They say even the most wicked can find redemption. "t!"

  They say even the most hopeless can find hope. "st!"

  They say a lot of things. Mostly bullshit to convince the wicked—those who would do anything for coin—to do it for a god instead. To gain inseparable followers, you become their hope.

  "ost!"

  That's who they are. No—what they are. It's their nature.

  And there's no changing nature.

  "Ghost!"

  I opened my tired eyes to see what she wanted.

  "For a man who claims he doesn't sleep, you sure are hard to wake up."

  "Maybe I was trying to... ignore you," I replied, my voice a hoarse rasp, throat stinging from disuse.

  "Whatever you say," she replied, wearing the same stupid grin as always, with the same blue eyes and the same white, fluttering hair I’d fallen for. At least, I think that's what this burning in my chest is.

  "So? What do you want?" I asked, staring into those blue eyes.

  Ahem. She cleared her throat—a gesture that was almost... adorable.

  "As I was telling the other two..." She paused for effect. "We'll be looking for the hunters."

  "Hunters of the Old Moon?" I asked.

  "You know of them?"

  "How do you think I gained the alias 'Ghost'?"

  A faint blush colored her cheeks. "So, you were a hunter?" A cute, obvious attempt to change the subject.

  "No. I was a mercenary. The hunters always had work with high pay."

  "If you worked with them for so long and they gave you an alias, wouldn't you be one of them?"

  "Hunters are... not that simple," I said, my gaze still locked on hers. "Simply put, you're only a hunter if you can access the Hunter's Dream—a realm where hunters rest, barter, and prepare."

  "Huh. That's new."

  "That aside, I don't think there are many hunters left... especially after the Incident."

  "It would be very helpful to find even a single one," she pressed. "After all, it was a single hunter who killed the Dreamer."

  The Dreamer.

  The child of a nameless god, sent to punish the heretics who called themselves the Holy Church. The child they tore from its slain parent, hoping to raise as their messiah. After their tragic failure, they branded the aftermath the work of Sins and proclaimed themselves humanity's saviors for killing that poor orphan.

  "That hunter is long gone." The legendary hunter vanished after that battle. I also didn't want her to learn the truth about the church she so wholeheartedly followed.

  "Anyone is fine. We don't necessarily need that specific hunter."

  *Haah.* "Wait. Why do you speak as if you don't already have a place and person in mind?"

  "Well..." She fidgeted with her fingers. "I'm hoping to find someone where the Incident happened."

  "That is the most stupid idea I have ever heard. How did you even convince Rykard?"

  "Well..." She avoided my eyes.

  "You said you already spoke with the other two. How did you convince them?"

  "Well, I didn't necessarily tell them the full truth about why we're going."

  "...You want us to spend weeks getting there, risk our lives in a city full to the brim with the Lost, looking for people you have no confirmation are even there?" My voice rose without my consent.

  "You weren't there, so how would you know?"

  "I WAS." The words tore out of me. I stopped, forcing my voice back down to a low, urgent growl. "Every mercenary mission with them was in that cursed place. It’s a... a place that fucks with you in ways you can't imagine."

  I dropped my head into my hands. "I saw those legendary hunters die as easily as flies. And even though they kept returning from death, they couldn't stop their sanity from slipping. They’d eventually become Lost themselves.

  "The church tells stories of fearless warriors who hunt the Lost like prey. But the truth is, most hunters piss themselves when they see one. The only reason you've never heard of them is that the church put a curse on them, a geas that kept them from leaving.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Only a handful—no, four—kept pushing. And even then, only one made it to the end of the road. Hunters aren't men who challenge gods. They are simply men and women who can't die. And that's not a blessing; it's a curse. Most become Lost after their first death.

  "And here's the worst part." I looked around, got up, and put my masked mouth right next to her ear, speaking as quietly as I could. "The hunters who become Lost are completely immortal. Not even holy magic kills them. And that's the only thing left in that cursed place now."

  Ah, how painful it is to crush her hope. She truly wanted my support, but what she got was the exact opposite.

  The Holy Church. Not many know. No—not many are left living after knowing.

  They created the Lost they are so feared.

  They created the nightmares they are funded to exterminate.

  They are evil.

  And so are the gods who let them be.

  They point at demons and Sins as the absolute evil of this world, while the true evil stands right behind them.

  I got up and walked to the bathroom. Inside, I stared into the mirror.

  At the black mask hiding my face.

  At the two red orbs that were my eyes.

  They had grown redder.

  Eyes aren't supposed to change color permanently. Yet mine had.

  Eyes light up when using magic, yes. But change color? Maybe it's a sign my magic is growing stronger. After all, I'm the only one to learn how to command the arcane. The only one so talentless, yet to reach such strength. Born without a mana heart, I created one. So perhaps these changes are normal for someone as abnormal as I am.

  Yet I hated the one I saw in the reflection. It reminded me of my dreams.

  I walked out. Seeing the Hero was gone, I headed to the living room. I’d already memorized this borrowed mansion, and my feet moved on their own. In the living room, Meryl and Rykard sat on a large couch, listening to the Hero.

  I didn't pay attention to what she was saying. I cut her off. "Change of plans."

  They all looked at me. Rykard opened his mouth to speak but stopped.

  "We make one last stop before heading for the Demon King. The River of the Damned."

  Their eyes widened in shock. It wasn't a long detour—we were already in the border town of Limmark, planning to head to Limvill where the Vinters once ruled. It was practically on the way. They were shocked because of the river’s infamous dangers.

  Knowing this, I continued, "Don't worry. I'll be the only one entering."

  "Why?" Rykard asked.

  "I have something to take care of. Like I said, I'll be the only one entering. You can wait for me in Limvill."

  "We won't have time," Meryl countered, "especially since the Hero wants us to go to Old Lim-nam."

  "Actually," the Hero cut in, "I was getting to that when Ghost jumped in. We're not going there anymore."

  Silence hung between Meryl and Rykard as they stared at her.

  "So... what about the weapon?" Meryl finally asked.

  "I figured it's not worth the time and effort, especially with the Demon King able to strike at any moment."

  *Sigh*. Meryl and Rykard sighed in unison. "So, what's the plan?" Meryl asked.

  "We'll follow Ghost's plan."

  They both nodded, accepting her suggestion.

  "Then let's get ready to move. Immediately," I said.

  I returned to my room and moved to my weapons.

  First, I took my greatsword—nothing special, just a temporary blade bought a few weeks prior—and slid it into the harness on my back.

  Next, the long battle-axe. This one was a barbarian masterpiece, won from their chieftain years ago. It didn't rust and was made of an incredibly durable material that repaired itself. Self-repair magic was truly incredible, and rare. I wondered how a barbarian had come by it. After remembering its history, I placed it on my back opposite the sword.

  Then, a short sword of blessed steel, my payment from the Pope himself. Useful against the Lost and other wretched things. I fastened it on my left hip, for a cross-draw with my right hand.

  Lastly, a hand axe, barely the length of my forearm. I still remembered the month-long journey to gather the materials for it. Tiring, but fruitful. I placed it on my right hip.

  Armed and burdened, I carried myself back downstairs to wait.

  ***

  "I'll divert from here." Once the forest's distinct, skeletal trees came into view, I announced my departure and turned my horse toward them.

  Upon entering the treeline, I wove an illusion over my mount—a simple spell to blind and numb it to the horrors ahead. I couldn't afford to lose another horse to a preventable panic.

  Inside the forest, I could feel the many presences watching from the shadows. They did not approach. I could only hope they remembered my last visit.

  After half an hour, I reached the lake that encircled the forest's heart and reined in my horse.

  The lake was shallow, its murky water barely reaching a horse's ankle. Yet, gazing across its still surface was like looking into a different world—one so vast a thousand mansions could be lost within it. I could sense the behemoths lurking in its depths, creatures larger than castles that could still move with terrifying speed through this impossible space. My only hope was that they, too, remembered me and would not attack. While I could kill a great number of them as I had before, it would cost me dearly in time and equipment, ruining our carefully laid plans.

  "Hyah!" I urged the horse forward, but it refused, planting its hooves. The illusion wasn't strong enough to block the primordial dread radiating from the water itself. Leaving the horse behind was foolish, so I poured more power into the spell, reinforcing its mental barriers. On the second command, it stepped forward, trembling but obedient.

  The moment we entered the water, the true nature of the lake became undeniable. I was surprised to see it had been repopulated. Wretched, damned spirits swam among schools of grotesque fish—creatures that looked half-eaten or eternally rotting. These were not my concern. I could slaughter every one of them without breaking a sweat.

  It was the behemoths that worried me. Shapes moved in the deeper gloom, like rotting leviathans—whales and sharks of impossible scale.

  But even they were somewhat manageable. My true fear was the one presence in these depths that, should it take notice, could pull me down into a fight I couldn't finish in time to rejoin my party.

  *Nghhhhhhh!*

  Lost in thought, I was jerked back as my horse screamed, rearing up in a sudden panic. I wrestled it back under control, fortifying the illusion spell once more. Looking down, I saw the cause of its terror.

  A behemoth—a whale-like monstrosity—was gliding toward us. It was smaller than the ones I'd faced before, but still large enough to swallow horse and rider whole. I couldn't force the horse to run; it might stumble on a damned soul or a rotting fish and bolt. Instead, I unsheathed my blessed short sword, keeping the horse on a steady path while my full attention fixed on the approaching whale.

  The island at the center was still a distance away. The whale closed in fast.

  I slid from the saddle. The sudden, cold soak of my boots and the squelch of unseen things underfoot was a profoundly shitty feeling, but irrelevant now. I fortified the horse's illusion one final time, commanding it to walk steadily onward, and raised my sword, ready to meet the beast.

  The whale closed in, its maw yawning open to reveal a forest of jagged, broken teeth. As it reached me, the jaws snapped shut with a sound like grinding stone, hoping to feast on flesh and magic.

  But I was not inside its mouth.

  Not because I dodged, but because it had stopped mere feet from me. It thrashed, confused, before the reason became horrifyingly clear: a gargantuan tentacle, thick as a castle tower, had coiled around its midsection. The tentacle made the behemoth whale look like a minnow. Its owner did not give the whale time to react. It simply tightened.

  *CRUNCH.*

  Within seconds, the creature’s eyes burst, its spine shattered, and foul, congealed blood erupted into the water, staining it a putrid, cloudy brown.

  Through the murk, I saw them: two piercing orange beams of light, set at a fifty-degree angle. I knew exactly what they belonged to.

  A kraken.

  Unlike the other Lost in this lake—rotting, damned things—the krakens were pristine, monolithic squids of such scale they made the behemoths look like insects. And they could slip between the seams of reality itself.

  But this was not just any kraken. It was the one I had met—and maimed—the last time I was here. After I had slain the first kraken that dragged me into the abyss, three others, including this one, had attacked in a fury. Based on their sizes, I believed the first was a parent; the others, its mate and offspring.

  I had killed two more. This one, had escaped—but not before I sliced several of its tentacles and gouging out six of its eight eyes. The scars of our last meeting were likely still upon it.

  And from the way those two remaining eyes fixed on me through the gloom, it remembered.

  Yet it had just helped me. It killed the whale.

  I didn't know why. Was it fear, a desperate offering to keep me from descending to finish the job? Was it some twisted gratitude for its own survival? Or did it simply want the privilege of killing me for itself?

  For now, at least, the answer seemed peaceful. Without another ripple of aggression, the colossal form began to recede, those twin orange lights dimming as it faded back into the profound, plane-shifting depths, putting more and more distance between us.

  I resumed walking through the shallow, corpse-filled water toward the shore of the central island and my waiting horse.

  Once on solid ground, I checked the animal thoroughly for any sign of curse or corruption. Thankfully, there was none.

  I took the reins and led the trembling creature inland, toward the heart of the isolated landmass.

  This place, at least, was safe. The horrors of the surrounding lake did not—or could not—trespass here.

  After all, I had made it a prison the last time I visited. I had trapped a Hunter here.

  And he was the one I had come to find.