The sun had not risen in over a century.
A cursed shroud of eternal night clung to the world like a rotting veil, suffocating hope beneath its weight. In this age of shadows, humanity lived like prey in a forest of predators cornered, hunted, dying. The monsters that had once been myth were now very real, and they had a name.
The Fallen.
Once men, now creatures of hunger and hate. Werewolves, vampires, ghouls their souls lost, their bodies twisted into the shapes of nightmares. They stalked the dead woods, ruined villages, and shattered keeps, hunting not for food or survival, but for the pleasure of the kill.
And on this night, that pleasure would taste sweeter than blood.
The forest Black Hollow was thick with fog and silence, pierced only by the desperate cries of dying men. A thunderous roar shook the ground as it came crashing through the trees a hulking monstrosity of fur and teeth. A werewolf, but not like any they had seen before.
It tore through the front lines like parchment. Bone snapped like dry twigs beneath its claws. Blood sprayed across the dying trees, painting the bark crimson. Screams split the air high, raw, final.
"Fall back!" shouted Captain Lionheart, his voice hoarse with panic.
He was a veteran of twenty campaigns, a man who had looked death in the eye and spat in its face. But not tonight. Not here. This thing… it wasn't just another Fallen. It was something worse. Something more.
"Men, to the carriages! Now!"
But the beast was already among them. Its massive arms swung like scythes, severing limbs from bodies in a blur of violence. Guts spilled to the ground, steaming in the cold. Soldiers tripped over their comrades' entrails, slipping as they tried to escape.
A few brave souls turned, raised their flintlocks, and fired.
BANG! BANG!
Muzzle flash lit the darkness. The bullets tore through fur and flesh, but the werewolf didn't slow. Its eyes amber and filled with rage were locked onto them. It wanted them to run. The hunt excited it more than the kill.
"Captain!" one man screamed. His legs were gone, chewed away at the thigh, his body hanging limp in the wolf's jaws. "Help me! Please, help!"
CRACK.
The jaws closed, severing him in two. His screams ended in a wet gurgle.
Captain Graves stumbled backward, bile rising in his throat. His fists slammed against the carriage door as he climbed in. "Go! Get us the hell out of here!"
The driver snapped the reins, and the horses bolted.
Behind them, the wolf howled a long, thunderous sound that sent birds screaming into the sky and shattered the silence for miles around. Trees trembled as the sound ripped through the forest like a sonic blade.
And then it began to change.
The beast stood still, surrounded by mangled corpses. A thousand bodies littered the clearing, the smell of iron thick in the air. It closed its eyes.
Then its bones broke.
The sound was hideous. A chorus of grinding joints and tearing flesh. Muscles bulged and warped. The gray fur turned pitch-black, steaming with unnatural heat. Its frame grew, expanding into something even more monstrous—something unholy. Its eyes turned a deep, abyssal red, and its mouth ignited with furnace-like fire, glowing from within like a kiln.
Where once stood a beast, now loomed a demon.
A Black Hellhound.
The transformation complete, it opened its mouth and howled again. Trees nearby exploded from the force. The soil cracked beneath its feet.
In the carriage, Graves felt the change. Not just the sound, but the meaning. Something ancient and terrible had awoken. He gripped the edge of the bench with white-knuckled hands.
"No…" he muttered. "No, no, not another one…"
He turned to the driver. "Change course. Head to Regalia. I need to speak to Blackstone."
The driver wide-eyed and pale kept the reins tight. "Regalia? Are you mad? What in God's name happened back there? We had five thousand men. Five thousand! That thing shouldn't have lasted five seconds!"
Graves grit his teeth. "We did have enough men. More than enough. But it wasn't just any werewolf. That thing was faster. Smarter. Stronger. It wasn't hunting for survival it was evolving."
"Evolving?" the driver repeated.
"He needed a thousand kills," Graves said, voice hollow. "That was his rite of ascension. He's no longer a simple beast. He's something else now… something worse."
The driver hesitated. "And this Blackstone? What's he gonna do? If five thousand armed soldiers couldn't stop it, what the bloody hell can one man do?"
Graves stared into the night.
"I watched him kill a vampire lord with his bare hands. I saw him decapitate a ghoul king after three days of fighting without food or rest. If anyone can stop that creature... it's Blackstone."
The driver scoffed under his breath. It sounded like a fairy tale. A lone man cutting through swarms of Fallen like wheat. But the captain was his superior, and protocol was protocol. Without another word, he pulled the reins, veering off the road to camp and taking the path to Regalia.
Two hours later, the silhouette of the city rose through the mist.
Regalia one of humanity's last great fortress. Its towers were crowned with stone gargoyles, its walls slick with rain and old blood. Artificial fog coiled around its spires, a protective shroud created by an ancient relic buried deep beneath the city's heart. The fog kept the Fallen out… for now.
The gates opened as the carriage rolled in. Soldiers stood in silence, their armor scorched and dented, their faces hollow from months of holding the line.
Lionheart dismounted.
His boots splashed into a puddle of red rainwater. The sound echoed like a drumbeat of dread.
He looked toward the cathedral rising in the city's center."Take me to Melody Black's powder store," the captain spoke with urgency, knowing that this was where he would find Blackstone. Not in a throne room, not behind some desk no, Blackstone lived among weapons and old scars, in a stockpile dedicated to war.
The driver spoke to him. "What if he's dead?"
Lionheart replied his throat hoarse and eyes blood shot.
"Then we're already damned."
"Stay here," Captain Lionheart commanded the carriage driver, his voice steady but tight with urgency. The man nodded without protest, thankful to stay behind as the captain stepped into the curious little store tucked between two towering spires.
A strange warmth clung to the air inside, dimly lit by lanterns flickering with blue fire. The scent of sulfur, leather, and old blood lingered faintly in the walls. Behind the counter stood a girl young, maybe fifteen her skin a deep onyx, her wild afro haloed by the glint of brass goggles perched atop her brow. She didn't speak.
"Melody, darling," Lionheart greeted, removing his hat and tucking it under his arm. "Where's your father?"
The girl said nothing, but her smile was gentle. She lifted one hand and pointed to a thick oak door behind the counter.
"Ah," Lionheart chuckled softly, "still a girl of few words."
Melody gave a slight nod, unbothered by the silence. She was always like that quiet around others, but never afraid. He respected that.
"A woman of few words," came a smooth, baritone voice from behind the door, "is often a woman of action. Am I not right, Captain Lionheart?"
A tall man stepped into the room, adjusting the cuffs of his Victorian tuxedo. His coat trailed the ground, boots polished but worn from battle. His salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed, his eyes the color of smoked glass.
Blackstone.
A hunter. A killer of monsters. And once, the savior of Lionheart's life.
The captain's chest swelled with a strange mix of relief and dread. Seeing his old friend always brought comfort, but it also awakened memories that never faded of screams, of torn flesh, of Bloodhaven.
In his mind, Lionheart watched again as Blackstone hacked through ghouls with his cleaver, each swing a masterstroke of carnage. Blood sprayed like ink. He saw again the fire pour from Blackstone's mouth, the gusts of wind that split corpses in half. He had moved like a beast, not a man. It was then Lionheart learned what hunters truly were.
Men blessed or cursed with Arcana.
Superhuman abilities. Mastery over the elements. Fire, wind, lightning. Each hunter bore these gifts. And Blackstone's gifts had turned tides of war.
A firm hand clapped down on Lionheart's shoulder, grounding him in the present.
"It's good to see you, old friend," Blackstone said warmly. "What brings you to my doorstep this cursed evening?"
Lionheart swallowed hard. "I wish I could say this was a social call. Another werewolf has ascended. The army is in shambles, and we need your help."
A strange gleam entered Blackstone's eyes.
Melody, still silent behind the counter, tilted her head.
They smiled.
That same eerie, unsettling smile that always crawled across their faces when the word ascended was uttered. To others, it would've been chilling, even insane but Lionheart knew better. That smile didn't come from madness. It came from purpose.
They were hunters, and the call to kill had been sounded.
Lionheart wasted no time. He told Blackstone everything: the massacre, the wolf's size and speed, the unbearable howl that tore trees from their roots. The transformation. He hadn't seen the final form, but he'd felt it in his bones—the shift in the air, the scream of the forest. He was certain the beast had become something more than a mere werewolf.
Blackstone grew quiet. He listened intently, expression grave.
"Then we have a window," he said at last.
Lionheart nodded. "After ascension, the Fallen weaken for a few hours. Their bodies need time to stabilize… they'll feed soon, to jumpstart their regeneration. If we strike now before it eats again we have a chance."
Without hesitation, Blackstone turned to Melody. "Bring me my cleaver and the bolt-action."
The girl vanished into the back room and returned moments later, cradling a long, black rifle etched with silver runes and a cleaver as tall as she was. The weapon's edge gleamed like obsidian. She handed them over with reverence, then signed with her hands quick, practiced movements.
She wanted to go with him.
Blackstone shook his head. "Not this time, dear. I don't know what we're walking into. It could kill even me."
Her shoulders slumped, disappointment clouding her face.
Lionheart stared in disbelief. "You… bring your daughter on hunts?"
Blackstone raised a brow. "She's a hunter, Captain. She awakened two years ago fire and wind Arcana. Strong, like her mother."
Lionheart stiffened. He knew Arcana wasn't passed down like blood. It appeared randomly, like lightning striking twice. That both father and daughter possessed it… was rare beyond belief.
Still, he didn't protest further. The world was no longer kind to children. If Melody was a hunter, then her hands were already stained.
Blackstone tossed a satchel onto the counter and began stuffing it with supplies crystals, potions, charms, and metal stakes engraved with glyphs.
"Let's move," he said. "Show me where you last saw the beast."
The carriage clattered over root-choked trails, trees looming like sentinels as the sky churned with pitch-black clouds. They arrived at the Deadwood clearing now silent, soaked in gore.
The bodies were gone.
Dragged off or devoured, Lionheart didn't know. But he could still smell the copper in the air, thick and metallic.
Blackstone knelt, scanning the dirt. Broken branches. Deep claw marks. No footprints clever beast.
He pulled a red crystal from his bag and crushed it in his hand. The shards evaporated into a fine red mist that twisted and turned until it formed a narrow trail.
Lionheart recognized it instantly.
"Homing crystal," he muttered. "Five mile range. Tracks any Fallen nearby."
Blackstone pointed at the driver. "You. Go back. Now. If you stay, you'll die."
Lionheart added, "You've done enough. Return to the camp and warn them another ascended warewolf walks."
The driver didn't argue. With a crack of the reins, he vanished into the darkness, leaving only hoofbeats behind.
Alone now, the two men followed the red mist deeper into the woods. As they walked, Blackstone retrieved two glass vials filled with glowing blue liquid.
"Invisibility draught," he said, handing one to Lionheart. "Drink it. It erases presence. Heat, scent, sound gone."
They drank.
And just like that, they vanished. The forest no longer heard their steps. Even the birds above ceased to notice them.
Lionheart marveled at the silence between them. Blackstone moved like a predator smooth, calm, deadly. This wasn't revenge for him. It was necessity. But that didn't mean he didn't enjoy it.
For the first time since the massacre, Lionheart smiled.
It was not a kind smile. Not the smile of a soldier.
It was the smile of a hunter.
And somewhere ahead, in the rotted heart of the forest, something monstrous waited feeding, growing stronger.
But its time was running out.