Chapter 26 - Whispers

As the night deepened, Max found himself seated with a group of younger adventurers in the village tavern. They were eager and naive, their enthusiasm untempered by the harsh realities of the world. Max, ever the opportunist, spun a tale of being an orphan traveling between villages, doing odd jobs to survive.

"Sounds rough," said one of them, a boy with sandy hair and a crooked smile. "You ever think about joining a guild? They take care of their own."

"Maybe," Max replied with a shrug. "But I'm not much of a team player."

The group laughed, one of them clapping Max on the shoulder. "You've got the look of someone who can handle themselves," he said.

Max smiled faintly, but his mind was elsewhere. The adventurers' stories painted a picture of a world on the brink of chaos. Whispers of border raids, mysterious beasts, and increasing unrest reached his ears. The Crimson Wraith was mentioned again, the stories growing more outlandish with each retelling. Max felt equal parts amused and unnerved. 

Later that night, Max returned to the stables where he slept, his thoughts swirling. The hunger inside him burned brighter than ever, but so did his determination. He was no longer content to survive; he wanted control—over his power, his future, and the world that had tried to break him.

'I need to be ready,' he thought, staring at the wooden beams above him. 'The forest isn't the only threat. People are starting to notice me. That's both a risk and an opportunity.'

...

A week later, the guards stationed in the village began their patrols in the forest. Max observed them from the shadows, noting their routines and patterns. The scarred guard from the caravan led most of the patrols, his sharp gaze scanning the trees. Max kept his distance, knowing direct confrontation would draw too much attention. Yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that the guard's watchful eyes were always searching for something—or someone.

One evening, Max ventured deeper into the woods, his senses heightened. He moved silently, the huntsman knife at his side a constant reassurance. The forest felt alive with tension, as if it too was aware of the growing unease.

That's when he stumbled upon the scene. A patrol of three guards had fallen victim to something in the woods. Their bodies lay sprawled on the forest floor, their armor torn and bloodied. Max crouched beside one of the corpses, his crimson eyes narrowing as he inspected the wounds.

"Not my work," he muttered. The cuts were jagged, more like the marks of claws than a blade. "So what did this?"

The scent of blood was strong, but there was something else—a foul, acrid smell that made Max's nose wrinkle. He followed the scent, his movements slow and deliberate. A rustling in the bushes ahead made him freeze. Max melted into the shadows, his senses on high alert.

A moment later, a massive creature emerged from the undergrowth. Its fur was matted with blood, its eyes glowing with unnatural light. Max recognized it instantly—a corrupted direwolf, far more dangerous than the one he had faced before. The beast's presence was oppressive, its aura thick with malevolence.

Max smirked, drawing his knife. "Looks like I've got some competition."

The battle was ferocious. The wolf lunged at Max with terrifying speed, its claws raking the air. Max dodged, his movements precise and calculated. He countered with swift strikes, his knife finding its mark again and again. The creature's snarls echoed through the forest, a sound that sent smaller animals scattering.

Despite his skill, Max found himself pushed to his limits. The wolf's strength and agility were unmatched, its strikes relentless. But Max's resolve burned brighter. He used every ounce of his speed and cunning, finally driving the knife deep into the creature's throat. The wolf collapsed with a final, gurgling growl, its massive body hitting the ground.

Breathing heavily, Max knelt beside the beast and fed. The corrupted blood sent a surge of power through him, its intensity almost overwhelming. His senses sharpened, and the dull ache of his previous injuries faded entirely. Yet, the taste was bitter, tainted by whatever force had twisted the wolf.

As he stood, wiping his mouth, Max's thoughts turned inward. 'Ordinary blood's not cutting it anymore,' he realized. The hunger burned brighter, a constant reminder of his growing power—and the dangers that came with it. This blood had given him strength, but it also left an unsettling residue, like a shadow lingering in his mind.

...

The next morning, Max returned to the village, his clothes freshly cleaned but his thoughts heavy. The tavern was alive with chatter as news of the fallen patrol spread. Max slipped into a corner, listening intently.

"It was the Crimson Wraith again," an adventurer whispered. "No beast leaves wounds like that."

"Could be something worse," another replied. "A corrupted creature, maybe. They've been sighted more often these days."

Max sipped his drink, suppressing a smirk. The rumors about the Crimson Wraith were spiraling out of control, and he wasn't inclined to stop them. Fear was a powerful tool, and he intended to use it.

As the day turned to evening, Max found himself approached by the auburn-haired adventurer he had met before. She leaned against the bar, her green eyes studying him closely.

"You're good at staying out of sight," she said. "Too good. Makes me wonder what you're hiding boy."

Max met her gaze evenly. "Maybe I just value my privacy."

She chuckled, but her expression remained serious. "Keep it that way. The forest's stirring, and things are only going to get worse. If you're smart, you'll get out while you can."

Max watched her leave, his gaze lingering on the sway of her hips as she moved through the fading light of the village square. For a fleeting moment, he forgot about the world's dangers, captivated by the way her figure moved with an unconscious confidence. Her leather armor hugged her form, accentuating curves that seemed at odds with the sharp, no-nonsense tone she'd spoken with moments earlier. His crimson eyes narrowed, taking in every detail as his lips curled into a faint smirk.

'This body,' Max thought bitterly, glancing down at his own slight, youthful frame. 'It's a cage. Weak. Pathetic. And then there's her… so annoyingly, effortlessly grown.' A pang of frustration flared within him. The disparity between his mind—ancient and cunning—and his undeveloped shell gnawed at him more in moments like this than any thirst for blood.

He forced his gaze away, clenching his fists to quell the simmering irritation. 'Focus, Max,' he told himself. 'She's just another piece on the board.' But even as he turned toward the forest, his mind betrayed him, replaying the scene in sharp detail. He let out a low, almost annoyed chuckle.

"This damn body," he muttered, raking a hand through his white hair. "How am I supposed to play the part of a predator when I look like prey right now?"

The fleeting distraction did little to temper his drive. The forest, the village, and the unseen forces tightening their grip on the region were still pressing concerns. But the moment had struck a chord in him, a stark reminder of the gulf between who he was and the shell he inhabited. With a shake of his head, Max dismissed the lingering frustration, his resolve hardening.

"Still," he murmured, glancing over his shoulder toward the now-empty path, "not a bad view for a distraction."

....

As the sun set and the shadows deepened, Max stood at the edge of the forest, his crimson eyes scanning the horizon. The hunger inside him was a constant reminder of what he had become. But it was also a source of power, one he intended to wield to its fullest.

"This is only the beginning," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips. The world was closing in, but Max was ready. Let them come. He would face them all—and he would win.