The afternoon in Noxvaria sank into a heavy, gray pall, the sky drained of light centuries ago, leaving only thick, sluggish clouds that drifted like an eternal curse, cloaking the deadland in a misty, menacing haze. Cold winds howled through the barren trees of the dead forest, stirring fine ash into ghostly swirls, mingling with the dry scent of parched earth and the faint, metallic tang of old blood from past hunts—a lingering memory of creatures fallen to claws and blades.
The Aerith outpost, a cluster of sagging tents patched with dry leaves huddled beneath a barren hill, had found a fragile peace after the Graysow hunt three days prior—a victory Raizen and his group had delivered, bringing heavy slabs of meat and a flicker of hope to eyes once dulled by hunger and fear. Small fires still smoldered in the outpost's square, their golden glow dancing weakly on the ashen ground, but the calm was short-lived. A sudden sound pierced the quiet from the village's edge—frantic, uneven footsteps mixed with gasping breaths, like those of someone fleeing death's scythe, slicing through the tranquility like a cold blade.
Raizen, sharpening a short spear by a small fire while studying a rough map scratched on old hide, snapped his head up, his steely gaze locking onto the sound, pupils narrowing like a hunter sensing prey. The fire before him flickered, its warm light casting shadows across his angular face, etched with faint scars from the Eternal Seed camp, highlighting the tension he masked beneath a calm, focused exterior. Selena, perched a few steps away on a gray boulder, paused mid-wipe of her steel sword, the blade still in her rag, her dual eyes—icy blue and fiery red—flaring with alertness and a fleeting spark of suspicion.
Kael, near a Graysow calf cage, stopped reinforcing its wooden bars with river pebbles, clutching the warped Asvaria fragment, its faint red pulses a haunting reminder of his failure. His pale blue eyes glinted with worry as he glanced toward the forest. Seiryu, checking bandages in her small medical kit, looked up, her dark eyes cold but betraying a rare unease as the sound hit her, her hand tightening on her scalpel in reflex. The air grew heavy, pressed by an unspoken dread, a shadow from the dead forest taking shape.
From the eastern forest's gloom, a young man stumbled out, collapsing onto the hard ground before the outpost's square, ash billowing around him like a gray cloud. His clothes were shredded, revealing bloody scratches and crusted wounds on pale skin, as if clawed by a ravenous beast. His face was smeared with dirt, eyes wide with terror, his left hand clutching his chest where a deep gash oozed fresh blood, each drop staining the ash in fleeting, deathly blooms. He gasped, his voice broken, each word a desperate bid for life: "Clawstalker… hunting party… attacked… many dead… trapped near the stream…" His words faded, his sunken eyes closing as he slumped unconscious, a trail of blood on the gray earth like a warning written in his life's essence.
Selena leapt up, sheathing her sword behind her back, her hand gripping the hilt, ready to draw. Her voice trembled despite her effort to stay composed: "Clawstalker? What could reduce a man to this?" She stepped closer, her long black hair, neatly tied, swaying in the cold wind, her dual eyes gleaming with caution and a flicker of fear, sensing a foe beyond anything she'd faced.
Kael approached, still clutching the Asvaria fragment, muttering, his hoarse voice thick with unease: "Look at him… like he ran through a nightmare we can't imagine." He knelt, placing a hand on the man's shoulder, his pale blue eyes shadowed by guilt, as if each wound echoed the Asvaria disaster. Seiryu rushed over, opening her medical kit, her nimble hands grabbing alcohol and gauze, her dark eyes laser-focused as she examined the chest wound, the man's shallow breaths rattling through his torn frame.
Raizen knelt beside the man, pressing fingers to his neck, feeling the faint pulse under his calloused skin, each beat a fragile plea on the edge of life and death. He glanced toward the forest the man had fled from, cross-referencing the "near the stream" with his hide map, pinpointing the location. He looked up, locking eyes with Kaelric, who emerged from a nearby tent, his tall frame clad in tattered hide fluttering in the wind, shoulders slumped from his old wound but eyes sharp as a seasoned predator's.
"Kaelric," Raizen called, his voice low but piercing, carrying an undeniable weight, like a command forcing truth to surface, "what's happening? What's a Clawstalker? And why has it left one of your hunters—your man—like this?"
Kaelric crossed his arms, his silver curls shifting in the wind, his eyes darkening like Noxvaria's sky, deep and haunted, as if scarred by too many deaths to remain unburdened. He stood silent, weighing the heavy memories of surviving the dead forest, then spoke, his voice rough as wind through stone, each word a chisel carving into the air: "The Clawstalker is the king of the dead forest, an ancient Duskborn, the mightiest of Noxvaria's beasts. It answers to no one—not Shadowfangs, not anyone. It kills for blood, for joy, for its domain—a living nightmare even the fiercest in Blackspire Valley bow to when its name is spoken."
He paused, his hands tightening, as if the nightmare materialized before him, dragging him back to days he wished to forget. "It stands over three meters tall, its massive body cloaked in spiky gray fur, hard as mountain stone, glinting under Noxvaria's eerie red sky like a living statue of destruction. Its curved claws, long as scythes, flash when they rend foes, leaving deep scars in the ash no force can erase. Its head is warped, grotesque, with ember-red eyes that pierce the soul, jagged teeth as long as a man's arm, dripping black venom that burns all it touches. Its spiked bone tail lashes the air, shrieking, each strike cracking the earth like a decree of absolute power. When it roars, the air chokes, the forest falls silent, bowing to its terrifying might."
He stopped, his gaze sweeping the group, gauging their reactions before continuing, his voice dropping to a haunted whisper: "But its physical strength isn't all. The Clawstalker invades minds, conjuring horrific illusions—comrades turn to enemies, blood flows before a touch, its roar echoes like thousands of screams from souls slain by its claws. The weak-willed collapse, destroying themselves or turning on allies in madness, making brothers into foes. It commands Fanghowls—giant wolves with curved fangs—and Bloodreavers—hulking brutes—with a natural lord's will, bending them to its service. The hunting party must have trespassed its territory, and if it struck, few survive unless they fled in desperation."
Raizen gripped his spear, the rough wood scraping his palms, his eyes flashing with resolve and a trace of worry, like a flame in a storm. He inhaled deeply, suppressing a flicker of fear at the thought of such a creature—not just a beast, but a living nightmare, surpassing any foe from the Eternal Seed camp or Valen Kabe's schemes. He recalled the faint roar from the forest last night, heard from the rise, and now realized it was no coincidence—a warning from the Clawstalker, a silent declaration of war on those daring to invade its realm.
"How many were in the hunting party?" he asked, his voice low but firm, each word forged from steel will, allowing no room for doubt.
Kaelric sighed, his shoulders sagging as if bearing past losses, his gaze lingering on the unconscious man, seeing shadows of those he'd lost to the forest. "Twenty-five today—twenty hunters, five scouts—left at dawn to find more Graysows and scout east, near the stone stream five kilometers away. They're our strongest, survivors of Twistfangs and Graysows, but against the Clawstalker, their strength means nothing. If it attacked, maybe a few live, trapped somewhere, waiting to die in the forest's dark."
Raizen stood, his boots grinding ash, dust swirling like a vow he wouldn't stand idle. He faced his group, his gaze unwavering on each familiar face—those who'd braved dangers since Asvaria cast them into this deathly world, those he'd sworn to protect. "We have to save them," he said, his voice low but fierce, an unbreakable oath ringing through the outpost's heavy air. "If we abandon them, not only do they die—the Clawstalker could track the blood and smoke from our Graysow victory here, and everything we built today will be erased in a night. This isn't just a rescue—it's about protecting ourselves, those celebrating by the fires, who've placed their hope in us."
Flashback: Two Hours Earlier
Five kilometers east of the outpost, in a sparse forest of jagged rocks and withered trees, the twenty-five-man hunting party—twenty hunters and five scouts—had unwittingly crossed into the Clawstalker's domain. They moved in a long line, eyes fixed on fresh Graysow tracks in the gray soil, the giant boars' glossy hides and curved tusks a vital food source since the victory three days ago. The ground was hard, ash-laden, each step echoing with a dry crunch, a somber tune blending with the wind's wail through gaunt branches. A small stream ran through, its murky water flecked with ash, glinting faintly in the twilight, but they paid it no mind—hunger drove them, and the Aerith needed meat for the coming winter.
Torin, a young scout with bright but wary eyes, led the group, clutching a crude bow of dry wood and vine cord improved by Kael post-Graysow hunt. He paused, sniffing a faint, musky tang in the air, his brow furrowing as he whispered to the man beside him: "This place feels wrong… No birds, no wind—like the forest's holding its breath."
Gavrin, an older hunter with gray hair tied back, nodded, gripping a long flint-sharpened spear, his voice rough from years in the dead forest: "Careful, Torin. Something's off—I feel it in my bones." Unbeknownst to them, they'd crossed an invisible line—the Clawstalker's territory, a place no creature dared tread unless foolish or desperate.
The air grew heavy, suffocating, as if an unseen hand gripped their chests. The ground trembled faintly, as if something massive stirred beneath, each pulse like the deadland's heartbeat. A horrific roar shattered the silence, sending panicked birds scattering from dry treetops, their wings a belated warning. Gavrin spun, shouting, "Prepare!" but his voice faltered as a colossal shape emerged from the shadows among the boulders ahead, a nightmare stepping from tales told by firelight.
The Clawstalker appeared—not the mythic adult Kaelric had described, but a juvenile, still a slaughtering force beyond any the party had faced. Nearly four meters tall when upright, its six-meter body from head to tail dwarfed all in sight. Its sparse gray-black fur, not yet spiked like a veteran's, was steel-hard, glinting metallically in the dim light, an impenetrable living armor. Long, muscular arms ended in curved claws nearly a meter long, sharp but not yet perfected, flashing with each move. Its head, a warped tiger's, bore jagged teeth jutting from its maw, black venom dripping to the ground, sizzling lightly on stone like lethal poison. Its golden eyes burned with reckless cruelty, lacking an elder's calm but radiating a young king's unbridled wrath.
A faint black aura emanated from it, a primal "magic" of the dead forest, weaving misty veils that made it flicker in and out of view, a living specter amid ash and stone. Its roar carried illusory power, twisting minds, distorting the world like a waking nightmare. Milo, a young hunter, screamed, clutching his head as he collapsed, eyes wide with visions of comrades torn apart, blood spurting from unreal wounds. "No! Stop!" he cried, his trembling dagger slashing wildly, nearly striking Gavrin before the older man knocked him down, shouting, "Calm down, it's not real!"
"Run!" Gavrin bellowed, his voice breaking with terror, but it was too late. The Clawstalker charged, swift as wind despite its youth. Its claws slashed, ripping through a nearby man's chest, blood spraying in a crimson arc, his body crumpling, eyes frozen in final fear—a horrific painting of blood and ash. Screams rose, but the Clawstalker's next roar drowned them, its illusory might freezing Torin, his eyes clouding as he saw the forest ablaze, comrades as charred corpses, black smoke rising from unreal bodies.