The forest beyond the village was older than memory. Trees rose like blackened spears, their roots twisted into the shapes of dying men. The moon hung low, pale and sickly, casting light that seemed more like a wound than a blessing.
Marcus walked alone beneath it, the black metal piece still pulsing faintly in his hand. He no longer felt its weight as foreign—it was a part of him now, a second heartbeat echoing beneath his skin. The scent of ash still clung to him from the last battle, and his shoulder ached where the beast's claws had torn through flesh. But deeper than pain was something else—something stirring.
He could hear it now. The whispers. They followed him wherever he went. Voices from the dark, neither human nor divine. Sometimes they spoke words he understood; other times they muttered in tongues lost to time.
"Blood answers to blood."
"The seed awakens."
"He is not yet man… and not yet monster."
Marcus clenched his teeth and walked faster, as if he could outpace his own destiny. The forest thickened, and the path vanished beneath his feet. Then, through the fog, he saw light—a faint orange glow flickering between the trees.
He approached slowly. It was a campfire, half-burned out, surrounded by the remains of carriages and shattered weapons. Blood stained the ground in wide arcs. The air was thick with the stench of rot and something worse—fear.
Bodies lay scattered across the clearing. Men, soldiers perhaps, their armor bearing the crest of the Royal Guard.
Marcus froze.
Arnold…
For a heartbeat, he imagined his brother among them. He dropped to his knees, searching the faces. None were Arnold's, but the sight was no relief. Each corpse was mutilated—clawed open, throats torn out, eyes missing.
He whispered to himself:
Marcus: "What… what did this?"
The answer came in the form of a low growl.
From the treeline emerged not one, but three beasts—each larger than the one he had faced before. Their bodies shimmered with an oily darkness, their flesh torn between forms, like nightmares caught mid-transformation. One crawled on all fours, its back arched and bones cracking as it moved; another stood upright, its jaw unhinged in a grotesque grin.
Marcus's breath came sharp and shallow. His body screamed to run, but the black piece burned like fire against his palm.
It was calling him.
The beasts began to circle, their eyes glowing red in the smoke. Marcus tightened his grip on a fallen sword beside one of the corpses. It was heavy—too heavy—but he raised it anyway.
The first monster leapt. Marcus dodged, swinging wildly, the blade grazing the creature's side. Black blood sprayed across his arm, burning like acid. He gritted his teeth and pressed forward.
The second beast struck from behind, claws raking his back. He fell to one knee, gasping. The forest spun. And in that moment—when death seemed certain—he heard the voice again.
"Do not fear them. Fear yourself."
The world blurred. His vision bled into red and shadow. Every heartbeat roared in his ears like thunder. The sword in his hand melted away—no, it didn't melt. It fused, twisted, reformed into something new. A blade black as obsidian, pulsing with veins of crimson light.
Marcus rose slowly, the firelight reflecting in his eyes—no longer brown, but glowing faintly gold.
The beasts hesitated. For the first time, they looked uncertain.
Marcus: "You wanted blood…"
He raised the blade.
Marcus: "…Then come and take it."
They attacked together.
The clearing erupted in violence. Steel met claw, fire met flesh. The sound of tearing, screaming, and shattering filled the air. Marcus moved with a speed he didn't recognize—each motion guided not by thought, but by instinct. His strikes were brutal, inhumanly precise.
The first beast fell, its head severed cleanly. The second lunged; Marcus turned, cutting deep through its chest. Black ichor splashed across his face. The third screamed and charged, knocking him to the ground. Its claws pinned his shoulders, teeth bared inches from his throat.
He struggled, veins burning with a power that wasn't his own. His vision darkened. The whisper came again, closer now, almost inside his head.
"Let it in. Let it breathe through you."
Marcus's eyes flared gold, then red. He roared—a sound that shook the trees. His arm shot upward, driving the black blade through the creature's jaw and out the top of its skull. The beast convulsed, then collapsed, twitching before falling still.
For a long moment, only silence remained. The forest held its breath.
Marcus pushed the corpse off him and stood, swaying. His chest heaved. His hands trembled. The blade dissolved into black mist and sank back into the metal piece in his palm.
He looked down at his reflection in the puddle of blood. His face was pale, eyes bright with something unholy. For a heartbeat, the reflection shifted—and he saw it again: himself, drenched in blood, seated atop corpses, smiling.
Marcus staggered back.
Marcus: "No… no, I won't become that… I won't!"
But deep inside, something laughed.
A faint echo rose from the distance—the toll of a bell, low and distant, the same sound from his first nightmare. It rolled through the forest like a warning.
Then a voice—gentle, calm, and terrifyingly familiar—spoke behind him.
Voice: "You're awake, brother."
Marcus froze. Slowly, he turned.
Arnold stood there, clad in the armor of the Royal Guard. His eyes glowed faintly—not gold, not red, but a cold, unnatural silver.
Arnold smiled, though there was no warmth in it.
Arnold: "Welcome to the hunt."
Marcus's grip tightened on the black metal piece, its pulse quickening to match his heart.
The world seemed to tilt again—the forest fading, the moon spinning, reality bending as the upside-down castle flickered faintly above the horizon.
Fate had drawn its line. Blood had answered blood.
And Marcus—whether he willed it or not—had taken his first step toward becoming the Lord of Monster.
—To be continued.