It had been a month since Nightborne had warped into this world—an endless, godless place of perpetual night. And somehow, against all odds, he had adapted. The moon, impossibly large and ever-watching, had become his sun. The constant darkness no longer unnerved him; it comforted him. The cold wind through skeletal trees, the distant, feral cries echoing through the void—it was all part of the rhythm now.
He stood at the mouth of his cave, watching the lightless landscape with calm eyes. He was no longer the scared boy who ran from shadows and monsters. His face had filled out, the hollowness in his cheeks now replaced with strength. His body, once gaunt and frail, was hardened by weeks of pain, hunger, and relentless training. The bags under his eyes had vanished, and his gaze carried a quiet sharpness. He had endured this world, and in doing so, it had shaped him.
Still, that didn't stop his mind from wandering back to his old life, to simple things.
God, I'd kill for a slice of pizza... pepperoni, extra cheese.
But the thought passed quickly. Survival left little room for cravings.
He turned back into the cave. Laid out on a slab of stone was his current weapon: a crude wooden spear, splintered and warped at the tip from countless hours of use. It had served him well during training and minor hunts—but for what came next, it was nothing more than a liability.
He needed something better. Sharper. Stronger. He wasn't about to risk death with a half-broken stick and an ego. He knew what he was doing. He had been planning this since the second week.
Nightborne was going to kill the white Direwolf.
It had haunted him on his first day, chasing him down like prey. Its howls had echoed through his dreams, even as his body grew stronger and his mind more focused. Now, he wasn't just seeking survival. He was hunting.
He'd made preparations: an emergency escape route from the battlefield—a winding path through jagged cliffs and twisted trees, marked by carved symbols only he understood. But even with backup plans, you could never be sure in this world. Death had a thousand faces here.
What he lacked now was the weapon to challenge death and win.
The Origin—a name whispered among survivors. The one who controls the warps, the creator—or tormentor—of these shattered worlds. No one knew what it was, only that it was real. And that it set the rules. Everyone got something after their first warp: an ability, a change, a gift. After that, power had to be earned. Through monsters. Through challenges. Through blood.
Nightborne was ready to earn his next piece.
---
He found the Direwolf exactly where he expected—along the edge of the moonlit lake, drinking from its cursed waters, its massive white frame practically glowing in the dark. Four times his size, muscles like corded steel, long claws that dug into the dirt with every step. Its fur shimmered with something unearthly, almost celestial. But its eyes—those eyes were madness. Feral. Intelligent. Ancient.
It turned its head as he approached, sensing him not with sight, but with something deeper. An awareness.
Nightborne gripped his newly fashioned weapon—a stone-tipped spear reinforced with wrapped sinew and a bone handle taken from another creature. Not ideal, but leagues better than the old stick.
He didn't wait. This time, he was the predator.
Charging full-speed, he aimed low, trying to hamstring the beast. The Direwolf spun with terrifying speed, its claws slicing the air where his head had been a second earlier. The spear jabbed into its leg—but barely pierced the thick fur. It howled, not in pain, but in irritation. Then it lunged.
Nightborne dove to the side, rolling across the earth. The wolf crashed into a tree, splintering it like dry twigs. Nightborne was already moving, his instincts sharpened by countless hours of imagining this fight. He went for the neck—missed—and the beast's tail cracked across his side, sending him flying into the dirt.
He gasped, ribs aching. Blood trickled from his lip. But he smiled.
This is the one, he thought. This is the kill that gives me power.
The fight dragged on—every second a brutal exchange of speed and violence. His spear shattered halfway through the battle, snapped clean in two after one final jab to the creature's chest. He fought with rocks, then fists, then his broken weapon like a dagger. The wolf was relentless, savage—but Nightborne was something else: desperate.
He stabbed, ducked, rolled, and climbed onto its back. His fingers clawed for purchase in its thick fur as it bucked and thrashed beneath him. His final strike came in a burst of adrenaline—his broken spear driven into its skull, over and over, until the howling stopped.
It collapsed with a final, choked breath, its glowing eyes fading into stillness.
Nightborne fell next to it, covered in blood—some his, some the wolf's, some the earth's. His body was torn open in at least three places. His leg was almost certainly fractured. But he was alive.
And in the beast's place, left behind like a reward from the Origin itself, was something new.
[Item Obtained: Direwolf's Claws]
Two black metallic gloves embedded with long, sharpened blades as fingers. They were wrapped inside with warm, white fur—almost comfortingly soft.
He slid them on, and the fit was perfect. The claws shimmered faintly in the moonlight, and the air around them hummed with latent violence.
[Innate Ability: Direwolf's Scream]
The Direwolf's Claws give out a scream with each hit they take, representing the pain of the beast that forged them. With every scream, your strength increases... but so does your bloodlust. Your thoughts will grow foggy. Your control will fade.
Nightborne felt a rush—power unlike anything he had felt before. The gloves tightened, as if alive, responding to his heartbeat. He flexed his fingers. The blades sang softly with movement.
He didn't smile. He just nodded.
---
He rested for days.
His body needed it. Healing was slow, but with meat, berries, and constant hydration, the worst of the damage passed. He avoided the claws during this time. Just having them near him while he slept gave him violent dreams—visions of running on all fours, of tearing into prey, of howling into the void.
But when the pain dulled and the bruises faded, he returned to the field.
It was time to test the claws.
He didn't want to risk a real hunt yet. Not another Direwolf. Not yet. So he found something simpler: a rabbit-like creature that had once gotten caught in one of his traps. Its eyes were wild, its mouth frothing. Rabid. Fast. Mean. Perfect test subject.
He crouched low, hiding in the shadows, watching the creature hop erratically through the brush.
He burst forward. The claws gleamed and screamed with the first strike—a sharp, humanlike wail that rang through the air. Nightborne froze. The sound was unreal, bone-deep. But his body surged with strength. He lunged again. Another scream. Stronger. Louder. He tore the rabbit apart in seconds—too quickly, too violently. Blood sprayed across the ground like a painting, and for a second, he stood panting, his mind buzzing and blank, his heart thundering.
The claws... they fed off the violence.
But before he could breathe, the trees behind him rustled.
Howls.
Not one. Not two.
Three.
No—four.
They stepped into the clearing, white fur shining under the moon. Taller than the last one. Eyes gleaming.
More Direwolves.
And they weren't just passing by. They had come for vengeance.
Nightborne dropped into a stance, claws out, heart pounding—not with fear, but anticipation. He could feel the power in the claws responding, singing to him, whispering promises of carnage.
The largest wolf lunged.
And Nightborne ran straight at it.
[To Be Continued]