We packed our belongings quickly—each movement sharp, efficient, without hesitation.
Neither of us spoke.
There was no need.
We both knew that every second counted.
The moment we stepped into the hallway, I felt it.
Something was wrong.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that felt unnatural, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
No footsteps.
No murmurs from the other rooms.
Nothing but the soft crackling of candle flames flickering along the damp, peeling walls. Their frail glow barely illuminated the murky path ahead, casting warped shadows that danced and twisted in eerie silence.
I exhaled slowly, my grip tightening around the strap of my bag.
Tink and I exchanged a glance.
We both knew what this meant.
With the bounty on our heads, we weren't just fugitives anymore.
We were prey—hunted in a city full of predators.
And worse… Tink had yet to fully recover from his battle the night before. That made him vulnerable—and me twice as cautious.
As we approached the front desk, I froze.
The innkeeper was already there.
Standing perfectly still behind the counter.
Had he been waiting for us?
His frail, wrinkled frame barely moved, but his deep-set eyes glimmered with an unsettling sharpness—like he could see straight through us.
Watching.
Waiting.
As if he had known exactly when we would leave.
"Leaving already?" His voice rasped, drawn-out and sickly sweet—like a spider whispering to a fly caught in its web.
The back of my neck prickled.
I forced my voice to remain steady. Calm.
"You have good timing," I said. "We were just here to check out."
The old man didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Just kept staring.
I felt an icy shiver slither down my spine.
"There's nothing else to discuss," I said firmly, shifting slightly toward the exit. "We'll be on our way."
Then—
He laughed.
A hollow, wheezing chuckle.
Distorted. Wrong.
"Now, now…" he crooned, tilting his head with a crooked grin.
"What's the rush?"
The air felt thicker, heavier.
The candlelight flickered—casting longer, darker shadows against the walls.
Then, he smiled wider.
"You haven't paid for your stay."
I stopped cold.
A sharp, creeping tension coiled around my chest.
A trap.
I narrowed my eyes.
"You must be mistaken," I said evenly. "We paid upon arrival."
The old man laughed again.
But this time, there was no amusement in his voice.
It was low. Dark. Dripping with malice.
"Hahaha… Oh, no. That's not what I meant."
His lips curled into a wicked grin, his deep-set eyes glinting with something dangerously unhinged.
"I remember now… Each of your heads is worth 50 million DK, isn't it?"
His words suffocated the air between us.
Tension coiled around my chest like a steel vise.
I instinctively took a step back, my fingers brushing against my sword's hilt.
The old man tilted his head, watching me.
"I know what you're planning."
His voice dropped to a whisper, yet it slithered into my ears like venom.
"But don't worry… You won't be leaving so easily."
He chuckled, stepping forward.
Each footstep dragged an icy chill behind it—crawling, spreading like decay.
It felt as though I had just stepped into a frozen graveyard.
"I'm not as foolish as that dead idiot Loster."
His words snapped like a whip.
His eyes burned with a twisted, feverish delight.
I drew my sword, shifting into position between him and Tink.
"Only one of you gets to leave."
His voice slithered through the room, like a curse etched into the air.
"The other one… stays here to play."
He didn't have to spell it out.
I knew exactly what he meant.
I gritted my teeth, making my choice instantly.
"Leave. Wait for me at the meeting point."
Tink stared at me.
No hesitation.
No argument.
Only trust.
"Win."
That was all he said before turning away and vanishing into the darkness.
I watched him go.
Then, without taking my eyes off the monster in front of me, I tightened my grip on my sword.
"Well then," I smirked, my gaze sharp as steel.
"Let's see if you can actually earn that 50 million."
The old man didn't answer.
Instead—
He laughed.
A sound so warped, so vile—like nails scraping against rusted metal.
The air plunged into a suffocating cold.
The final flicker of candlelight died.
Darkness engulfed the room.
And the deathmatch had begun.
The last ember of light vanished, swallowed by the creeping abyss.
The air thickened—foul and rotten, sinking into my skin like damp decay.
Somewhere in the darkness, a sickening cackle echoed—high-pitched and piercing, crawling down my spine like a whisper from the void.
"Hehehe… Now, we can finally play without interruptions."
I narrowed my eyes.
Even through the pitch-black, I could sense it.
His body was changing.
A grotesque tail slithered out from his back, slick and oozing.
His teeth sharpened into long, jagged fangs, clicking together like a predator tasting blood.
His fingernails extended, curling into obsidian claws—black as the abyss itself.
"I am Ratmor."
His voice distorted, layered with an unnatural chittering hiss.
"One of the Three Vice Overseers of this floor."
He grinned, but his face was no longer human.
The grin was too wide.
The jaw stretched too far.
And his voice…
It wasn't his alone anymore.
It was echoing. Overlapping.
Like something else was speaking with him.
Then—
The darkness moved.
The sound came first.
A chorus of tiny, skittering whispers—soft, but infinite.
Chit. Chit. Chit.
A sound I knew too well.
Rats.
But this wasn't a normal infestation.
No.
This was something far worse.
The air trembled with the presence of thousands, maybe millions of unseen vermin.
They were lurking in the void, just out of sight.
Waiting.
Watching.
And when they struck—
I knew they would devour me alive.
💥 BOOM!
A force slammed into Michel's back.
His body was thrown forward, nearly knocking him off balance.
He barely had time to react—Ratmor was too fast!
A sharp sting spread across his back.
The fabric of his coat had been torn apart.
He whirled around, sword slashing in a desperate counterattack—
But there was nothing there.
WHAM!
A second strike crashed into his shoulder.
Michel was sent flying, smashing hard against the cold, unyielding stone wall.
But Ratmor wasn't finished.
The creature lunged, claws raking through the air, each swipe slicing through the darkness like a scythe of death.
Michel fought back, his silver blade flashing through the void, steel meeting claw—
But he was losing ground.
Step by step, he was being pushed back.
SLASH!
A deep cut opened on his arm.
Blood dripped onto the frozen ground, leaving crimson stains on the stone.
"Hehehe, too slow, little boy!"
Ratmor cackled.
His whip-like tail lashed out, striking Michel square in the stomach—knocking the breath from his lungs.
Michel staggered, pain radiating through his body.
His breaths grew heavy, muscles screaming in protest.
He couldn't keep defending forever.
But how could he fight something he couldn't see?
💥 BOOM!
This time, a brutal kick sent Michel airborne.
He crashed onto the stone floor, his mouth filling with the bitter taste of blood.
His whole body ached, legs trembling as he struggled to stand.
Ratmor loomed over him, gloating.
"It seems…" the beast hissed, his claws raised for the final strike, "…this game is over."
At that moment, on the brink of death, something stirred within Michel.
A voice—soft, gentle, yet powerful—echoed through the chaos.
"Stay strong, my son. I will always be with you."
His eyes snapped open.
A strange energy surged through his veins.
The darkness around him shifted.
For the first time—
He saw.
Not just in front of him—everything.
Every detail in the room.
Every shadow Ratmor cast.
Even the tiny vermin skittering along the floor.
Not just that—
He could see behind himself, as if his vision had no limits.
No blind spots.
Ratmor's eyes widened in horror.
"Impossible…! That ability—
Only the Morvain bloodline should possess it! But they were exterminated!"
Michel laughed coldly.
His fingers tightened around his sword.
"So, you do know who I am."
His eyes glowed with an unwavering intensity.
"Then let me show you why."
Before Ratmor could react—
Michel vanished.
💥 BOOM!
He reappeared instantly—
Right in front of him.
A single slash—swift, merciless.
Ratmor screamed.
His tail was severed, black blood spraying through the air like a grotesque fountain.
Michel didn't stop.
He attacked again.
And again.
Each strike precise, cutting deeper, faster.
Ratmor howled, struggling to retaliate—
But Michel was too fast.
The hunter had become the hunted.
"D-Damn you!"
Ratmor roared, his body beginning to change once more.
His form swelled, claws lengthening, his mouth splitting open unnaturally wide, ready to consume Michel whole.
But—
Michel had already seen it coming.
And this time—
He was ready.
Michel leaped into the air, his sword carving a perfect arc.
SWOOSH!
Ratmor's head separated from his body, black blood spraying across the room. His corpse convulsed for a brief moment before collapsing onto the cold, bloodstained floor, reverting to the shriveled form of an old man. The eerie crimson glow in his eyes flickered out, swallowed by the encroaching darkness.
As the last traces of shadow receded, the dim candlelight slowly returned, casting flickering glows across the carnage. Michel lowered his sword, panting heavily. He glanced down at his trembling hand, feeling the raw power coursing through his veins—an unfamiliar, yet exhilarating sensation.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "This is only the beginning."
Stepping out of the decrepit inn—now a blood-soaked battlefield—he inhaled deeply, the frigid night air doing little to cleanse the lingering stench of smoke, iron, and rotting flesh. The once-pitch-black room now lay illuminated by the flickering oil lamps, revealing gruesome splatters of dried blood along the floorboards. Each step Michel took sent a sickening squelch echoing through the silent corridor, the viscous remains of Ratmor still clinging to his boots.
Tink was already waiting outside, his expression a mix of relief and concern. His sharp gaze swept over Michel, meticulously scanning for injuries. Only after confirming that Michel was still in one piece did his shoulders relax, a slow breath escaping his dry lips.
"You actually took him down?" Tink's voice wavered slightly between disbelief and exhilaration, though the relief in his eyes betrayed how much he had truly worried.
Michel merely nodded, a faint, weary grin playing on his lips. His body still trembled from the aftermath of the battle. Facing death… it changes you. It forces you to confront how insignificant you are—but also reveals how much strength lies dormant within you.
Tink took a step closer, curiosity glinting in his eyes. "But how?"
Michel exhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the heavy, stagnant air. Then, he recounted everything—the moment the candles had snuffed out, the grotesque transformation of Ratmor, the way his attacks had blurred through the suffocating darkness. He spoke of his helplessness, his frustration, his inability to match the sheer speed of his foe. And then… of that one fleeting moment—his mother's voice whispering through the storm of his thoughts. Gentle. Warm. Yet unyielding.
And how, in that very instant, his vision had shifted.
The world had unfolded before him in ways he had never experienced—darkness no longer a veil but a mere illusion. He could see everything. Every movement. Every shadow. Every enemy.
Tink listened intently, his eyes gleaming with something beyond mere intrigue—excitement.
"Then we need to find Moskov. Fast." His tone sharpened, the weight of their reality sinking in. "The news of Ratmor's death will spread faster than we expect."
Michel gave a firm nod, his mind already calculating their next move. If Ratmor had been one of the three lieutenants of the Third Level, then the remaining two wouldn't sit idly by. And more than that… this awakening of his—this ability that should have died along with the Morvain bloodline—what did it mean?
And if the truth were to be uncovered… who would come for him next?
Saying nothing more, they moved swiftly through the labyrinth of dimly lit streets. The city remained draped in perpetual twilight, a ghostly glow seeping through the thick fog that curled between the ruined buildings. The remnants of battle still stained the streets—blood splattered against crumbling walls, burnt debris littering the pathways.
In the distance, a murder of crows erupted into flight, their black wings slicing through the stagnant air, their cries echoing eerily through the desolate streets.
This was far from over.