Surviving his first hunt, Kael has tasted blood and glimpsed his mother's unmatched power in the Hollow Crown labyrinth. Yet the tribe's scorn deepens, and the system unlocks a new path with the Devour function. As the bloodline ritual approaches, shadows stir in distant lands, hinting at a destiny far beyond the forest. Can Kael rise above the whispers, or will his father's shadow bury him?
# Chapter: The Art of War
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Kael'th darted behind the nearest tree, bark scraping his back as he gulped air. His legs trembled—not from fear, but from the oppressive weight of the Cravern Wight-Beast looming in the clearing.
*That thing… was a monster. Far beyond what I fought. Its presence choked the air, a suffocating dread.*
Kael glanced at his aunt, crouched nearby. "Aunt, help her!" he whispered urgently.
She blinked, a smirk tugging her lips. "Help her? Don't be timid, boy. That cute little thing doesn't even know it's about to die."
Her smile wasn't mockery—it was absolute confidence.
"Your mother's much stronger than that."
---
**Then the battle began.**
A blur of fur and fangs erupted across the clearing. Kael's mother—no, the monster that raised him—launched into motion.
From her first lunge, it was no contest.
The Wight-Beast reacted on instinct, jaws snapping, talons slashing with brute force. But Kael's mother moved like a storm carved by intent—precise, lethal, almost graceful. Her claws sliced silent arcs, her body twisting mid-air, feinting and striking with terrifying control.
The beast's roars became howls—desperate, panicked, futile.
*To an untrained eye, it might have seemed a wild brawl. But to me? This was art. The kind only those trained to kill could understand.*
Kael watched, stunned, not just by her strength but by her restraint. She could have ended it in seconds. Instead, she toyed with the beast, letting it exhaust itself, an apex predator asserting dominance.
---
**Then—silence.**
The Wight-Beast collapsed, its skeletal frame hitting the earth with a dull thud. Blood splattered the ferns. Steam rose from its wounds.
Kael's mother turned, her face—fierce, bloodstained, fangs bared—softening as her eyes met his.
"Kael!" she rushed to him, voice cracking with worry. "Are you alright, my son?"
The same creature who danced with death now crouched before him like a worried mother hen, scanning for wounds as if he were fragile glass.
*I blinked up at her. This… this contradiction shook me. A monster outside. A mother inside.*
"I'm okay," Kael managed. "You… really tore it apart."
She chuckled, pulling him into a hug that reeked of blood and warmth. "Of course I did. What kind of mother would I be if I let something hurt you?"
*I wanted to say something clever—but I just stood there, buried in her arms.*
They stayed like that, a quiet moment amidst the carnage.
---
Then she rose, grabbed the beast's carcass with her teeth, and, with Kael's aunt flanking them, they dragged it back toward the village.
*Kael's body still trembled—but it wasn't from fear anymore.*
---
At the village's edge, marked by thick roots, the silence shattered.
Voices swarmed like flies.
"Did you hear? She dragged a beast in with her pup again."
"Tch, no way the runt did anything. His mother probably handed it to him on a silver fang."
"A shadow of the old alpha. Poor Kaelir…"
"He couldn't even dodge a landslide."
Kael's ears twitched with each jab. This time, it wasn't just young wolves—warriors, mothers, even crones hunched in the moss joined in, their tails twitching with disdain, eyes pretending not to stare while dripping scorn.
*My claws dug into the earth.*
Before Kael could speak, his aunt's tail lashed.
"You filth-ridden worms," she snarled, stepping forward. "If you have something to say, say it to me."
Some wolves retreated. Others shrank into the ferns, feigning innocence.
Kael sighed. "Aunt, don't bother with them. They aren't worth it."
Her head jerked toward him. "They crossed the line, Kael. Even worms need reminding what happens when they spit at a lion."
---
A thicker voice cut through. "Well, well… isn't this a sight."
Kael turned. An older wolf approached, greying fur streaked with time but not weakness, his gait hinting at past authority. Beside him trotted a cub, two to three moons old, not much older than Kael. The elder's eyes glinted with cold bitterness, like curdled memories.
*Varok, a semi-elder, once advisor to Kael's father, Kaelir.*
"Isn't this the wife and pup of the late Kaelir?" Varok asked, voice laced with false courtesy.
Kael's mother's eyes narrowed. "What do you want, Varok?"
Varok's gaze slid to the carcass. "I just wonder… why parade this around? Why pretend your son defeated something worth mentioning?"
Kael's claws tightened, but his mother remained calm. "Because he did defeat it."
"Oh, I see." Varok's smile was a baring of teeth. "So the cub who couldn't outrun a landslide is suddenly a hunter now? How… inspiring."
Kael's aunt growled low.
---
Varok continued. "I suppose we'll see in the coming bloodline ritual. See how much of Kaelir truly lives in this one." He nodded at Kael, eyes icy. "Though honestly… it would insult the old alpha's memory to call this child his heir."
That word hung like a knife. Kael's blood boiled, but he didn't move.
"Let's go," his mother said sharply.
As they turned, Kael caught Varok's son staring—expression unreadable, neither cruel nor kind. Just watching.
*Born the same season as me. Pitied where I'm hated. Both of us shadowed by our fathers.*
---
Back in the cave, the quiet was louder than the gossip.
Kael's mother set the beast's carcass aside and sat, sighing heavily. "I know you heard all that."
"I'm not deaf," Kael said.
"Then ignore it," she urged. "What matters isn't what they say now—but what they'll say after the bloodline ritual."
Kael met her gaze. "You've mentioned that before. What… actually happens in that ritual?"
She paused, then nodded. "You're old enough to know a little. Every year, before the next mating season, young born before it undergo the ritual. The Council of Elders performs it—they're the real power, even above the alpha. Once done, you're an adult."
"So they judge your bloodline?" Kael asked.
"They awaken it. The part that can be awakened, based on how strong your body, mind, and instincts have grown. The purer and stronger you are… the more of your bloodline answers the call."
---
She stood, eyes fierce. "That's why you must focus on getting stronger. Level up. Evolve. Refine your instincts. Because when that ritual comes…" She knelt, touching his snout gently. "I want them all to see exactly who you are."
*I nodded, biting back the storm inside. Strength. Instinct. Growth. That's how I'd prove I wasn't a shadow.*
---
**—Ding!**
**System: Main Quest Unlocked**
Objective: Prove your worth. Become as strong as you can before the bloodline ritual.
Rewards: ???
Penalty: ???
*A grin tugged my lips.*
"Looks like even fate wants to see me rise," Kael whispered.
His legs buckled. Exhaustion, tension—too much, too fast. He collapsed into the moss, sleep pulling him under before his head hit the stone.
Just before darkness claimed him—
**System: Devour Core Function: Unlocked**
**You may now devour your first monster core.**
Kael's eyes fluttered. Then the grin returned.
*Time to eat.*
---
## The Gallows Depths
Far from the Hollow Crown's savage depths, on the continent's eastern edge, a newly formed adventuring party descended into the Gallows Depths—a forsaken dungeon once declared cleared by the Adventurers' Guild.
Whispers of vanishings had resurfaced, too persistent to ignore, drawing the bold and foolhardy to its shadowed maw.
---
The party of four moved cautiously, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous entrance.
Lira, the rogue, led with a dagger in each hand, her sharp eyes scanning the gloom.
Behind her, Torren, the mage, clutched a staff etched with faintly glowing runes, his breath uneven.
Gorrim, a hulking warrior, gripped a warhammer, his armor clinking softly.
Sylva, the healer, trailed with a satchel of herbs and a wary glance, her holy amulet glinting in the torchlight.
---
The air was thick, heavy with rot and an unnatural silence. Stale blood stained the cracked stone walls, their surfaces etched with faded glyphs—remnants of a forgotten empire. The ground bore claw marks, scuff marks, signs of struggle, yet no bodies, no bones.
Only drag marks snaked deeper, like trails of prey hauled into the abyss.
"We shouldn't be here," Lira muttered, her grip tightening.
*This place is dead. Too dead.*
Her thief's instincts screamed danger, every shadow a potential blade.
"No," Torren whispered, his voice trembling.
*Something's alive. I can feel it in the mana currents.*
His staff pulsed faintly, sensing a disturbance—like a heartbeat buried in the stone.
---
Gorrim snorted, hefting his hammer. "You're both jumping at ghosts. Guild said this place was cleared decades ago. Probably just bandits using it as a hideout."
Sylva's voice was soft but firm. "Bandits don't leave marks like these. This feels… wrong."
---
They pressed on, descending a spiral stair carved into the rock, its edges worn by centuries. Torches flickered, casting jagged shadows that seemed to writhe. The glyphs grew denser, their shapes twisting into symbols none could read—spirals, fangs, eyes that seemed to watch.
A faint hum vibrated the air, not sound but pressure, pressing on their chests.
Lira paused at a collapsed archway, its keystone cracked. Beyond lay a corridor lined with alcoves, each holding a shattered statue—knights, priests, kings, their faces eroded, hands clutching broken swords or scrolls.
"This was a temple once," she said. "Or a tomb."
Torren traced a glyph, his staff sparking. "These are warding runes. Old magic. Meant to seal something in, not out."
Gorrim kicked a stone, unimpressed. "Seal what? Dust?"
Sylva clutched her amulet. "Don't mock what you don't understand, Gorrim. The guild was wrong before."
---
The corridor narrowed, forcing them single file. Lira's boots scuffed against bones—small, animal-like, but wrong, with too many joints. She froze as a trap clicked beneath her foot. A dart whistled from the wall, grazing her cheek. She cursed, blood trickling.
"Watch your step. This place wants us dead."
Torren cast a light spell, illuminating the path. The walls glistened, slick with a black ichor that pulsed faintly, like veins.
"This isn't natural," he said.
*It's alive. The dungeon itself is alive.*
---
They reached a chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness. A mosaic floor depicted a coiled serpent, its fangs dripping crimson tiles. In the center stood a rusted iron gate, chained shut, engraved with a single word:
**Oblivion.**
The drag marks led beneath it.
Gorrim approached, hammer raised. "Let's see what's hiding."
Before Lira could stop him, he smashed the chains. The gate groaned open, releasing a gust of foul air—sulfur, blood, decay.
---
**The shadows moved.**
Crimson-and-black cloaked figures surged from the darkness, silent as specters. Their faces were masked, eyes hollow, hands clutching curved blades etched with glowing sigils.
Lira spun, daggers flashing, but a needle pricked her arm, its venom burning cold. She staggered, vision blurring.
*Not bandits. Not human.*
Torren raised his staff, fire blooming, but a sigil pulsed on a cultist's blade, dousing the flames. A second needle struck his neck. He collapsed, gasping.
*No… the mana's blocked.*
Gorrim roared, hammer swinging, crushing one cultist's skull, but three more leapt, needles sinking into his flesh. He fell, armor clanging.
Sylva chanted a prayer, light flaring from her amulet, but a cultist's blade slashed her wrist. The light died. She screamed as venom took hold, her body slumping.
---
The cultists moved with eerie precision, dragging the paralyzed adventurers through the gate, down a tunnel that spiraled into the earth. The walls pulsed, ichor dripping, glyphs glowing red. The air grew hotter, thicker, as if the dungeon breathed.
---
## The Altar Chamber
They awoke bound in chains of bone, in an altar chamber carved from the dungeon's heart.
Pillars of stitched flesh and blackened obsidian loomed, carved with faces frozen in agony. A blood-soaked dais dominated the center, surrounded by a moat of crimson liquid that bubbled without heat. A fire burned in a brazier—not warming, but devouring, its black flames consuming light itself.
Lira strained against her chains, venom dulling her senses.
*This is no dungeon. It's an altar to something unholy.*
Torren's eyes darted, mana still sealed.
*I can't cast. I can't think.*
Gorrim's muscles bulged, chains creaking, but they held.
Sylva whispered prayers, her amulet dark.
---
A robed priest emerged, his face hidden beneath a hood, sigils pulsing on his crimson robes. His voice was a sermon, thick with madness.
"Blood of the gifted… souls of the daring… for he who stirs beneath the roots of power… grant the flesh of kings to the hands of shadows."
The cultists chanted, their voices a guttural hymn in a tongue older than empires. Blades rose, their edges gleaming with venom.
Lira's scream was cut short as a knife slashed her throat, blood pooling on the dais.
Torren's eyes widened, a blade piercing his chest.
Gorrim roared, veins bursting, but a dagger found his heart.
Sylva's prayer faltered as steel met flesh.
---
The dais drank their blood, glowing red. The pillars shuddered, faces twisting as if alive. A massive gear turned below—stone grinding stone, shaking the chamber.
**The altar sank.**
Descending through tunnels forgotten by time. Past catacombs sealed for centuries, their walls lined with skulls, their air thick with whispers. Down, down, through layers of earth and stone, until it stopped in a vaulted chamber.
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## The King's Chamber
The chamber was vast, its ceiling supported by columns carved as serpents, their eyes gemstones that glowed with cursed light. Ancient banners hung, tattered but bearing the royal crest of the Eirenthal Empire—gold and crimson, a crowned eagle clutching a scepter.
The floor was a mosaic of bones, arranged in spirals that converged on a pool of blood where the altar rested.
The blood pulsed, rippling as if alive. Shadows moved within it, not reflections but entities, their forms indistinct yet menacing. The cultists knelt, heads bowed, as the priest raised his hands.
"The gifted are given. The daring are broken. The roots of power drink deep."
---
A voice echoed—not the priest's, not human, but something older, deeper, resonating from the pool. It spoke no words, only intent—hunger, ambition, wrath. The air grew heavy, the fire in the brazier flaring, casting shadows that danced like specters.
The priest's hood fell back, revealing a face scarred with sigils, eyes white and blind. He spoke in an ancient tongue, each syllable a wound in the air.
*"When the Tenth Fang falls and the Hollowborn awakens… our King of Ash and Hunger shall walk the world again."*
---
The pool churned, blood rising in tendrils, forming a silhouette—tall, crowned, clawed. It was not flesh, not yet, but a promise of what stirred beneath. The banners trembled, the eagle's eyes seeming to weep.
---
## A Distant Echo
In the Hollow Crown, thousands of miles away, Kael slept, unaware that the system's pulse quickened, as if sensing a distant threat.
The Devour Core function glowed faintly, a spark of power tied to a legacy older than the labyrinth itself.
---
The cultists rose, blades sheathed, and vanished into the shadows. The altar remained, blood still, but the chamber hummed with purpose.
**Beneath the Eirenthal Empire's capital, the King of Ash and Hunger stirred, waiting for the Tenth Fang to fall.**