The portal hissed closed behind them, sealing the scar in reality with a flash of fading violet. Squad Twelve emerged one by one onto academy grounds—slower than they'd entered, breathing hard, battered, silent.
No one spoke.
Bren stepped through last. The obsidian sword that had cleaved through the demon wasn't gone. It had simply… faded. Like it had sunk into him—into his skin, into his soul.
His boots shuffled against the gravel. Cold air rushed to meet him, but it barely registered. He felt nothing.
Kovan glanced back, forced a chuckle. "So, uh… Bren. You gonna keep pulling legendary demon blades out of nowhere, or was that a one-time special?"
Bren didn't answer.
Kovan's grin faltered. "Right. Cool."
Leia walked behind them, her daggers still drawn—not in readiness, but in caution. No, not even that. It was distrust. She didn't say a word. Just stared at Bren's back like it might sprout wings or horns at any moment.
McEvoy was waiting near the west gate, arms crossed.
One look at them and he understood.
His eyes flicked to Bren, lingering. Then a short nod. "Debrief later. Medical now."
No questions. Not yet.
They filed toward the infirmary in silence. The sun had begun to rise, casting long shadows across the frost-laced grass.
The infirmary smelled of the same familiar scent of antiseptic and burnt ozone.
Myla had a bruised shoulder. Kovan's forearm was wrapped tight from blocking the demon's charge. Leia had a long cut down her thigh. Minor injuries, all things considered.
Bren? Nothing. Not a scratch.
The medic frowned as he hovered his diagnostic glyph over Bren's chest. "You're clean. No trauma. Not even bruising."
Bren gave a tight nod. "Guess I got lucky."
The medic grunted. "Sure. Lucky."
But even as he said it, the glyph shimmered oddly, flickering with violet pulses before stabilizing. The medic squinted, then shook his head, chalking it up to exhaustion.
Bren slid off the table and turned away.
"It wasn't luck," he thought. "It was him. It's always him."
He stood in front of the mirror. In the washroom.
The infirmary was quiet now, the others already gone. Bren had lingered. Part of him didn't want to see... but he had to.
His reflection stared back, still wearing the same hunter uniform. Still tall, still muscular. Still human… mostly.
But something was wrong.
He raised his hand, slowly. For a breath of a second, his fingers looked elongated—clawed. The black nails shimmered sharp in the low light—then blinked away, replaced with human skin again.
He pulled down his collar, fingers brushing his collarbone.
The black mark had spread. What had once been a normal scar over his heart now reached in branching veins up the side of his neck, like roots crawling for the surface. All black.
A voice coiled through his mind like smoke.
"Each kill brings us closer. You feel it, don't you? The rush. The hunger."
Bren's eyes narrowed. "You don't control me."
Nythor's whisper was silk and venom.
"Not yet."
Next morning, the frost had melted into slick mud, the training ground fogged with early haze. The squad was already there.
Light drills. Just motion recovery. No one really spoke.
There was a stiffness in the air, not just physical fatigue but emotional weight. Every movement felt slower, like they were dragging the memory of the portal fight with them, unable to shake its grip.
Leia practiced alone, her daggers flashing in sharp arcs. Myla stood by the weapon racks, stringing her bow with slow precision. Kovan was the only one trying to keep things normal, slinging jokes half-heartedly.
"Okay, so nobody's gonna talk about the demonic elephant in the room?" he asked, elbowing Bren lightly. "Your sword literally roared. Like, out loud. That's new."
Bren gave a faint smirk. "It did have a bit of personality."
"Bit?" Kovan scoffed. "It had presence, man. That thing made my axes jealous."
He grinned, but his eyes still flicked toward Bren's hands. Like he expected the blade to erupt again without warning.
Myla approached.
Quiet. Focused.
"You're different."
Bren tilted his head. "We all came out of that changed."
"Not like you."
She looked up at him, her eyes soft but serious—haunted, even.
"I don't know what's inside you, Bren," she said. "But it's not just a weapon. Or a skill. You moved like something else."
He tried to deflect. "Maybe I've been secretly eating demons for breakfast."
She didn't smile. Her hand hovered near her chest, fingers curling as if gripping something invisible.
"If you lose control again," she said, voice quieter now, "you'll hurt more than demons."
She hesitated. Then added, softer still—just for him:
"You'll hurt the squad... you'll hurt me."
Then she walked away before he could reply. Bren paused and watched as she went back to her bow.
Later that afternoon, a visiting Guild ally came to the field. Friendly sparring, a Guild custom.
It was supposed to be casual. Training bonding. But tension simmered just beneath the surface.
A girl named Talia stepped forward. Older. Confident. Her hair was braided tight, twin blades strapped to her back.
"Bren, right?" she asked. "Heard you're something special."
"Depends who's talking," he muttered.
Talia smirked. "Let's find out."
They squared off.
Bren held back. Let her make the first move. Her strikes were fast, clean, trained. He parried, ducked, deflected. He didn't want to hurt her.
Then she landed a hit.
A shallow one, barely a graze to his ribs.
But something in him snapped.
It wasn't pain. It was instinct.
Before she could reset, Bren moved, faster than her eyes could track. He surged forward, bladeless, and stopped just inches from her throat, hand outstretched with a strike that would've shattered her stance.
He pulled back at the last second.
Everyone watching had gone still.
Talia blinked. "What the hell was that?"
Bren stepped back, shocked and pale, his fists clenched.
From the edge of the field, Myla watched frozen, lips parted. Her bow dangled at her side, forgotten. She'd seen something in his eyes just now. Something that terrified her.
Not because she feared him.
Because she feared losing him.
[System Notification]
[Demon Core Sync: 15% → 17%]
[New Passive Skill Unlocked: Shadowstep I — Movement Speed Boost in Dim Light]
The message pulsed behind his eyes like a migraine.
High above, at the edge of the tower, three men watched.
Silas sipped tea, his coat fluttering in the cold breeze.
McEvoy stood beside him, arms crossed.
Moon on the other, hands in pockets.
"The transformation is accelerating," Silas said quietly.
"Rather disturbingly fast…" Moon mumbled.
"He held back," McEvoy replied.
Silas nodded. "Not for long."
He turned.
Both Sergeant McEvoy and Sergeant Moon's gaze immediately met his.
"Begin Phase Two."
The sergeants nodded and exited the room. Silas's eyes continued to watch the field below as the tension in the sparring ground finally broke and drills resumed, none of it mattered anymore.
What was coming could not be stopped with drills.
That night, Bren couldn't sleep.
He drifted in and out, the air too thick, his skin too warm, the weight in his chest thrumming like a heartbeat outside his own.
The sword pulsed in his dreams. He had visions of fire and screams—of black wings blotting out the stars.
He rose and left his cabin without realising, walking barefoot toward the edge of the forest, where the portal had opened the day before. The air still stank faintly of sulfur and wet ash.
"How the hell did I get here?" Bren asked himself.
Suddenly, it hit him.
A memory...
No, a vision...
He was somewhere else. Something else.
Chains clanged against obsidian stone. Screams echoed in endless dark. A throne, broken and jagged, sat atop a mountain of ash. Black wings spread wide, wider than sky—and a voice roared, fractured and godless.
Etched into a stone monolith, half-buried:
"NYTHOR THE FORSAKEN"
Bren dropped to his knees, gasping.
His hand clutched his chest as pain twisted beneath the skin—raw, cold, wanting more.
"Do you see now?" Nythor whispered inside him. "That was me. That was us. You feel it, the truth beneath your skin. The lie of your humanity is wearing thin."
Bren gritted his teeth. "Get out!"
"Why would I? This is our body now." The voice was honeyed darkness, wrapping around him. "You tasted it. The strength. You felt it surge when you struck down that demon like a god descending. It felt good... the rush."
"I'm not you," Bren growled, clutching his head.
"No… you're better. Because you have me." Nythor's voice turned sharp. "Let me in. Just for a moment. Full access. I'll show you what real power looks like."
"No."
"One heartbeat. One breath. I'll make you unstoppable. They fear you already, why not give them a reason?"
Bren forced himself upright, gasping for breath. "You're just a parasite riding in my veins."
"And yet you wouldn't be alive without me. That heart beating in your chest?" Nythor hissed. "It's mine. That strength in your limbs? Mine. The sword that answered your call? Mine."
He laughed. A sound that echoed inside Bren's head.
"Let me out, Bren. Let me show them what we are."
Bren screamed into the silence, fists pounding the earth below.
"No!"
[System Alert:]
[Demonic Link Surging – Threshold Reached: 20%]
[WARNING: Suppression Protocols Unstable. Core Awakening Approaching.]
His mind went suddenly silent. Bren wasnt sure if that was a good sign or a bad sign. He stared up at the blackened sky and sighed.
"Maybe he was right... I'm as much as dead. This may as well be his body." He muttered as he stood from the cold forest ground.
Bren stumbled back towards his cabin, chest heaving.
A puddle on the path caught his eye. He paused.
His reflection stared back... almost normal.
…Almost.
Just for a second, both eyes shimmered with burning violet.
Then it was gone.
But the pulse remained.
The sword didn't speak. Neither did Nythor.
They didn't need to.
They knew he'd felt it too.