efficient.
Assassin stances.
Grum stared.
Rava paused mid-swing.
His aunt's brow twitched.
"…Where the hell did you learn that?"
Kael froze.
Then smirked.
"I told you. I'm a genius."
---
The next morning, he rose before the sun.
Muscles sore.
Heart pounding.
But a new energy pulsed beneath his skin.
Devour: Level 4.
And with it…
Echoes.
Feral speed. Searing strength.
And something darker.
Killing intent.
---
It first happened during meditation.
Eyes closed. Breathing steady.
Kael reached inward—into the swirling essence of the devoured cores.
Something… ignited.
A violent surge erupted from his chest.
His claws extended. Fangs throbbed in his gums.
The air thickened. Even the earth recoiled.
Berserk.
A heartbeat away.
Kael gritted his teeth and forced his breath steady.
He visualized chains—his chains—wrapping the bloodlust.
It dulled. But didn't vanish.
It lingered.
Waiting.
A blade begging to be unsheathed.
---
"No," he whispered.
"Not again. I won't be a weapon."
He stood.
And returned to training.
---
By midday, they were deep in combat drills.
Rava moved fast and low—aiming at joints and pressure points.
Grum's blows were slow, but heavy. Like boulders falling.
Kael held back more than he liked.
His aunt watched every move, occasionally barking corrections.
During a break, Grum frowned.
"You're not using your full strength."
Kael shrugged.
"Didn't want to bruise your ego."
Rava narrowed her eyes.
"Or maybe you're hiding something."
"Who, me?" He smiled innocently. "I'm just a fast learner."
But inside, he knew.
He was hiding more than strength.
He was hiding technique.
Footwork. Feints. Angles.
All wrong for a beast.
All perfect for a killer.
---
Later that afternoon, they entered the woods.
Real prey.
Real blood.
Final test before the duel.
His aunt's words were simple:
"Don't hold back."
---
They found it.
A tuskback boar. Massive. Armored. Drinking from the stream.
Kael crouched low.
Rava and Grum moved wide, cutting escape routes.
The boar raised its head.
Too late.
Kael dashed in—[Predator's Step] active.
No sound. No warning.
He struck hard between its shoulders.
The beast roared, spinning violently.
But Kael was already gone.
He danced around its charge, claws searching for weakness.
Then—he let go.
Killing intent.
It surged like a wave.
The boar froze mid-charge.
It sensed something ancient.
Something deadly.
It saw death.
And in that moment—Kael slashed its throat clean.
---
Silence.
Then a thud.
The beast collapsed.
Kael stood over it. Blood dripping from his claws.
Smiling.
---
Behind him, Rava and Grum stood frozen.
"…That pressure," Grum muttered. "It wasn't normal."
"It felt like…" Rava hesitated. "…a monster."
Kael turned, calming his expression.
"Guess I'm just getting stronger."
They exchanged glances—but said nothing.
His aunt arrived moments later.
Her eyes flicked from the corpse to him.
"You almost lost control."
Kael nodded.
"Yeah."
"But you didn't."
"…No."
She gave a slow, satisfied nod.
"Then you might survive this duel after all."
Later That Evening — The Warning Duel
Word of Kael's evolution spread fast.
Faster still…
was the rumor that Drevyn's lackey, Varn, had challenged him to a "test bout."
A coward's ploy.
A message, cloaked in insult.
Kael didn't hesitate.
They met in the sparring circle—
small crowd, but the tension was thick as pitch.
Varn grinned, all confidence and swagger.
A full-blooded warrior, bulkier than Kael.
Favored by the elders. Favored by Drevyn.
"I'll break your legs before the real duel," he sneered.
"Do the tribe a favor."
Kael didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
The duel began.
---
Varn charged—
predictable. Loud. Sloppy.
Kael didn't dodge.
He stepped into the attack.
A blur of motion.
One elbow cracked into Varn's throat.
A clawed foot swept behind his knee.
The next moment, Varn was airborne—
—and then slammed into the dirt with a sickening thud.
The crowd gasped.
But Kael wasn't finished.
He crouched low, claw at Varn's neck.
"Still want to break my legs?"
His voice was ice.
Varn didn't answer.
He couldn't.
He was unconscious.
---
Kael stood, calm and cold.
Not a drop of blood spilled.
Not a scratch on him.
Just silence.
Then murmurs.
Then fear.
That night, the village buzzed louder than ever.
Not just about the duel with Drevyn.
But about what had happened in the training circle.
Kael'thas, the outcast pup, had floored Varn—Drevyn's strongest lackey—in under ten seconds.
No system skill. No power flare. Just raw, terrifying precision.
Some said it was luck.
Others said it was a fluke.
But most… whispered the truth.
Kael'thas wasn't just evolving. He was dangerous.
Even the elders had gone quiet.
---
Kael sat near the fire with Rava and Grum. The stars above shimmered like distant eyes, but even the night air seemed to flinch away from him.
"Do you regret accepting the duel?" Grum asked softly.
Kael shook his head. "No. This isn't just about him anymore. It's about what I won't run from."
Rava didn't speak at first. Then, quietly:
"They're scared of you now."
He met her eyes. She wasn't accusing. Just… aware.
"Good," Kael said.
Grum gave a rare, lopsided grin. "Then make them remember why."
Kael nodded.
And in his chest, the killing intent purred like a waiting storm.
Tomorrow, Drevyn wouldn't face a pup.
He'd face a predator.
And the tribe would watch the first cut of something far greater.
Something reborn.
---
[Elsewhere – The Forbidden Hollow]
Drip.
A thick black droplet slid from a ceiling root, splattering onto the stone below with a wet hiss.
Drip. Drip.
The cavern walls pulsed. Breathing. Rotting. Alive.
Ragged chants echoed in the gloom, whispered in an ancient tongue that hadn't been spoken aloud in generations. Words twisted by blood and bile. Each syllable carried weight. Each breath fed something unnatural.
In the center of the hollow, a figure knelt—cloaked in furs stitched from skin that hadn't always been animal.
Bones circled him. Some carved with symbols. Others gnawed clean.
In his hands, he held a piece of Kael's fur. Dried blood still clung to the tuft.
He dropped it into the boiling stone bowl in front of him.
It screamed.
The shadows recoiled. Even the torchlight flickered, as if unwilling to witness what came next.
The figure's hands moved with ritualistic precision, dipping talons into the concoction. Flesh hissed. He didn't flinch.
Symbols flared to life across the chamber—crude, ancient, drawn in old gore and fresh sin.
A chittering noise echoed through the hollow, like laughter from something that had never been alive.
The elder's head twitched. Slowly. Reverently.
He reached down—into a crevice at his side—and pulled forth a tooth. Too large. Too human. Etched with runes.
He held it over the flame. Whispered.
> "The blood of the weak calls to the hunger of the old."
The fire turned black.
He placed the tooth beside a crude doll—made of bone, moss… and Kael's claw.
The hollow trembled. A thousand crawling things scurried back into the stone.
And then—
Silence.
The elder rose. Slowly. Cracking. Peeling. Smiling.
Tomorrow's duel would not be fair.
Not clean.
Not natural.
And it would not be Kael who left whole.
The fire crackled once—then died.