For a second he thought Rüdiger had arrived right after the fight—that would fit his MO—but then he realized the voice was different. It held a mocking note, a sneering superiority unlike Rüdiger’s theatrical cadence.

  Adarin spun around, knocking the manipulator with the dagger back, ready to strike.

  A man of indeterminate age stood almost perfectly in the center of the explosion, where the ground had been cleared and compacted. He was clearly naked beneath the black silken cloth he wore. His scalp was bald, and his canines were long, oddly reminiscent of those of a snake.

  The man slowly, deliberately put first his left hand on his right shoulder, then his right hand on his left shoulder, and bowed.

  Adarin gasped. The Imperial salute.

  The stranger began speaking—not in the common tongue of this land, but in Imperial Standard. And unlike Rüdiger’s recitation, this sounded as if he had actually learned the language from someone who spoke it natively.

  “I greet you, warrior from the past. I have observed your deeds, and I bring best wishes on behalf of my master.”

  The voice was somehow dry and rasping, like paper rubbing against paper, but also rich, like the flavor of a well-aged wine.

  But Adarin only had eyes for one thing. The man's blood-red eyes.

  Only several seconds later did he notice that the man’s skin was truly parchment-pale, white not just in contrast to the black silk that shimmered ominously with every deliberate tilt of his body.

  Adarin folded two free manipulators and returned the Imperial salute. He was careful not to move the one holding the diamondoid dagger. A terrible sense of dread held him back. “I greet someone who stands in the light of the Truth. State your name, Citizen.”

  He put a sharp note of command in his voice, but the man only chuckled.

  Adarin suddenly saw a vision—blood drops falling onto clean paper, forming intricate patterns as they ran down the page.

  “I am no citizen of the Old World. I am afraid the truth you speak of died long ago.” He looked up at the sky, as if seeing something beyond it. “Oh, so long before my time.”

  As if Adarin’s memories aligned like a kaleidoscope clicking into place, a picture formed. “You… at Timberford. You were following us. You—” He gestured to the wyvern.

  “Yes,” the man replied smoothly. “I took down the bothersome fliers. I am sorry for what happened to the smaller one. I did not intend for it to be impaled, did not intend to bereave you of your kill. I shall acknowledge this blood debt I owe you.”

  Adarin swallowed, feeling something strange grip at his abjuration core. Not hostile. A promise. An acknowledgment of something old.

  He made a gesture with his free manipulator, again not the one holding the dagger. All his senses were tense. This is a predator. I must not make a wrong move. Given what this—

  He was about to think “person” but hesitated. Creature. Creature feels right.

  Has done… It must be as powerful as Rüdiger.

  “Then tell me of your master. Is he the citizen who taught you the Enlightened Tongue?”

  “Yes,” replied the man, smiling with far too many, far too white teeth.

  Silence stretched as this dangerous new predator refused to elaborate.

  Adarin swallowed. “What other business do you have with me?”

  The creature pointed at the dead wyvern. “I would see you claim your trophy. My kind believes it is poor luck not to accept the gift of the OUTSIDER as soon as it is given.”

  Adarin searched for the manipulator that was marked with the eye tattoo of the system interface. He found it on one of his legs and switched it with a free manipulator. The bright scar-like discoloration began swirling into text. The old soldier hesitated, unwilling to read in front of this beast's terrible attention. But the man made an insistent gesture and Adarin focused on the system's words.

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  You have defeated 9 juvenile wood wyverns.

  Average normalized strength difference: 379%

  Levels gained: 17 (10)

  You have defeated 4 adult wood wyverns.

  Average normalized strength difference: 417%

  Levels gained: 11 (0)

  Notification: Due to exceeding the daily maximum level gain by 18 levels, you have gained extra energy for your next tier upgrade.

  Congratulations. You have defeated Elder Woodland Wyvern.

  Average normalized strength difference: 663%

  Levels gained: 5 (5)

  Notification: Level gain from boss-type entities not within bounds of standard maximum level gain parameters.

  He looked up hesitantly, but then continued to the skill upgrades he had gotten. The first one brought a smile to his face. Finally I have maxed out a skill.

  Living Wood, Late Tier 1 → Living Wood, Greater Tier 1.

  Limited Protocol Database, Middle Tier 1 → Limited Protocol Database, Late Tier 1.

  Noospheric Link, Early Tier 1 → Noospheric Link, Middle Tier 1.

  Adarin’s eyes widened. Those gains… they nearly doubled my strength.

  The creature laughed. “Yes.” Then it purred, “Yes. Carnage.” Its blood-red eyes gleamed with lustful delight. “The spilling of blood—it is what the OUTSIDER craves.”

  Suddenly Adarin felt the creature closer without it moving. “It is what it truly desires, do you understand the significance of that?” it whispered in a deep, sensual voice.

  Adarin shuddered, half disgust, half arousal. Illusion magic. It’s using illusions on me. Counter-magic. Another fucking thing for the to-do list.

  He swallowed hard and stared. “What are you?”

  The man’s smile grew wider, each second imperceptibly more grotesque.

  “They call us many names,” he whispered. “We call ourselves the Nosferati.”

  Adarin filed that away, heart pounding in his digital avatar. Goddamn system effects reaching into my combat sphere.

  The creature gestured, fingernails unnaturally long and sharp—and coated with wyvern blood. It noticed Adarin’s look, studied its nails, and began licking them one by one.

  Its tongue was elongated, sharp to a point. It wiggled it around each nail, slurping the blood clean.

  “Yes,” it hissed to itself.

  Once finished, it gestured. “You are not done yet. Claim your trophy, Champion.”

  Adarin turned to it. “Trophy?”

  “Ah. You are still on the first tier. You have not yet built enough space in HIS mind. Trophies are claimed from bosses. They are what matters for those who become truly great. As I said”—it chuckled darkly—“the OUTSIDER desires bloodshed and slaughter. It desires oceans of red.”

  Adarin wanted desperately to mock it. This creature… so fucking cliché. But dread knotted in his gut. He didn’t dare risk a joke.

  He shuddered. A soft purring chuckle came from all around him.

  Slowly, never taking his eyes off this predator far more dangerous than the wyvern, he lowered a manipulator and touched it to the wyvern’s head. Then lifted it again.

  Congratulations.

  You have claimed the Emerald Snake King’s Regalia as a trophy.

  Due to insufficient entity tier, this trophy is locked until a sufficient tier has been reached.

  New text appeared in a font that looked alive, writhing.

  We await your choices, Champion.

  Adarin froze involuntarily.

  The Nosferati chuckled. “Yesss,” it hissed, consonants drawn long. “You see the truth of my words on the OUTSIDER.” It froze and studied the horizon, as if listening. “We have spoken enough. I look forward to how you will handle my little…”

  It grinned, broad and sharp. “…challenges, gifts, and surprises.”

  The voice hissed suddenly behind Adarin—but nothing was there, nothing his thousand eyes could see.

  He turned his focus back to the center of the clearing—where the man had stood, only a swarm of bats remained, scattering in all directions.

  The whispering chuckle echoed through the forest until Adarin left sight of the slaughter and walked back toward the city. With each step the dread deepened, an invisible weight pressing on his core.

  Just as the edge of the forest broke into open fields, a thought slithered across his mind. Not his own. A voice, intimate as breath against his ear: “Shall we see who reaches the girl first?”

  Adarin froze mid-step, sensors wide, searching—but the only answer was the rustle of leaves and the fading screech of distant bats.

  He forced himself onward, sprinting up the hills, though the weight never left. If anything, it coiled tighter as he neared the town.