Interrupted

An hour passed. The sun had begun to darken, and that had Uriel worried. Without sunlight, the sticks wouldn't cast shadows—and without shadows, the illusion wouldn't work. His entire trap would fall apart.

"Damn it already... just come to your death," he snarled under his breath.

And then he heard it.

Crack... Crack... Crack. 

The Stalker.

It appeared just in time. Any longer and the sun would've gone completely down, ruining everything. Uriel almost wanted to jump for joy like a kid—like a mad, starved child—at the thought of finally killing that monster. Of making it suffer like he had suffered these past few days.

But he couldn't move. He couldn't make a sound.

He stayed low. Silent. Watching.

The Stalker crept forward, drawn by the scent of blood. The corners of its porcelain mask began to shift, pulling back into a twisted grin that reached all the way to its hollow eyes. As if it had just reunited with the love of its life.

But this wasn't a love story.

This was a hunt.

Hunter and prey.

It took another step. Then another. Slow. Deliberate.

Uriel's heartbeat thundered in his ears, mind racing with only one thought:

"One more step. Just one more."

Then—bam.

Right on the trap.

The monster lunged for the blood-soaked fish, destroying the rock pile in a flurry of claws and fury. But when it looked up—when it realized what it had found—there was no human. No body. No prize.

Just fish.

If the monster could speak, it would've screamed out in pure, frustrated rage. How could a weak human like him trick it not once—but twice?

Uriel didn't give it time to think.

He threw his full weight into the boulder.

With a roar of effort, he shoved it down the slope, the vine snapping taut as it yanked the Stalker off its feet. The rope—hidden beneath leaves and dirt—wrapped tight around the monster's leg, dragging it backward.

The creature screeched, clawing at the ground, scrambling for something to hold. But it was too late.

It locked eyes with Uriel.

And Uriel smiled.

A beautiful, eerie smile. Too calm. Too cruel. It didn't belong on a face like his.

"I was going to say something witty, cutting, and brutal before finishing you off," Uriel said coldly, "but fuck it. Bye bye."

And with that, the monster was dragged down—headfirst—into the poisoned pool.

It tried its best not to swallow the water. Clawed at the edge. Twisted. Thrashed.

But it didn't matter.

The poison crept fast.

Its hollow eyes burned—searing with agony—as its claws raked against the stone, scrambling for the vines. But it was no use. It was already too far down… already too weak from the poison.

The Stalker's movements slowed. Twitching. Sluggish.

It began to lose focus. Its body convulsed, shivering beneath the surface, shadows churning like oil as its limbs jerked wildly in the toxic water.

Uriel stood at the edge of the pool, laughter breaking from his chest in a deep, ragged sound—a hardy laugh, like it was the first time in years he'd remembered how.

He'd done it.

He turned to walk away, shoulders sagging in exhausted triumph.

But then—

[You have done the impossible. You have kil—]

The message froze mid-sentence. His breath caught.

[A being of great power has intervened in this trial.]

[The Stalker is undergoing a transformation—from Blighted to Fallen.]

[The Stalker has been renamed: Stalker of Fate.]

[You will now be transported to a different realm.]

Uriel's eyes went wide. He looked up at the sky and shouted:

"Can you give me a fucking break?!"

As the last word left his lips, the water behind him surged.

The once-blackened monster emerged—its body laced with glowing golden veins, burning through its obsidian flesh like molten cracks in volcanic rock. Its head snapped toward him, porcelain mask now split, mouth stretching in an inhuman snarl.

It charged.

Faster than before. Stronger.

But the world around Uriel had already begun to twist. The realm shifted again, light and shadow bending unnaturally as the Structure prepared to move him.

Yet he didn't run from the creature.

He didn't even look back.

Instead, he dashed to the nearest tree, tearing at the bark with frantic hands, snapping off as many branches as he could carry. Then he dropped to the ground, scrambling for a rock—urgent, desperate.

Almost like he had a plan.

A desperate one.

then held the bark and rock close to his chest as the structure took him to yet a different realm 

Before Uriel even opened his eyes, he felt it—the stinging heat slamming against his skin, the blinding light clawing at his eyelids, trying to pry them open. And when he finally did, all he saw was desert. Endless. Wide. Dunes stretching into a pale horizon. A wasteland of heat and silence.He groaned."I'd take the poison forest over this."There, at least, he had places to hide. Shadows to vanish into. This was a wide-open grave. But choice meant nothing now. All he could do was accept it and move.Work. Trap. Kill.

He took one of the sticks he'd carried from the last realm and jammed it into the sand, then stripped off his shirt and tied it to the top—a crude marker, a flag. Something to find his way back."This should work for now," he muttered. "If this place is like any regular desert… there should be tumbleweed."

Leaving the rest of the precious wood in a pile by the marker, Uriel turned and began walking north, sweat already beading on his back.

Hours passed.

By the time he returned, his pale skin was scorched red beneath the sun, and sweat poured down his body in rivers. He dropped the bundle of broken tumbleweed beside the marker and immediately reached for two sticks from the poisoned forest.

He set one flat on the sand and carved a small notch into it with the stone he'd carried. Then he placed the second stick upright into the notch and began to spin it rapidly between his palms—over and over, fast and steady, the friction heating the base. Smoke curled up. A faint ember formed.Uriel leaned in, breath held, and gently blew on the ember until it grew. He grabbed a clump of dry tumbleweed and cradled the glowing coal inside it, then blew again.

The tinder caught. Fire bloomed.

One by one, he fed the broken tumbleweed into the growing flame, careful not to smother it. He kept at it for half an hour, sweat streaming down his neck and soaking his trousers. But the fire grew—alive, hot, crackling.

Then he grabbed the piece of wood he'd set aside earlier, took the rock from the poisoned land, and began sharpening.

Twenty inches of worn wood slowly took shape under his hands. Rough. Crude. But it began to resemble a weapon. A spear. A chance.

And just as the final sliver fell away from the tip, just as he wiped the sweat from his brow…The world answered.

Distant sound.Yells.Bones cracking.

The Stalker of Fate had found him.

"I missed you, old friend,"Uriel muttered with a crooked smile, voice laced in bitter humor.