Erel's sword finally connected with something vital in the prowler's anatomy, his blade punching through what might have been its chest cavity. Dark fluid sprayed across the corrupted concrete, and the creature let out a sound that was part growl, part scream, and entirely unnatural. Its red eyes stayed locked on him even as it collapsed, lips pulling back to reveal teeth that belonged in a shark's mouth rather than any terrestrial predator.
He pulled his blade free, and the prowler finally went still. These things didn't die easily, but they did die.
The moment the creature's death-scream echoed through the corridors, Erel knew he was in trouble. His tattoo blazed with fresh warnings as his Eternal Survivor ability picked up the sound of answering calls from deeper in the stadium, howls of a pack that had just lost one of their own.
Shit.
The sounds that followed made his skin crawl. Snarls and growls echoed from multiple directions, punctuated by the scrape of claws on concrete and the wet sound of something large moving through spaces that were too small for it.
Erel shifted his Adaptive Ouroboros, the scale patterns flowing from his sword arm to his legs as he prepared to move. The sounds were getting closer, and they weren't coming from just one direction. The prowlers were spreading out, following instincts honed by whatever nightmare had spawned them.
He started moving toward what he hoped was a more defensible position, but the sounds were multiplying around him. Growls from ahead, the scratch of claws from behind, and something that sounded like heavy breathing from the walls themselves. The pack was closing in, driven by a hunger that made them bold and a rage that made them reckless.
The first pair appeared at the far end of the corridor, and Erel immediately understood why people used to tell stories about wolves in the dark. These things moved like apex predators, low to the ground, muscles coiled for explosive action, eyes never leaving their target. But there was something wrong with their proportions, as if someone had tried to recreate a wolf from a half-remembered nightmare.
Their heads were too large, their limbs too long, and when they opened their mouths, the sounds that emerged belonged to no earthly creature. One of them pawed at the ground, leaving gouges in the concrete, while the other threw back its head and howled, a sound that made every instinct Erel possessed scream at him to run.
But he couldn't run, because more growling was coming from behind him. When he glanced back, he saw another pair of prowlers padding down the corridor, their movements perfectly synchronized in the way that only pack hunters could achieve. They weren't rushing; they knew he was trapped, and they were taking their time to position themselves properly.
Above him, something heavy scraped across metal, and plaster dust rained down. At least one more was moving through the ceiling space, probably looking for the perfect moment to drop onto his position.
Five, maybe six. All hungry, all pissed off, and all thinking I smell like dinner.
Erel activated his Cycle of Rebirth, seeking insight into the immediate tactical situation. The vision hit him with brutal clarity—he saw himself trying to fight through the prowlers behind him, his sword work clean and efficient against the first one. But the moment he engaged, the pair in front would charge, and the ceiling would explode open as another creature dropped directly onto his back. He watched himself go down under the weight of teeth and claws, his screams mixing with their feeding growls until everything went black.
The vision snapped back to the present, leaving him with the metallic taste of fear and absolute certainty about what would happen if he tried to fight his way out conventionally.
God dammit. Can't go through them. Need to change the playing field entirely.
Instead of engaging the prowlers, Erel did something they weren't expecting—he attacked the environment itself. His sword, still enhanced by his Adaptive Ouroboros, punched through the corroded wall beside him. The blade met resistance, but the corruption had weakened the stadium's structure in ways that normal assessment would have missed. Rebar snapped, concrete crumbled, and suddenly he had an opening.
The prowlers' advance faltered as their prey disappeared through an improvised hole. He heard frustrated snarls and the sound of claws scrambling against stone as they tried to follow, but the opening was too small for their enlarged frames.
Erel found himself in what had once been a maintenance corridor, though the corruption had transformed it into something organic and unsettling. The walls pulse with veins of that black substance, and patches of bioluminescent growth provided just enough light to see by. The air was thick and humid, like breathing inside something's mouth.
But it was also a better tactical position. The corridor was narrow enough that the prowlers couldn't surround him, and the uncertain lighting would work in his favor.
The first prowler came through the breach like a cannonball, chunks of concrete still falling from its shoulders. It hit the ground running, red eyes fixed on him with the single-minded focus of a predator that had found its prey. Its lips were pulled back in a permanent snarl, and when it opened its mouth, strings of saliva connected its oversized fangs.
The thing was big, bigger than he'd realized when observing from a distance. Standing upright, it would probably reach his chest, but it moved on all fours with the fluid grace of something born to hunt. Its claws left gouges in the organic floor with each step, and its breath came in huffing pants that sounded almost eager.
It attacked the moment it had enough room to maneuver, launching itself through the air with enough force to drive them both to the ground if it connected. But Erel was ready for it. He pivoted hard left, letting the prowler's momentum carry it past him while his sword found the gap between its ribs.
The blade slid home with a wet resistance that was nothing like cutting through armor or even flesh. It felt more like stabbing into something that was half-liquid, half-muscle. The prowler screamed—not a howl this time, but a sound of pure rage and pain.
But even with steel buried in what should have been vital organs, the creature twisted with impossible flexibility. Its spine bent in ways that would have crippled any normal animal as it brought its claws around in a swipe aimed at his throat.
Erel's Adaptive Ouroboros flowed across his chest just in time, the scale patterns deflecting claws that would have opened his jugular. Sparks flew where razor-sharp talons met his tattoo, and he felt the impact like hammer blows against his ribs.
The prowler didn't pause to assess the damage; it just kept attacking with the relentless hunger of something that had never known defeat. Its claws came from multiple angles, each swipe followed immediately by another, forcing Erel into a defensive pattern that left him no room to counterattack.
But he could see what the creature couldn't; it was burning through energy at an unsustainable rate. Foam was gathering at the corners of its mouth, and its breathing was becoming labored. Whatever supernatural endurance it possessed had limits.
Erel weathered the storm of claws, letting his armor absorb damage while he waited for the prowler to overextend. When it finally happened—a wild swipe that left its flank exposed—his sword found its heart. The creature collapsed mid-attack, its legs giving out as whatever force animated it finally failed.
Dark blood pooled around the dissolving corpse, steaming slightly in the humid air. But Erel could already hear movement through the walls—the other prowlers were finding alternate routes, using their knowledge of the corrupted building to flank his position.
The sound came from above first—claws scraping against metal as something large forced its way through the ceiling panels. Then the panel gave way, and the second prowler dropped into the corridor with enough force to crack the organic floor.
When it attacked, every movement was deliberate and controlled. Its claws targeted specific points—the gaps in his armor, the angles where his sword couldn't effectively parry. Erel found himself being systematically dismantled by an opponent that seemed to understand his capabilities better than he did.
His Adaptive Ouroboros flowed frantically across his body, the scale patterns shifting to reinforce whatever the prowler was targeting. But the creature adapted its approach each time, finding new vulnerabilities as quickly as he could address the old ones.
Instead of trying to match the prowler's tactical thinking, Erel decided to do something unpredictable. He deliberately overextended on a thrust, leaving his left side apparently vulnerable to a devastating counterattack.
The prowler's eyes lit up with predatory satisfaction as it saw the opening. It launched itself at his exposed flank with the same eager hunger that had driven the first one.
But Erel had activated his Cycle of Rebirth for the second time, burning more of his precious flux reserves to see exactly how this would play out. The death-vision showed him the prowler's claws punching through the gap in his armor, tearing through muscle and bone to reach his lung. He would have maybe twenty seconds before blood loss claimed him.
The vision also showed him the creature's exact positioning during the attack—its weight distribution, the angle of approach, the moment when it would be completely committed to the strike. Armed with that knowledge, he could turn the prowler's intelligence against it.
Erel shifted at the last possible second, his enhanced speed carrying him just out of the creature's reach while his sword found the soft tissue beneath its jaw. The prowler's momentum did the rest, driving the blade deep into its throat as its own attack carried it past his position.
It hit the ground hard, dark blood fountaining from the wound as it thrashed in its death throes. The sounds it made were heartbreaking—not the roars of a monster, but the whimpers of a dying animal. For a moment, Erel almost felt sorry for it.
Then he heard more growling from the corridor ahead, and the feeling passed.
The remaining prowlers had learned from their packmates' deaths. When they came, they came together—not with tactical coordination, but with the instinctive unity of wolves bringing down large prey. Three of them emerged from different access points simultaneously, surrounding him in the narrow corridor.
These were the survivors, the ones who had been cautious enough to wait while their packmates tested his defenses. They moved with the patience of experienced hunters, content to circle and probe for weaknesses rather than rushing to their deaths.
Erel's flux reserves were running low from the double use of his Cycle of Rebirth. Whatever happened next, he'd have to handle it without the benefit of death-visions.
The prowlers began their attack with coordinated feints, each one testing a different aspect of his defenses. When he turned to face one, another would dart in from his blind spot, forcing him to constantly shift position. They weren't trying to kill him quickly—they were wearing him down, letting exhaustion and blood loss do most of the work for them.
His Adaptive Ouroboros shifted to maximum defensive configuration, but even that had limits. The prowlers' claws found gaps between the scales, leaving burning tracks across his arms and legs. Each wound was shallow but painful, designed to slow him down rather than kill outright.
They're hunting me like they would hunt a deer. Hamstring the prey, let it tire itself out, then move in for the kill.
But Erel had advantages the prowlers didn't expect. His training with Lyra had included scenarios exactly like this—multiple opponents with superior numbers trying to wear him down through attrition. The key was to disrupt their coordination without trying to match their individual capabilities.
His sword work became deliberately chaotic, abandoning the clean techniques he'd been taught in favor of wild, unpredictable movements. Instead of trying to defend against their coordinated attacks, he introduced randomness into the engagement.
The effect was immediate. The prowlers' pack instincts were designed for hunting normal prey that followed predictable patterns. When faced with someone who deliberately acted irrationally, their coordination began to break down.
One prowler hesitated when he should have attacked, confused by a sword movement that served no tactical purpose. Another overextended when his erratic footwork created an opening that shouldn't have existed. Within seconds, their careful pack tactics had devolved into a confused melee.
Erel exploited the confusion ruthlessly. His blade found the first prowler's spine while it was still trying to figure out why he'd suddenly started fighting like a madman. The second fell when its packmate's thrashing knocked it off balance at exactly the wrong moment.
The final prowler, now alone and facing an opponent who had just killed two of its packmates, did something that surprised him—it backed down. The creature's aggressive posture shifted to something more defensive as it realized it was outmatched. For a moment, they stared at each other across the blood-soaked corridor.
Then the prowler's survival instincts overrode its pack loyalty, and it turned to flee.
Erel couldn't let it escape. His sword caught the fleeing creature between the shoulder blades, dropping it before it could reach the nearest exit.
The corridor fell silent except for the sound of his own labored breathing and the organic pulse of the corrupted walls. Dark blood pooled around six dissolving corpses, steaming in the humid air. But through the floor, he could feel vibrations that suggested something much larger was moving in the depths below.
His flux reserves were seriously depleted from the double use of his Cycle of Rebirth, and he was bleeding from a dozen minor wounds. But he was alive, and the immediate threat had been neutralized. The training with Lyra had paid off—he'd faced a coordinated pack attack and survived.
More importantly, the path ahead was clear. Time to find the source of this corruption and end it before more prowlers could be spawned.
Erel began moving deeper into the stadium's transformed infrastructure, following the increasing intensity of wrongness toward whatever lay at the heart of this nightmare. Behind him, the dissolved remains of six prowlers left dark stains that would probably never wash clean from the organic surfaces.
The hunt was far from over, but the first phase was complete. Six predators down, and Erel was still breathing. Not bad for a night that had started with him having serious doubts about his own survival chances.