The woods were a blur of shadow and terror. Daniel’s lungs burned, but his legs—strengthened by something deeper than muscle—drove him forward. Kyrrha, a crimson streak beside him, matched his pace, her eyes scanning the darkness behind.

  The sigil on his left forearm pulsed, a warm, urgent rhythm against his skin. Rufus. The name was a whisper, but the contract’s pull was a compass. It gave him an idea—a desperate, cruel gamble.

  “They came for me, right?” Daniel shouted, the words ripped away by the wind of their flight.

  Kyrrha glanced at him, a flicker of understanding in her purple gaze. “Yes!”

  “Then let’s use that!” He veered slightly, pointing with his chin. “Farther southeast! There’s a river—the Vitaris! Meet me there at dawn!”

  He didn’t need to explain further. Kyrrha’s mind, sharpened by a lifetime of hunting, grasped the plan instantly. Separation. Divide them. Use the terrain.

  “Don’t die before I get there!” she snarled, but the fear beneath was real.

  With a powerful push, she broke to the left, scaling a rocky outcrop with preternatural grace. Daniel continued straight, crashing through underbrush, making as much noise as he could—a perfect, tantalizing target.

  From her new vantage, Kyrrha watched. The four pursuers emerged into a patch of moonlight, hesitated for a split second, then, as predicted, split their focus. Two continued after Daniel’s crashing path. The other two—Demeas and a hulking demon with a spiked club—looked up, their eyes locking on her silhouette against the sky.

  She nocked an arrow to the bow she’d snatched from the camp. Thank you, Uncle, for the endless drills.

  THWIP. THWIP.

  Two arrows sang through the night. Not aimed to kill, but to delay, to infuriate. One buried itself in a tree trunk an inch from the club-wielder’s head. The other grazed Demeas’s shoulder, tearing his leathers.

  He didn’t cry out. He looked up at her, and even at this distance, she saw the heartbreak in his eyes harden into something lethal. He pointed at her, then at his comrade, and jerked his head. The message was clear: You’re mine.

  The two demons broke from Daniel’s trail and began climbing toward her.

  Kyrrha allowed herself one last look at Daniel’s disappearing form. Run. Then she turned and vanished into the higher, rockier terrain, leading her own hunters on a deadly chase.

  Daniel’s Hunt

  Daniel ran until the sound of Kyrrha’s diversion faded. He could hear the two behind him—one lighter, one with a heavier, relentless tread. His mind, cold and clear, mapped the land. A steep, leaf-covered slope ahead.

  He acted fast. Slipping the strap from his worn pack, he coiled the leather in his hand. He swung the pack itself once, twice, and hurled it with all his strength into a thicket to the right. It crashed through branches with a satisfying racket. Then, he dropped to the ground, sliding on his back down the muddy, leaf-littered hill, the strap still clenched in his fist, using the Kaelen’s grey robe to blend into the shadows at the bottom.

  He rolled into a depression, scooped damp leaves and forest detritus over himself, and became just another part of the ground. He stilled his breathing, becoming a void within the void.

  The two demons skidded to a halt at the top of the slope.

  “The sound came from there!” a raspy voice hissed—the one with the serrated sword.

  “I’ll check. You watch here,” replied a deeper, calmer voice—the axe-wielder.

  Daniel listened to the crunch of leaves as one set of footsteps moved cautiously toward the thicket where his pack had landed. The other remained at the crest, a silent sentinel.

  Patience.

  Minutes bled by. The sentinel shifted, his breath a faint plume in the chill air. He was looking away, scanning the darkness where his comrade had gone.

  Daniel moved. It wasn’t a spring, but an uncoiling—a silent eruption from the earth itself. In one fluid motion, he looped the leather strap around the demon’s neck from behind and crossed it tight. He hauled back, his boot braced against the demon’s spine, using the strap as a garrote.

  The demon thrashed, powerful limbs flailing, claws scraping at the biting leather, but Daniel had leverage and surprise. He leaned into it, applying pressure, a clinical, brutal tension. There was a choked, muffled gurgle, more felt than heard, deep within the constricted throat. The struggle ceased, the body going limp.

  Daniel lowered the corpse silently to the forest floor. He unlooped the strap, the leather now damp and stretched. He knelt beside it, the adrenaline a sharp taste in his mouth. He looked at the simple strap in his hands, then at the dead demon.

  “I’m no longer the one who lives in between and fails miserably,” he whispered to the stillness, the words a vow. “I kill a threat. I don’t educate it.”

  A translucent blue screen flickered before his eyes, unwanted, intrusive.

  [ NOTIFICATION ]

  You have killed a Demon Hunter (Lv. 22).

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Experience Gained: 4,000 EXP.

  You have enough EXP to advance from Level 0 to 3. Would you like to allocate points to Attributes and Skills?

  Daniel stared at the glowing text, Phaetra’s petty curse made manifest. A system for a "Dog Shit." His lips curled behind his mask in pure disgust.

  “Turn off notifications,” he ordered, his voice flat and final.

  The screen winked out without argument.

  With ruthless efficiency, he stripped the dead demon of useful gear: a sturdy dagger, a waterskin, a pouch of hard rations. He kept Kaelen’s robe but tightened it, his movements now those of a predator adapting to its new skin. The hunter had become the hunted. And he was just beginning.

  The other demon, with the serrated sword—crept back from the thicket, holding Daniel’s discarded pack. “Arsen! It was a trick! Just his—” He stopped. The crest of the slope was empty.

  “Arsen?” he called, his voice tight. “Where are you?”

  The forest offered no answer, only a profound, watchful silence. The darkness between the trees felt denser, hungry. He was being watched. The panic, a cold worm, began to gnaw in his gut.

  “ARSEN! ARE YOU THERE?!”

  THWIP.

  An arrow—his clan’s arrow—slammed into the tree beside his head, quivering.

  He screamed, jumping back, his weapon raised. “IS THAT YOU, DOG SHIT?!” he roared into the void, fear twisting into rage. “IS IT YOUR DOING?! COME ON! FACE ME LIKE A WARRIOR, YOU COWARDLY HUMAN TRASH!”

  A figure stepped from the shadows ten paces away. Not running. Just standing. Grey robe, metal mask, a stolen dagger in hand. Daniel.

  “Where is Arsen?” He demanded, though the dread in his stomach already knew.

  “You’ll be joining him soon,” Daniel replied, his voice devoid of malice, simply stating a fact.

  With a roar, The demon charged, his serrated blade aiming to cleave Daniel from shoulder to hip.

  Daniel didn’t meet the charge. He flowed around it. His movements were not those of a brawler or a soldier, but of something refined, economical, vicious, and faster than anything the Demon had faced. The dagger in Daniel’s hand became a blur of silver.

  He didn’t block; he evaded. Each of the demon’s wild, powerful swings cut only air. And each time Daniel passed, the dagger bit: a shallow cut on the forearm, a deeper slice across the thigh, a sting across the ribs. It was death by a thousand cuts, accelerated into a single, brutal minute.

  The demon slowed, his movements becoming heavy, his breath ragged as blood slicked his leathers. Desperation turned his attacks clumsy. Daniel slid inside his guard, slammed the pommel of the dagger into the demon’s wrist, sending the serrated sword flying. A kick to the back of the knee brought the demon down.

  Daniel stood over him, panting slightly. the demon looked up, hatred and terror in his eyes.

  Daniel showed no mercy. The dagger found its mark. The forest was silent once more.

  Kyrrha’s Trial

  Kyrrha ran, leaped, and fired. Her quiver was nearly empty. She’d led Demeas and the brute, Goran, on a winding chase across cliffs and through narrow ravines, picking off Goran’s patience with well-placed arrows that drew blood but didn’t cripple.

  Finally, her back foot skidded on loose scree. She found herself cornered in a box canyon, a sheer rock face at her back. She dropped her bow, drawing her twin short-swords as Demeas and Goran approached.

  “Out of tricks, princess?” Goran spat, hefting his spiked club.

  Demeas said nothing. He simply drew his own blade, a long, curved saber, his eyes never leaving hers.

  The fight was short and utterly one-sided. Demeas was a commander for a reason. He parried her furious, dual-wielded assault with a calm, infuriating precision. Every opening she left, he exploited, not to wound, but to disarm. A twist of his wrist sent one sword spinning. A kick to her wrist numbed her fingers, and the second clattered to the stones.

  A final, sweeping kick took her legs out. Kyrrha crashed to her knees, breathing hard, defiance burning in her eyes.

  Goran laughed, a ugly, grating sound. “Look at her. A lowly whore. Choosing a human’s side over her own kin. Pathetic.” He strode forward, club raised. “Let’s finish her and go find Tadar and Arsen.”

  He swung the club down in a killing arc.

  It never landed.

  Demeas’s saber flashed, not at Kyrrha, but across. It intercepted the club’s haft, not to block it, but to guide it—downward and across, into Goran’s own chest. The spikes meant for Kyrrha bit deep into Goran’s leather armor. The demon gasped, shock etched on his face, and collapsed.

  Demeas stood over his dying comrade, his expression unreadable, then turned back to Kyrrha.

  “Get up,” he said, his voice hollow.

  Shakily, she stood. “Demeas, it’s not what you think. I chose Daniel not because I love him, or because he’s better than you—”

  “Shut it,” he cut her off, the words cold as river stone. There was no anger left, only a bleak, determined curiosity. “Words are nothing. Lead the way. Let’s see what stole your eyes from me.”

  Vitaris River – Dawn

  The first pale fingers of light stretched across the sky, painting the rushing waters of the Vitaris in hues of silver and pink. Daniel stood on the pebbled bank, waiting. He had washed the blood from his hands and dagger in the icy flow.

  Two figures emerged from the tree line: Kyrrha, weary but unbowed, and Demeas, his saber still in hand.

  Daniel and Demeas’s eyes met across the distance. No words were needed. Demeas shrugged off his outer harness, letting it fall. Daniel tossed the stolen dagger aside and stepped forward, settling into a ready stance.

  The first ray of the sun broke over the horizon, glinting on the river.

  It was their signal.

  They moved as one. It was not a brawl, but a brutal conversation. Demeas was strength honed by discipline, every slash of his saber efficient and powerful. Daniel was adaptability incarnate—a fusion of street-fight survival, Rufus’s desperate agility, and the unyielding will of a soul that refused to die. He used the terrain, the pebbles underfoot, the spray from the river.

  They were mirrors. Demeas saw the human not as weak, but as impossibly resilient. Daniel saw the demon not as a monster, but as a warrior driven by a pain he understood all too well—the pain of being replaced, of love turning to ashes.

  Blow for blow, cut for cut, they fought until the sun cleared the trees. Both were bleeding from a dozen shallow wounds, their breath coming in ragged gasps. A final, simultaneous clash ended with them locked, Demeas’s saber against Daniel’s crossed forearms, neither able to press the advantage.

  They disengaged, staggering back a few steps. The fight was over. A draw.

  For a long moment, they just stared at each other, a mutual, grudging respect passing between them.

  Demeas bent, wincing, and retrieved a small leather satchel from his discarded gear. He tossed a bottle of viscous red liquid to Daniel, and pulled out another for himself.

  “It tastes sour,” Demeas grunted, uncorking his. “But it heals.”

  Daniel pulled his mask down just enough to drink. Demeas did the same. They drank their potions at the same time, the bitter potion burning down their throats. A warm, knitting sensation immediately began to soothe their wounds.

  Demeas corked his empty bottle and stood. He looked at Daniel, then at Kyrrha, who had watched the entire fight in tense silence.

  “This isn’t over,” Demeas said, his voice low. “The clan’s rot goes deeper. They will send more. Stronger.” He fastened his saber back to his hip. “But today… today was a good fight.”

  He turned to leave, then paused, glancing over his shoulder at Daniel. “Don’t let her die for your legend, Savior. Or I’ll come for you for real.”

  With that, he limped into the forest, leaving them by the river as the new day dawned, bloody, bruised, and alive.

  Daniel turned to Kyrrha. She was looking at him, her true-form eyes wide, seeing not a slave or a savior, but the man who had just fought a draw with one of their best for the right to simply exist.

  Without a word, she walked over and handed him his discarded pack. The journey to the human settlement was still ahead. But they had survived the night. Together.