Terror

The night remained still.

No lurking horrors, no sudden ambushes, no grotesque figures crawling out of the shadows to drag him into the abyss. Just the usual eerie silence of the wasteland, punctuated by the occasional distant screech of something dying—or something killing.

Dion remained tense long after dawn cracked over the horizon, his body wired for an attack that never came. Only when the first hints of golden light streaked across the ruined landscape did he let out a slow breath.

He had survived another night.

For now.

With the paranoia of survival drilled into his bones, Dion wasted no time packing his belongings. His supplies were dwindling, but if he rationed them carefully, they would last a few more days. He slung his bag over his shoulder, adjusting the straps before pulling out a folded, tattered map from his coat.

The map was old, its edges frayed, its ink smudged, but it was one of the few things that kept him alive. The hand-drawn lines traced a world that no longer existed—roads that had crumbled, landmarks that had long since fallen, and, most importantly, marked locations of Dread Spawn nests.

He had found it on a corpse once. Even in death, the man had the bearing of an Awakened—strong, capable, and yet still reduced to a rotting husk. That day, Dion hadn't lingered. He had snatched the map and fled because whatever had killed that man wouldn't think twice about doing the same to him.

And now, that very map was guiding him toward his next hunt.

His target was already circled in faint, faded ink—a nest deep within hostile territory.

Not close.

Not safe.

Not sane.

Dion studied the map, marking out potential dangers along his path. He had never ventured this deep before. The places he knew were dangerous enough—ruins filled with the remnants of humanity's downfall, places where even Awakened treaded carefully. But he wasn't Awakened. He was just a Hollowborn, a nobody scraping by in a world that wanted him dead.

The closer he was to RidgeFort, the fewer Dread Spawn he'd have to deal with—at least, in theory. The weaker ones dominated the outskirts, but that didn't mean stronger ones never roamed. Even near the city's influence, something powerful could still be lurking.

And Dion was heading straight toward it.

After finishing a quick breakfast—stale dried meat and hard bread that barely registered as food—he secured his pack and stood with a quiet sigh. Stepping toward the ruined exit of his shelter, he gripped the handle of his sword and carefully peered outside.

Clear.

He moved.

Dion traveled swiftly but cautiously, his movements silent and deliberate. He had learned long ago that noise was a death sentence in these lands. Every step was measured, his ears attuned to the unnatural quiet that pressed against the wasteland like a heavy fog.

For the most part, he avoided confrontation. Grimlings were common, scuttling around in packs, but they were easy enough to evade. He stuck to the shadows, weaving between collapsed buildings and broken roads, using the terrain to his advantage.

Hours passed. The sun crawled across the sky, casting long shadows over the ruined landscape.

And then—

Something was wrong.

But when was anything ever right? Since the shockwave, wrongness had become the world's default state.

Still, this was different.

The air was thick.

Not in the way of humidity or heat, but in something else—something unseen, something that pressed against his lungs and made his skin prickle. A whisper of warning coiled down his spine, a primal sense honed by years of survival.

Dion slowed his steps, eyes narrowing as he approached the ruined structure ahead. It was supposed to be empty—a shelter he had scouted long ago, a place where he could afford to rest without too much risk.

Except he didn't think it was empty anymore.

His pulse quickened. He crouched low, positioning himself behind the jagged remains of a crumbled wall. His gaze adjusted to the dimness, scanning the interior of the structure.

A silhouette.

Vague, half-shrouded in darkness.

He couldn't make out its full form yet, but he could feel it. A presence. A wrongness that settled deep in his bones.

Dion's mind worked fast. He needed to know what it was before deciding his next move.

If it was a Grimling, he could kill it. A lone Grimling holed up in a cave was nothing more than a waiting corpse. Even for him.

But if it was something else...

He pushed that thought aside.

Carefully, he shifted his position to get a better view—

And then its eyes locked onto his.

Dion's breath hitched.

For a split second, he froze.

Not because of its appearance. He hadn't even seen its full form yet. It was because of what lurked inside those eyes.

A glint of intelligence.

A dark, hungry knowing.

This wasn't just another mindless abomination.

Something deep inside him recoiled, an instinct older than thought screaming at him to move, to run, to do anything but stand there like a fool.

His muscles locked. His lungs seized.

Terror sank its claws into his chest.

Not the kind that made your heart pound. The kind that crushed it.

He had only felt this once before in his life.

The first time he encountered a Harrow.

And now—

He was facing one again.