Predator

On a seemingly ordinary day, while Elyn was deep in his experiments—conducting intricate tests on his controlled insects and further refining his map of the forest—an unexpected disturbance caught his attention. His sharpened senses detected a commotion in the distance, faint but unmistakable. 

Without hesitation, he moved. 

Scaling a towering tree in a fluid motion, he perched himself on a sturdy branch, his eyes narrowing as he activated his helmet's enhanced vision. A cascade of data flooded his sight—heat signatures, movement trails, and mana fluctuations painted a vivid picture of what lay ahead. 

Roughly two miles to the east, a group of men moved through the dense foliage. Their numbers ranged between ten to twenty, and from their mana readings, one among them stood out—a mid-tier Adept. The rest? initiates. 

Nothing too threatening. But numbers had their own weight in battle. 

Elyn remained still, observing. The men weren't just passing through. They were gathered in a loose formation, circling around something—no, someone. 

His gaze sharpened as he adjusted his helmet's filters, refining the image. 

Two figures lay crumpled on the ground, their small frames trembling under the assault of relentless kicks and strikes. 

"Kids?" Elyn murmured, tilting his head slightly. 

The scene was almost amusing in its predictability. A band of weaklings finding satisfaction in overpowering those even weaker than them. Classic. 

With a mere thought, a swarm of his controlled flies detached from the surrounding foliage, moving unnoticed through the forest. Their tiny forms weaved through branches and undergrowth, closing in on the group like whispers in the wind. 

Reconnaissance first.

Elyn remained still, watching, waiting. Whatever was happening, he would know soon enough.

As the swarm of small insects neared the group, feeding him a clearer picture through their shared vision, Elyn quickly pieced together the situation. 

Nineteen of them were nothing more than common bandits—filthy, unorganized, and barely worth his attention. But one among them stood apart. A professional. His stance, the way he held himself, and most importantly, the controlled flow of mana within him—this was no ordinary thug. A mid-tier Adept. Someone who had seen real battles. 

Interesting. 

But what caught Elyn's attention the most weren't the men. It was their victims. 

Two small figures, curled up on the dirt beneath the relentless assault. Their torn, bloodied clothes barely concealed their lean, malnourished frames. Silver-white hair, dark ashen skin, long pointed ears— 

Dark Elves. 

His crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable. 

A rare sight. And an even rarer prey. 

To the vampire race, Dark Elves weren't just a delicacy—they were a treasure trove of power. 

Their blood held unique mana properties, acting as a potent enhancer for those who consumed it. The rich essence within could refine one's magical circuits, making spellcasting smoother, stronger, and more efficient. Some even believed it could awaken latent talents, a myth that had led to the near-extinction of almost all Dark Elf bloodlines in the past. 

Their flesh, on the other hand, was like an elixir for physical strengthening. Consuming even a small portion was said to reinforce the body, enhancing endurance, muscle density, and recovery rates beyond normal limitations. 

A perfect meal. 

Elyn tapped his fingers against the hilt of his weapon, his gaze never leaving the scene. 

"No wonder they're being so careful," he muttered. "Selling these two could set them up for life." 

The professional among them seemed to be overseeing the process, the bandits did the dirty work. A few of them laughed as they landed heavy blows, ensuring their victims remained weak and unable to resist. 

Elyn let out a slow exhale, leaning back against the tree trunk, arms crossed as he observed. 

"So that's what this is about…" he muttered under his breath. 

For a moment, he simply watched. Weighing his options. 

...

The male Dark Elf hung limply in the professional's grip, his battered body barely holding together. Blood streamed down his face, mixing with the dirt beneath him. His arms—both twisted into unnatural angles—twitched feebly, but he had long since lost the strength to resist. Below his waist, his legs dangled uselessly, as if the life had already been drained from them. 

The female, unconscious, lay motionless on the ground, her breathing shallow. 

Elyn remained perched on the treetop, observing every detail with cold, calculating eyes. His enhanced vision fed him every necessary reading—vital signs, mana fluctuations, heat signatures. The girl's pulse was weak, dangerously so. The boy's? Faint, on the verge of fading entirely. 

"Enough fun. We need them alive," the leader of bandits said. "They won't be worth shit if they're broken beyond use." 

A few of the bandits scoffed but obeyed, stepping back with bloodied fists, some shaking out their bruised knuckles. One spat to the side. 

"Tch. Who cares? They just need to last long enough to sell." 

Another chuckled darkly. "Doesn't matter if they're half-dead. Vampires don't mind their food a little tenderized." 

Elyn narrowed his eyes as the professional's lips curled into a smirk. There was something off about him—his posture too relaxed, his amusement far too controlled. 

Then, with slow deliberation, the man lowered the barely-breathing Dark Elf to the ground. He patted the boy's bloodied cheek mockingly, before straightening and stretching his shoulders. 

"That should be enough," he muttered, almost to himself. 

The bandits exchanged glances. 

"Enough for wha—" 

They never got to finish. 

In a single motion, the professional moved. 

A flash of steel. A blur of movement. 

Then silence. 

Elyn watched with cold amusement as the bandits' bodies dropped, one by one. No resistance. No warning. 

The leader had his throat slit before he even reached for his weapon. The second barely managed a gasp before his skull was caved in. The third tried to run—only to find a dagger buried deep into the back of his neck. 

Nineteen men, reduced to corpses in seconds. 

Blood painted the clearing, steam rising from the warmth of freshly spilled life. 

The professional exhaled, shaking the blood from his blade, and then—he smiled. 

It was a slow, creeping thing, twisted at the edges with something almost… delighted. 

"Much better," he murmured. His gaze drifted down to the battered children, his expression unreadable. "Now then…?" 

Elyn, still perched atop the tree, tilted his head slightly. 

A sharp, agonizing pressure crushed down on the boy's chest, forcing him awake. His eyes fluttered open, but before he could even register where he was, a boot slammed against his face.

A sickening crack echoed through the silent forest. Blood splattered against the dirt as the weight twisted cruelly, grinding his battered skin into the cold earth. The scent of iron filled the air.

A slow, mocking chuckle followed.

Above him, a figure loomed—a shadowy specter of cruelty wrapped in flesh. The man crouched, gripping the boy's jaw, tilting his head up, forcing him to meet those wretched eyes.

Eyes brimming with something utterly vile.

"They all got caught," the man whispered, his voice low, almost amused. "Every last one of them."

His grip tightened, fingers pressing into the boy's bruised skin.

"The ones who resisted?" His smile widened, teeth gleaming under the dim forest light. "They were killed. Like dogs."

The boy's breathing hitched, his body trembling despite his best efforts.

"But you two…" The man clicked his tongue, shaking his head as if genuinely impressed. "You made it this far. Tell me, how did you manage to crawl so deep into these woods without getting torn apart?"

The boy barely had time to react before another brutal kick slammed into his gut. His ribs cracked audibly. He wheezed, his body convulsing, yet he could do nothing—nothing but endure.

The man crouched lower, leaning in, his breath hot against the boy's ear.

"They told me to bring you back alive," he murmured, his tone almost gentle. "But now, when I return, I'll tell them…you both were eaten."

His voice turned almost theatrical, dripping with mock sympathy.

"Wolves, bears… the forest is a cruel place. Nothing left behind, not even a single bone to tell your story."

The boy's broken fingers twitched. He wanted to scream, to fight, to run—but his body had long since given up on him.

"And of course," the man continued, "they were kind enough to send me nineteen disposable little helpers." He gestured lazily to the scattered corpses littering the ground around them. Blood pooled beneath the lifeless bodies, dark and thick.

"They were just meat shields. Cannon fodder," he sighed. "And so, I disposed of them."

Then—he said something that made even Elyn's blood run cold.

"It's been years," the man rasped, his tone darkening, thick with something twisted. "Years since I've felt any real pleasure."

"They use me like a dog. A slave. But here…" His eyes gleamed, a sick hunger overtaking them. "Here, I can finally enjoy myself."

His gaze slid toward the unconscious girl, his lips parting in a slow, shuddering exhale.

The boy stiffened, dread crawling up his spine.

The Professional double-checked his surroundings, his instincts sharpened by years of survival. He activated his artifact—a Grade 4 defense and detection artifact, which could defend and detect upto high tier common beasts.

Nothing.

No movement. No mana fluctuations. No eyes watching.

Perfect.

With one swift movement, he pinned the boy to a nearby tree—impaling him through both arms using his new swords.

The boy let out a soundless scream, his vocal cords long since torn from abuse. Blood dripped down the blade, soaking the bark in crimson.

But that wasn't enough.

No.

The man leaned in, whispering mockingly, "I want you to watch, little elf."

Then, with precise cruelty, he pulled out thin, enchanted needles. And drove them through the boy's eyelids.

The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt before.

The elf's body convulsed violently, his face twisting in sheer agony—but he couldn't shut his eyes. His lashes were pinned open.

He was forced to watch.

To witness.

To break.

Tears of blood streaked down the Dark Elf's face as his screams died before they could even escape his throat. He could do nothing.

The man stepped back, admiring his work, ensuring that the elf couldn't look away.

His grin stretched, his tongue darting out, licking his cracked lips as his eyes darkened with depravity.

The man then crouched down beside the girl, dragging his fingers across her unconscious form, savoring the moment. His filthy hands lingered, trembling with anticipation.

He unfastened his belt.

He lowered his head, inhaling deeply, lost in his hunger.

His twisted, revolting hunger.