The night was an oppressive shroud, its stillness broken only by the haunting cries of an owl echoing through the desolate streets of Ebonmere. Shisk and the four guards stood paralyzed, their breaths shallow, their blood running cold as they faced the impossible. Before them stood Jaxith, a man who should have been rotting in a grave, his name whispered only in the context of death. Yet here he was, flesh and bone, his presence a blasphemy against the natural order. His eyes, twin pools of molten scarlet, burned with a malevolence that seemed to pierce the very fabric of their souls. This was not the Jaxith they had known—this was something far more sinister, a predator unleashed, his humanity stripped away to reveal the monstrous core beneath.

  Dark, writhing tendrils of shadow began to seep from his form, curling like serpents around his body as he began to use the Negative Abyss. The air grew heavy, suffused with a palpable dread that clung to the moonlight like a curse. His gaze, unflinching and devoid of mercy, locked onto the guards, each man feeling as though he were already marked for slaughter.

  “Isn’t he supposed to be dead?” stammered one of the guards, his voice trembling as he retreated a step. “Did the old man botch the poison? Mix it with something else?” His words were desperate, a feeble attempt to rationalize the nightmare before him.

  Shisk, his face pale and slick with cold sweat, could only stare in abject terror. “No,” he muttered under his breath, his mind racing. “The innkeeper wouldn’t dare risk his daughter’s life. He didn’t tell Jaxith—he couldn’t have. I watched the hunter die. I saw the life drain from his eyes. How… how does he stand before us now?” The question gnawed at him, a festering wound of fear and disbelief.

  One of the guards, emboldened by fear or perhaps foolishness, stepped forward, his sword trembling in his grip. “We’re not afraid of you, you damned bastard!” he roared, his voice cracking under the weight of his own bravado. With a guttural cry, he charged at Jaxith, his blade glinting in the pale moonlight.

  Shisk seized the moment, his survival instincts screaming at him to flee. He scrambled onto his horse, his hands shaking as he gripped the reins. "John needs to know,” he muttered, spurring the beast into a gallop. “This… this is beyond anything we anticipated.”

  The charging guard swung his sword in a wide arc, aiming to cleave Jaxith in two. But before the blade could find its mark, Jaxith moved—a blur of darkness and malice by the help of the negative abyss dash. His hand shot out, catching the guard’s wrist with a vice-like grip. The sound of bones snapping echoed through the night, a sickening crunch that sent a wave of nausea through the remaining men. The guard’s scream was a raw, guttural sound, his sword clattering to the ground as he collapsed to his knees.

  Jaxith’s expression remained impassive, his features carved from ice. With a fluid, almost casual motion, he twisted the guard’s shattered arm further, eliciting another agonized shriek, before hurling him with another heart-sickening echoing negative dash into the wooden wall of the inn. The impact was thunderous, the structure groaning under the force as the guard slumped to the ground, broken and whimpering.

  From the shadows, another guard loosed a crossbow bolt, its trajectory swift and deadly. But Jaxith was faster—inhumanly so. In a motion too quick for the eye to follow, he snatched the bolt from the air, his fingers closing around it with a predator’s precision. Without hesitation, he turned and drove the bolt into the eye of the guard below him (the one he just broke his arm), the tip piercing through with a wet, sickening crunch. The man’s scream was cut short as Jaxith snapped the wooden shaft and plunged the jagged end into his other eye, leaving him writhing in the dirt, his hands clawing at his ruined face.

  The night was alive with the sounds of agony and terror, a symphony of despair orchestrated by the dark hunter who stood at its center. Jaxith’s scarlet eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, his expression one of cold, calculating cruelty. The guards were no longer men—they were prey, and he was the apex predator, a force of nature unleashed upon the world. The Negative Abyss swirled around him, a maelstrom of darkness that seemed to devour the very light of the moon. This was no mere man; this was a harbinger of death, a specter of vengeance made flesh. And he was just getting started.

  The guards, consumed by their own terror, failed to notice that Shisk had already fled into the night, his horse’s hooves pounding against the cobblestones as he disappeared into the darkness. What remained was no longer a battle—it was a slaughter. Jaxith was no longer a man; he was an embodiment of wrath, a force of unrelenting malice that had shed any semblance of humanity. The guards were not facing a warrior; they were facing death itself, and it was closing in with a cold, methodical precision.

  Jaxith’s boot descended with brutal force, the Negative Abyss amplifying the strike into a devastating blow. The now blind guard’s face crumpled under the Impact, bones shattering with a sickening crack that reverberated through the night. Jaxith literally crushed his face over the inn wall. Blood erupted in a grotesque fountain, painting the ground in crimson as the guard’s neck snapped audibly, silencing his agonized cries. His body slumped to the ground, lifeless, a broken puppet discarded by its master. Jaxith stood over him, his silhouette bathed In moonlight, the dark vapor of the Negative Abyss swirling around him like a shroud of damnation.

  Slowly, deliberately, Jaxith turned his gaze toward the remaining three guards. They stood frozen, their weapons trembling in their hands, their faces pale with dread. Behind them, a small well loomed, its shadow stretching like a gaping maw. Jaxith began to advance, his steps measured, each one echoing like a death knell. Blood dripped from his hands, staining the earth beneath him, a trail of carnage marking his path. His scarlet eyes burned with an unholy light, their gaze piercing through the guards’ fragile resolve.

  “We attack together,” one of the guards hissed, his voice trembling but desperate. “He can’t stop all of us at once.” The words were a feeble attempt to rally their courage, but the fear in their eyes betrayed them. The two guards charged forward, swords raised, while the third hung back, frantically loosing crossbow bolts in Jaxith’s direction. Yet, the hunter moved with an unnatural grace, the Negative Abyss enhancing his speed and reflexes. The bolts whistled past him, embedding themselves harmlessly into the ground or the walls of the inn. The dark aura around him seemed to pulse with each dodge, growing thicker, more menacing, as though feeding on their fear.

  The two guards swung their blades in a flurry of desperate strikes, but Jaxith’s movements were a blur of shadow and malice. Not a single blow landed. His reflexes were inhuman, his body weaving through their attacks with an almost contemptuous ease. Then, with a sudden, brutal motion, Jaxith’s hand shot forward, the Negative Abyss coalescing around his fist. It pierced through the first guard’s chest like a blade, bursting out through his back in a spray of blood and viscera. The guard gasped, his eyes wide with shock, as Jaxith held him aloft, a macabre trophy of his savagery.

  The second guard, seizing the moment, lunged at Jaxith, his sword aimed for the hunter’s exposed back. But Jaxith was already moving. With a resonating *whoosh* of the Negative Abyss, he dashed backward, yanking his arm free from the dying guard’s chest in a shower of gore. In the same motion, his elbow crashed into the second guard’s face, shattering his nose with a wet crunch. The guard staggered back, howling in pain, but Jaxith gave him no respite. In a flash of dark energy, he snatched the guard’s sword and drove it through his shoulder, pinning him to the inn’s wall with a brutal thrust. The guard screamed, his body writhing as the blade bit deep into the wood.

  Before the guard could even process his agony, Jaxith seized another sword and hurled it with unerring accuracy. It pierced the guard’s other shoulder, nailing him to the wall like a grotesque butterfly. Blood poured from his wounds, pooling beneath him as his screams echoed through the night. His nose was a shattered ruin, his face a mask of pain and terror. Jaxith left him there, alive but broken, a testament to his merciless nature.

  The last guard stood alone, his crossbow trembling in his hands. His comrades were dead or dying, their blood staining the ground like a grim tapestry. Shisk was gone, and the hunter’s gaze now fell upon him, those scarlet eyes burning with a promise of unimaginable suffering. The guard’s breath came in ragged gasps, his mind screaming at him to flee, but his legs refused to obey. He was trapped, a cornered animal facing a predator that knew no mercy.

  Jaxith’s footsteps were deliberate, each one a thunderous echo that reverberated through the silence of the night. The slow, measured cadence of his approach was a psychological torment, a calculated assault on the last guard’s frayed nerves. The guard fumbled with his crossbow, his trembling hands betraying him as he struggled to load another bolt. The bolt slipped from his grasp once, twice, before finally clicking into place. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurred by sweat and terror as he raised the weapon, aiming it at the dark figure before him.

  Jaxith stood like a specter of death, the Negative Abyss writhing around him in a sinister dance, its dark tendrils curling and twisting under the pale moonlight. The scene was a nightmare made flesh: bodies strewn across the ground, their blood pooling in dark, glistening puddles; the pinned guard’s agonized screams piercing the air like a dagger to the soul; and Jaxith, the architect of this carnage, his scarlet eyes glowing with an otherworldly malevolence. The guard’s finger twitched on the trigger, and the bolt flew—wide, useless, embedding itself into the dirt beside Jaxith. The hunter didn’t flinch, didn’t even acknowledge the miss. He simply continued his advance, his expression unreadable, his silence more terrifying than any roar.

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  Then, in a blur of darkness, Jaxith was upon him. The Negative Abyss surged, and in the blink of an eye, Jaxith’s hand closed around the guard’s throat, lifting him off the ground with effortless strength. The guard’s crossbow clattered to the ground, forgotten, as he clawed desperately at Jaxith’s iron grip. “FUCK!” he screamed, his voice strangled and raw, but his efforts were futile. Jaxith’s hand might as well have been carved from stone, unyielding and merciless.

  The guard’s eyes locked with Jaxith’s, and what he saw there made his blood run cold. It wasn’t just hatred or anger—it was a void, a bottomless abyss of rage and cruelty that promised nothing but suffering. Those eyes were windows to a soul long since consumed by darkness, and the guard felt his own will crumble under their weight. He was helpless, utterly and completely, in the face of this monstrous force.

  Without warning, Jaxith’s foot lashed out in a horizontal arc, the Negative Abyss amplifying the strike into a bone-shattering blow. The guard’s knees buckled with a sickening *crack*, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the stillness. His screams tore through the night, a raw, guttural sound of pure agony as he collapsed, his legs now useless, twisted ruins. Jaxith held him aloft by the throat, his grip unrelenting, his expression unchanged. The guard’s tears streamed over his face, his body convulsing in pain and terror.

  Jaxith watched him dispassionately, his silence a deafening condemnation. The guard’s screams grew hoarse, his struggles weaker, as the pain from his broken knees and the crushing pressure on his throat threatened to overwhelm him. He thrashed weakly, his hands scrabbling at Jaxith’s arm, but it was no use. He was drowning in a sea of agony, his vision darkening at the edges as his breath grew shallow.

  Then, with a sudden, brutal motion, Jaxith slammed his forehead into the guard’s face. The impact was devastating, crushing the guard’s nose and sending him sprawling to the ground. Blood gushed from his ruined face, pooling beneath him as he writhed in agony. “AHHHHHHHHH, ENOUGH PLEASE!” he begged, his voice a broken, desperate wail. He clawed at the ground, trying to drag himself away, but his shattered legs refused to obey. The pain was unbearable, a white-hot fire that consumed every thought, every sensation.

  Jaxith loomed over him, a dark silhouette against the moonlit sky, his presence suffocating. The guard’s vision swam, his mind reeling from the blow and the blood loss. He could feel the warm, metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the sharp sting of broken bones grinding against each other. His body was failing him, his strength ebbing away with each passing second.

  Jaxith regarded him with an icy, unflinching gaze, his blood-streaked visage a mask of chilling detachment. He advanced with deliberate, predatory steps, each one echoing with a grim finality. Without a word, he seized the guard by the hair, his grip unyielding, and dragged him mercilessly toward the well near the inn. The guard’s feeble struggles were futile against Jaxith’s inhuman strength, his boots scraping against the dirt as he was hauled like a broken marionette. They halted before the pinned guard, who watched in paralyzed horror, his breath hitching as he bore witness to Jaxith’s merciless intent.

  With a brutal yank, Jaxith hoisted the guard upward, positioning the back of his neck precariously on the edge of the well. The guard’s head dangled over the abyss, his wide, terror-stricken eyes locked onto Jaxith’s emotionless stare. His body, weak and trembling, lay sprawled on the ground outside the well, his neck arched unnaturally over the stone rim. The guard clawed desperately at Jaxith’s hand, his fingers scrabbling against the iron grip that held him captive, but it was a futile effort—Jaxith’s strength was otherworldly, his resolve unshakable. Though the dark energy of the Negative Abyss coursed within him, Jaxith withheld its full force, as if reserving its devastating power for a more formidable foe. His voice, when It came, was a glacial whisper, cutting through the air like a blade.

  “Where is she?” Jaxith demanded, his tone devoid of warmth, each word dripping with menace.

  The guard’s body quaked, his voice trembling as he stammered, “W-what are you?” His teeth clenched against the pain, his fear palpable.

  “Wrong answer,” Jaxith replied, his voice a deathly calm. In an instant, the Negative Abyss surged to life, its dark energy coiling around Jaxith’s free arm. With a motion too swift to follow, he drove his fist into the guard’s face, the force of the blow snapping his neck with a sickening crunch. The guard’s body went limp, his lifeless form collapsing into a heap as Jaxith released his grip, letting him fall like a discarded husk.

  Jaxith turned his gaze slowly, almost languidly, toward the last surviving guard pinned to the inn’s wall. The man had witnessed the gruesome fate of his comrade, his face pale, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Jaxith’s footsteps echoed like a death knell as he approached, each one amplifying the guard’s terror. The man writhed against his restraints, his eyes wide with primal fear, his voice breaking as he pleaded.

  “I’ll talk! I’ll talk! Please, spare me! I’ll tell you everything!” he begged, his voice cracking under the weight of his desperation.

  Jaxith halted before him, his expression unreadable, his eyes like shards of obsidian, reflecting no light, no mercy. The guard swallowed hard, understanding that Jaxith’s silence was a command to speak—and to speak quickly.

  “We… we’re the ones who do the Rascliffes’ dirty work. Alphonse Rascliffe—the nobleman everyone in Vidin knows—he ordered us to protect his son, John Rascliffe, while he traveled to Orstone to gather information about you. But everything changed when John recognized you at the inn. He decided to take matters into his own hands, to prove himself to his father. He kidnapped the old man’s daughter and sent him her ring along with two bottles. One contained a lethal poison—John was certain it would kill you. The other… the other held a drug specifically designed for hybrids, something that affects those with demonic blood. That’s what he said, I swear it!”

  The guard’s words tumbled out in a frantic rush, his voice quivering with fear. He paused, his chest heaving, before adding, “O-of course, he failed. You’re here, standing with the power of the gods themselves. Even Edward, Alphonse’s right hand, warned him not to cross you. I heard him speaking in fear about this plan. He knew it was madness to challenge you.”

  Jaxith listened in silence, his expression unyielding, his eyes boring into the guard’s soul. The air around them grew heavier, suffused with the weight of impending doom. The guard’s breath hitched, his body trembling as he awaited Jaxith’s judgment, knowing that his fate hung by the thinnest of threads.

  Jaxith’s voice cut through the air like a blade, cold and unrelenting. “How did he know what we looked like?” he demanded, his tone devoid of warmth, each word laced with a quiet menace that made the guard’s blood run cold.

  The guard stammered, his voice trembling as he struggled to form coherent words. “I-I swear, I don’t know! Even Edward didn’t recognize you! I have no idea how John knew!”

  Jaxith’s eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing through the guard’s fragile composure. “Where is she now?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous, the weight of his words pressing down like a suffocating shadow.

  “In the warehouse,” the guard blurted, his voice cracking under the strain of his fear. “North of the village, outside its borders. Please, I’ve told you everything I know!”

  Jaxith’s expression remained impassive, his features carved from stone. “Where did the strong-looking guard take my sword?” he asked, his voice like ice, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. The guard’s eyes darted around the carnage Jaxith had wrought with his bare hands, his mind reeling at the sheer brutality. Why would a man capable of such devastation care about a mere sword?

  When the guard hesitated, Jaxith’s hand shot out like a viper, gripping the man’s lower jaw with crushing force. His fingers dug into the flesh, and with a single, calculated motion, he began to pry the guard’s mouth open, the threat of shattering bone hanging in the air like a death sentence. The guard’s muffled cries of pain and terror were drowned out by Jaxith’s cold, unyielding voice.

  “I don’t repeat my questions twice,” Jaxith said, his eyes locked onto the guard’s, their depths filled with a horrifying emptiness. The guard nodded frantically, his muffled whimpers pleading for mercy as he squirmed in Jaxith’s iron grip. He had seen the depths of Jaxith’s ruthlessness, the unflinching brutality that left no room for hesitation. Reluctantly, Jaxith released him, his hand withdrawing like a predator momentarily sated.

  “John… John wanted to examine the sword,” the guard gasped, his voice hoarse and desperate. “He was fascinated by it. He’s keeping it in his office inside the warehouse. Please, I’ve told you everything! Forgive me, and I’ll disappear—I’ll leave Vidin forever! You’ll never hear from me again, I swear it!”

  Jaxith regarded him in silence, his expression unreadable, his mind calculating the guard’s words. Slowly, almost methodically, he reached for one of the swords pinning the guard to the wall. With a single, fluid motion, he pulled it free, the blade sliding out with a faint, metallic whisper. The guard let out a shaky breath, a flicker of hope crossing his face as he managed a weak, trembling smile.

  “Thank you, hunter,” he whispered, his voice trembling with relief. “I’ll never forget your mercy. This wasn’t our plan—we were just following orders, we didn’t—”

  His words were cut short as Jaxith drove the sword into his throat with brutal precision. The blade pierced flesh and bone, embedding itself deep into the wall behind him. The guard’s eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening in a soundless scream as blood gushed from the wound, cascading down his chest in a crimson torrent. Jaxith stepped back, his expression unchanged, his eyes cold and empty as he watched the life drain from the guard’s body.

  Without a word, Jaxith turned and walked away, his boots crunching against the blood-soaked ground. He moved with a chilling calm, his gaze fixed on the horizon to the north, where the warehouse loomed in the distance. That was his destination now, the final thread in this web of treachery and violence.

  As he disappeared into the shadows, a neighbor, drawn by the echoes of screams, arrived at the scene. Her eyes widened in horror as she took in the carnage—the bloodied bodies, the shattered walls, the air thick with the stench of death. Her scream pierced the night, a raw, primal sound of terror that echoed through the empty streets. But Jaxith was already gone, his path set, his purpose unwavering. The warehouse awaited, and with it, the reckoning that would leave no stone unturned.