Kris_Gojo

Corren was never ment to survive. His parents, members of a near extinct race known as the Elavari -were killed before his eyes.

The world called his race monsters.

They weren't wrong.

 
Corren is not hunting for a reason, no, he was forced to hunt and he starts with the people that called his family monsters.

HUMANS.

Corren doesn't want to rule the world as a Megelo-maniac dictator. no. he wants to end the cycle by any means possible. Even if it means becoming one of them

Ashes of my blood

It was the kind of silence that comes after death.

Corren crouched under a rock ledge, breathing softly amid the stillness. He fiddled with the chain at his waist, the Reaper's link, a metal serpent made from memory, blood, and intention.

And they were moving differently.

There were no more jokes or loud footsteps.

They were hunting now and finally taking him seriously.

Tarn stood over Gerren's brother, Reece, whose body was broken and scarred. He said nothing as he scanned the area like a beast searching for prey.

Next to him, Gerren's face twisted with rage.

"He's picking us off," Gerren snarled. "One by one."

Reece's chest was open, but his heart was untouched.

"He's not eating," Tarn murmured.

"He's not consuming the hearts. He's taking them but not devouring."

Later, near dusk, Corren moved like a ghost among the trees, brushing against bark and vines. He scanned the path ahead. He hadn't expected to be found so soon.

He turned just in time to see Tarn emerge from the shadows, towering and armored, with a cleaver strapped to his back.

Beside him was Gerren, shorter, leaner, and growling like a dog with blood on its fangs.

The Reaper was buried about thirty feet back, hidden under leaves and brush. He had left it there for later.

Now, he was armed only with the chain and his knife.

"You've killed two of mine. Here's how this ends, Elavari. You give us the hearts, or we rip them from your chest."

"You're not ripping anything. You're feeding something you don't understand how to control."

Corren ducked low, slashing upward with his knife. Gerren barely parried and managed a shallow cut across Corren's ribs.

Corren rolled back, bleeding but still thinking.

He wrapped the chain around his hand.

He let it slip from his fingers like a snake.

The Reaper, buried thirty feet back, seemed to respond to its master's call.

The buried blade shot from the dirt and flew toward him in a wide arc, spinning and slicing through leaves and air like a summoned ghost.

The Reaper sliced through Gerren's shoulder, sending blood spraying everywhere.

Corren caught the blade mid-spin and yanked it into his hand as if it belonged there.

"Told you," he hissed, panting. "You don't understand."

Corren threw the Reaper again—not like a scythe but like a hook. The chain whirled and tangled in midair, forcing Tarn to block.

That moment of hesitation was all Corren needed.

He dove sideways and disappeared into the underbrush, bleeding and limping but still alive.

He stood there, eyes tracking the Reaper's arc, thinking.

"He's using the hearts," Tarn muttered to himself. "Not for hunger. Not for strength."

"He's turning himself into a weapon."

Unfair match.