The prey

Night fell.

The poorest part of Orario lay in silence, wrapped in darkness.

The air was thick—not just with the stench of rot and filth, but with something deeper. Despair.

This was where the forgotten gathered. The discarded. The ones Orario refused to see.

The homeless lined the alleyways, curled up against crumbling walls, wrapped in whatever scraps of cloth they could find. Some shivered in the cold, others were too far gone to care. Some were missing limbs—former adventurers who had gambled with fate and lost. Some were just children, huddled together for warmth, their eyes hollow, resigned.

No one looked up. No one spoke.

It was perfect.

I looked no different from them.

A scrawny, broken thing. Naked except for rags that stunk of things I didn't care to name. My skin was smeared with filth—a mix of sweat, mud, and whatever else I rolled in to make myself unapproachable.

No longer seven feet tall. No longer covered in silver fur.

My orcish strength and a few other monster traits were suppressed. It wasn't true shapeshifting—just a reversion to my original constitution. It was tiring to change like this, but it was enough.

Even my face was different. Bald. Torn with fresh lacerations, as if someone carved into my skin with a dull knife.

A completely different person.

It was uncomfortable. The grime clung, the wounds stung. But it was necessary.

Because just a few hours ago, I popped a god's head like a grape.

--------

Hours passed one after another and I kept my body rigid, unmoving.

Even my breathing was gone.

I stilled my heart—something that should have been impossible for the living. But I was not just any living thing, was I?

Flies landed on my wounds, crawling across my skin, tasting the dried blood. Annoying, but I didn't move.

Not even when I saw them.

Figures, leaping from rooftop to rooftop in the distance.

Fast. Too fast.

I focused my vision, letting my eyes do what they were meant to. Even in the dark, I saw the details. The way their cloaks billowed, the flash of metal at their sides. Some moved so fast that I barely was able to track them.

But I heard them.

Through echolocation, I mapped their movements, the sound of their boots hitting stone forming a clear picture in my mind. Their scents carried through the night air—sweat, metal, leather, magic residue.

Level 4's, at the very least.

Hunting.

For me.

I resisted the urge to smile.

It would have been unwise to let even the smallest movement betray me.

So I waited.

And as I did, my mind drifted to the reason I endured all this. The filth, the wounds, the stillness.

The reason I killed them.

Bell. Hestia.

Their deaths were not the goal, merely the means.

Hestia didn't even need to die, but leaving her alive after killing Bell would have been an invitation for divine retribution. She wasn't the type of goddess to abide by the rules when it truly mattered.

Hell, I didn't even plan on killing them if I felt they were being protected from the shadows. If I sensed even the faintest trace of a guardian presence, I wouldn't have shown myself.

I only wanted to observe.

To see firsthand how a god interacted with a Falna.

But they were defenseless.

Like newborn chicks in front of a fox.

So I went against everything.

Against the plans of Zeus. Hermes. Ouranos.

Against whoever the hell Bell's previous incarnation was.

Against the so-called plot.

I made enemies of nearly everyone in the city within an hour of entering Orario.

I was being hunted by people who could kill me a hundred times over.

There were other choices. I could have played the good guy. I could have stayed hidden for longer.

But couldn't I do so now as well?

In the end, the result of my actions would be decided solely by my own competence.

And I didn't regret it one bit.

Because what I gained in return was simply worth it.

My position was precarious, dangerously so. If they found me, I would have to fight. And a fight, no matter how skilled, left traces.

But the rewards outweighed the risks.

---

[STATUS]

Name: ??????

Level: 2

Strength: 250 (G)

Endurance: 380 (F)

Dexterity: 290 (G)

Agility: 220 (G)

Magic: 430 (E)

Innate Skills: Fenrir's Hunger, Non Deorum Opus

Devoured: Liaris Freese

Liaris Freese -

"The more you wish for strength, the more it answers. The echo of a fervent heart, a skill born of yearning and fueled by emotion. Every powerful feeling—love, fear, resolve—becomes the forge in which a hero is made."

---

A hero, huh? 

We'll see about that...

The night air was thick, clinging to my skin, seeping into my bones. The distant murmur of the city, the rustle of rats in the garbage piles, the soft wheezing of the man beside me-everything faded into the background.

I closed my eyes.

The hunger was still there, burning deep inside like always.

A nameless, formless thing, whispering at the edges of my mind.

Stronger.

Faster.

More.

I ignored it.

For now.

Sleep came slowly, creeping in like a predator stalking its prey.

I let it take me.