The mask no longer whispered
it roared.
Aden moved, not as a man, but as something far worse. The echoes of past hunters pulsed through his veins, sharpening his instincts, silencing hesitation. Thought became action. Doubt ceased to exist. The temple, once a labyrinth of death, was now his hunting ground.
The first warrior lunged, shield raised, short sword slicing toward Aden's ribs. He sidestepped, too fast, too fluid. Before the warrior could recover, Aden's blade found the soft gap between his armor plates. A quick twist. A muffled gasp. The body fell.
The others hesitated. They had numbers, skill, discipline. But for the first time, they saw something they did not understand—something they could not predict.
A predator.
Aden gave them no time to adjust. He surged forward, his movements efficient, brutal. The second warrior barely had time to react before Aden slammed into him, twisting his wrist to force his dagger into the warrior's throat. Blood sprayed, warm against his fingers.
The temple itself reacted. Sigils flared, walls shifted, new corridors twisted into existence. Traps activated, steel spikes shooting from the ground, flames bursting from unseen vents. It was trying to drown him in chaos, to force him into a mistake.
He adapted.
His footwork adjusted mid-stride, slipping through gaps before they closed, using shifting walls to funnel his prey into tighter spaces. He twisted through a collapsing corridor, forcing two warriors into a dead end. By the time they realized their mistake, his blades were already cutting through their defenses.
Panic spread.
The cultists watching from the shadows murmured amongst themselves. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. The temple was meant to break intruders, grind them down, turn them into sacrifices. But Aden… he was using it. The traps, the architecture—he was turning them against their own forces.
The Overseer sat in silence, watching through the shifting sigils in their chamber. Their fingers tapped the stone armrest of their throne, slow, deliberate.
"Aberrant," they muttered.
Aden's bloodlust deepened. His instincts pushed him further, past exhaustion, past pain. He no longer fought to survive—he hunted. The warriors before him weren't enemies. They were prey.
He parried a strike, spinning into his attacker's blind spot. A slash to the tendon, a thrust to the spine. One down.
Two more advanced, wary now. Aden grinned beneath the mask, a grin that wasn't entirely his own.
The next few moments were a blur of steel and blood. The temple floor, once pristine, was now slick with bodies. Aden stood among them, breathing heavily, heart pounding—not from exertion, but from exhilaration.
For the first time, he wasn't just surviving.
He was winning.
And he wanted more.
The Overseer's eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, they smiled. "Send in the Hunters."
The cultists stiffened. Even they knew what that meant.
Aden tilted his head as the temple doors groaned open. Heavy footsteps echoed, slow, measured. Not panicked, not afraid. The air thickened with an unspoken promise of violence.
New prey had arrived.
No.
Not prey.
This time, the hunt would not be so easy.