Chapter 11: Ashwalker
The sizzle of searing meat filled the air — a steady hiss like rain on distant stone.
Kaelren stood barefoot in the kitchen of his new home, bathed in morning light that filtered through arched windows of dark glass. The walls around him were gothic stone and reinforced steel, carved with Bloodfang craftsmanship — sharp-edged, brutal, yet elegant in a way that hinted at pride.
And yet, the space felt… quiet. Not like the silence of death he'd grown used to, but the kind that invited reflection. A silence that let things settle.
A thick cut of red-fleshed beast meat crackled in the pan — not overcooked, not raw. Just perfect. Crisped on the outside, tender inside, rubbed with crushed emberroot and smoked dusk-leaf. He tilted the pan and spooned the hot fat over the top in slow arcs. Every movement was precise. Controlled.
Kaelren, who once chewed bark and filth to stay alive, now plated his food like a master.
He sat at the granite counter, alone, and sliced the meat with reverence. The first bite melted against his tongue — smoky, rich, and laced with a bitter edge from the wild herbs he'd ground by hand just before dawn. He chewed slowly, half-lidded, letting the taste root him in the present.
And still… his thoughts drifted.
To a hospital bed.
To a dying boy in a dying world, who held on longer than he should have—just long enough to become a man.
He remembered the hospital library — a strange, mismatched archive of what belonged and what never should've been together. Medical texts. Survival manuals. Advanced cookbooks from elite culinary institutes.
Somehow, all shelved side by side.
It made no sense. Not really.
Before he lost the ability to walk, he'd made a game of it — dragging books back to his room until the nurses gave up trying to stop him. By the end, his hospital suite looked less like a recovery ward and more like a den of paper and dust.
He'd once joked to the janitor, "Pretty sure I've read more recipes than the chefs have cooked here." The janitor hadn't laughed.
That was before the Bleaching. Before the final days of Hollow Bastion.
Kaelren swallowed. That memory didn't sting — not exactly. But it sat under his ribs like a scar the body forgets and the soul remembers.
He took another bite.
Savored it.
In Vel'Drakka, perfection wasn't supposed to exist. Not in camps. Not in the Cull. Not in places like this.
And yet, here it was — a perfect sear. A quiet morning. A home that didn't smell of blood or sweat.
Maybe everything they told him in the camps wasn't the whole truth.
A sharp knock broke the stillness — three measured thuds, followed by silence.
Kaelren's fork clinked against the plate as he finished the meat in two clean bites and wiped his hands on a dark cloth. No hesitation. The moment was over.
The past folded away like the last page of an old book.
Still chewing, he walked to the door.
And opened it.
The man on the other side didn't smile.
He stood tall in ash-gray armor — high-ranking Ashwalker plate: reinforced pauldrons, layered alloy at every pressure point, muted crimson along the seams like dried blood in old cracks. A bone-white insignia of the split fang curled in flame was etched across his chest.
His eyes flicked over Kaelren, then past him into the house.
His lip curled.
Without a word, he tossed a scroll to the floor. It landed with a ceremonial thud.
"Kaelren of Camp 12," he said, voice cold and polished. "You're summoned. I'm to escort you to Ashwalker Headquarters."
He turned, already walking away.
"Assuming," he added, "you can keep up."
Kaelren didn't speak. He shut the door behind him and followed.
They walked in silence through the living arteries of Blood Gloom City — past alleys of bonework, steel markets pulsing with war-beasts, side streets where children sparred beneath rune-threaded banners. The wind smelled of incense, oil, and sweat.
The Ashwalker broke the silence like glass underfoot.
"I missed the Cull," he said. "Was off doing real work. Field execution, eastern front. But I heard the gossip."
He glanced back with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
"You're from Camp 12? That trash pit's still vomiting out bodies?" He scoffed. "Didn't know they let corpses fight now."
Kaelren kept walking. Steady. Measured.
His voice, when it came, was sharper than any blade.
"Only trash made it from Camp 12 to the Cull. All dead or broken in the first week. Everyone knows that."
He paused. Then:
"And the ones who didn't make it to the Cull?"
He snorted. "Didn't even earn a grave."
Kaelren stopped.
The Ashwalker walked a few more paces before realizing. He turned, confused — then smug.
"What?" he sneered. "You gonna cry over some dead tentmate?"
Kaelren didn't reply.
He stepped forward and punched the man in the mouth.
The crack echoed like a tree splitting in winter.
The Ashwalker stumbled, blood leaking down his lip.
"You—bastard—" he snarled, drawing a curved blade from his belt. "You think that was smart?"
Kaelren didn't answer.
He dropped into a stance — loose, low, balanced. No weapon. No armor. Just fists and fury.
The Ashwalker lunged first — clean diagonal slash, precise. The blade tore across Kaelren's shoulder.
He didn't flinch.
Kaelren caught the man's wrist, twisted, and drove his knee into the ribs hard enough to dent the plate.
The Ashwalker wheezed, stunned.
Kaelren elbowed him in the temple.
Then it stopped being a fight and became a dismantling.
Kaelren didn't dodge. He devoured.
Every step, a storm. Every blow, an avalanche.
The Ashwalker swung, spun, countered — but nothing landed. Not really. The Cull had carved Kaelren into something else.
Panic crept into the Ashwalker's strikes. He moved faster. Sloppier.
"You're not—what are you—?"
Kaelren grinned. His lip was bleeding.
He headbutted him — hard enough to crack the helmet.
The Ashwalker reeled, tripped, and fell. Scrambled upright.
"I'm an Ashwalker! You can't—!"
Kaelren was already there.
He slammed the man's head into the wall — once, twice — until the stone turned red.
He ripped off the broken helmet and tossed it aside.
One final punch drove him into the dirt.
Kaelren stood over him, panting, blood dripping from his knuckles.
"If you ever speak of Camp 12 again," he said, voice like thunder held tight in the throat, "I'll bury you with the ones who didn't make it."
The Ashwalker didn't respond. Couldn't.
Kaelren spat beside him and turned.
At the mouth of the alley stood three Ashwalker scouts.
They'd seen everything. None had moved to help.
One stepped forward — older, with storm-gray eyes and a warrior's bearing.
She tossed him something.
He caught it midair — a sleek black band, dense and rune-etched, smooth like alloy but warm to the touch. Its core shimmered faintly.
At the center, the Ashwalker symbol: a split fang rising in flame.
"Ashwalker Communicator," she said, her tone clipped. "City map. Messaging relay. Mission logs. Timekeeping. Inner network access."
She studied him.
"Be at Headquarters by noon," she said.
Then, with the faintest curl of her lips:
"Welcome to the Ashwalkers."