Chapter 7: The Hunter’s Awakening

-----Chapter 7: The Hunter's Awakening-----

The ruins were quiet. Too quiet.

Nyxen stood in the aftermath of his first true hunt, his breath steady, his body thrumming with the familiar sting of absorbing eldritch essence. It hurt—but not like before. Not enough to stop him.

His fingers curled, testing his grip. Stronger. Sharper. More… certain. Something inside him had shifted.

He turned his gaze downward. The eldritch's remains were nearly gone, dissolving into the Abyss like everything else. But—something stayed.

A thin shaft of bone, protruding from the ground.

Wrong. It shouldn't be here.

Nyxen knelt, brushing his fingers over its rough surface. It wasn't smooth like human bone. Grooved. Jagged. Like a weapon, shaped by something beyond understanding.

He gripped it and pulled. It came free effortlessly, as if it had been waiting for him. It was light, yet dense. Perfectly balanced. Not brittle. Not fragile. This was something meant to kill.

His grip tightened.

Then I'll use it.

Without hesitation, he disappeared into the ruins, his silhouette swallowed by the dark.

---

The ruins stretched endlessly—twisted remnants of a world long erased. There were no landmarks. No signs of life. Only the weight of the Abyss pressing in from all sides.

Yet, as Nyxen moved, he began to notice something.

The eldritch weren't aimless.

They moved in patterns.

At first, he thought it was a trick of his mind. But the more he studied, the clearer it became. They followed unseen routes. Paths. Like something was guiding them.

Too much time reacting. Too much time surviving. Now, he studied.

From the shadows of a crumbled tower, he watched.

A lone eldritch creature moved ahead. Its form flickered, unstable, but its path was deliberate. It wasn't hunting. It was heading somewhere.

Nyxen's fingers flexed around his new weapon. This time, he wouldn't run.

This time—he would hunt.

His body moved before his mind could second-guess.

A single, fluid motion.

His feet barely made a sound. His body stayed low. Muscles coiled like a spring.

The eldritch didn't notice.

It was a mistake.

Nyxen lunged. The bone blade flashed.

A clean slice.

The eldritch convulsed. It staggered forward, a wet, unnatural gurgle slipping from its shifting throat.

Then—it collapsed.

The world held its breath.

Nyxen exhaled. His stance remained steady, his grip firm.

This wasn't like before.

This wasn't desperation.

This was precision.

Without looking back, he walked away. The eldritch's body began to dissolve.

And, like before—the essence came.

It rose from the corpse, drawn to him, sinking into his skin.

The pain followed.

It tore through him, carving its way into his bones, his muscles, his very being.

But he did not break.

Not anymore.

Nyxen rolled his shoulders. His grip on the weapon felt stronger now.

His hunt had only just begun.

---

Time passed.

How long? Impossible to tell.

The sky never changed. No sun. No stars. Just the endless, suffocating dark.

But Nyxen changed.

---

A silent kill. A precise strike. A corpse dissolving into the void.

Nyxen's movements sharpened. His footwork refined. His blade no longer swung wildly—it cut with purpose.

This was no longer instinct.

This was growth.

Another cut—

Nyxen stood in the middle of a battlefield of his own making.

The disintegrating remains of countless eldritch surrounded him.

His breath was steady.

His stance was unshaken.

This was no longer survival.

This was domination.

---

Then—he saw it.

A group of eldritch.

Not many. Four, maybe five.

This was different. They weren't scattered. They moved together.

Nyxen crouched low, his grip steady. His body was stronger now. Faster. He could take them.

Then—he noticed one of them.

And his breath caught.

It was different.

Not like the others.

Its frame was… closer to his own.

Its limbs—long but structured.

Its stance—upright.

Not human. But damn close.

For the first time—Nyxen hesitated.

A mistake.

The eldritch turned.

They saw him.

No choice now.

He attacked.

---

The first one lunged.

Nyxen sidestepped, twisting around its attack. His blade flashed—a deep cut across its torso.

It screeched. He silenced it with a second strike—clean, effortless.

The others rushed him.

He moved between them. Faster. Smarter.

A clawed hand slashed toward him—he ducked, rolling under it.

Another charged—he pivoted, catching it in the ribs with his weapon.

One by one, they fell.

Nyxen stood among their fading bodies. The essence rose again.

Sank into him.

The pain followed—but he embraced it.

He was winning. He was learning.

Then—

A voice.

A voice that shouldn't exist.

"Sp—Spare me, outsider… spare me."

---

Nyxen froze.

His breath was slow, controlled. His grip steady.

But inside—his mind raced.

The last eldritch—the humanoid one—still stood.

Unlike the others, it hadn't lunged. Hadn't screeched in rage. Hadn't fought to its last breath.

It trembled.

Its elongated limbs, grotesque yet structured, shivered slightly. Like it was struggling to remain standing.

Its body flickered, shifting between solid and something else, just like the others—

But now that he was truly looking—

It was bracing itself.

Not for an attack.

For execution.

Then—

"Sp—Spare me, outsider… spare me."

The words were wrong.

Not just in meaning—in sound.

The voice was fragmented. Warped. Like something that had forgotten how to speak.

It didn't come from a mouth.

It came from somewhere deeper.

As if the creature had forced the words into existence.

Nyxen's grip tightened. His instincts screamed.

Kill it.

This was the Abyss. There was no mercy.

And yet—

This thing had begged for its life.

That was impossible.

The Abyss had shown him nothing but creatures of rage, hunger, and death. Every eldritch he had faced attacked relentlessly.

But this?

This wasn't hunger.

This was fear.

Nyxen studied the creature. Was it a trick? Some new survival instinct? A deception meant to lower his guard?

Yet—he saw something else in its stance.

It was waiting.

Waiting to be killed.

Nyxen exhaled. His chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate control.

His instincts had no answer.

For the first time since falling into the Abyss—

Nyxen wasn't sure if killing was the right answer.

And in that hesitation—

The world changed.