The lookout took another cautious step, his hand tight on his sword hilt. His eyes, narrowed and sharp, swept the holly bushes. He was good. He moved with the softness of a hunter, not the heavy clomp of his companions by the fire. This was the dangerous one. The one Eric needed to remove first, and quietly.
Eric didn’t breathe. He was a stone behind the leaves. He could feel the man’s gaze passing over him. The hunger was a live wire under his skin, screaming to be used, to leap, but he clamped down on it. He was not a beast. Not yet.
The lookout paused, three strides away. He was listening. Eric let him listen. He heard the distant clang of the sparring swords, a rough laugh from the camp, the crackle of the fire. Normal sounds.
The man relaxed, just a fraction. He shook his head, muttered something under his breath about "nerves and squirrels," and turned slightly, starting to pivot back to his log.
He didn’t roar. He didn’t charge. He flowed out from behind the holly, a silent shadow in his dark academy uniform and black mask. Two quick, gliding steps. The lookout’s instincts were sharp—he began to turn, his mouth opening to shout a warning. ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by NoveI~Fire.net
He never got the chance.
Eric’s gloved hand clamped over his mouth from behind, yanking his head back. At the same time, his other arm snaked around the man’s chest, pinning his sword arm. The lookout was strong, wiry. He bucked, trying to drive an elbow back. Eric absorbed the blow against his ribs, the pain a distant, unimportant thing.
He leaned close to the man’s ear, the mask brushing his greying hair. The words came out in a low, ragged hiss, more for himself than for the bandit. "Be still."
Then he let the hunger go. Just a little. Just a trickle.
He didn’t bite. He didn’t claw. He focused the gnawing void inside him, that pulling, devouring sensation, and directed it through the point of contact. It was like opening a valve. The man’s muffled cry turned into a choked gurgle. Eric felt it then—a warm, vibrant current flooding into him. It was life. It was strength. It was the clean, sharp mana of a seasoned fighter, untapped and potent.
[MANA BANK: 12 UNITS ACQUIRED]
The lookout’s struggles weakened, then ceased. His body went limp, not dead, but utterly drained, empty. Eric lowered him silently to the forest floor behind the holly bush. The man’s eyes were open, glassy with shock and profound exhaustion. He’d live. Probably. But he wouldn’t be raising an alarm.
For a moment, Eric just stood there, breathing. The 12 units were a sip of water in a desert. The sharp edge of the hunger softened, and his mind cleared. The tremor in his hands vanished. He felt... better. Stronger. His senses seemed sharper, the sounds of the camp clearer. This was the trap. This was the seduction. Every time he fed, the System rewarded him, made him more effective at feeding again. It was a spiral, and he was already spinning down.
He looked down at the drained bandit. No guilt. Not for this. This was survival. Clean.
But the camp was still there. Five more sources of mana. The hunger, temporarily eased, was now a whispering promise. More. So much more. They’re right there.
A new, more dangerous kind of calm settled over him. He didn’t need to be a beast. He could be a shadow. A reaper.
He left the lookout and moved toward the camp, keeping to the deepening twilight shadows. He passed the fallen log, saw the half-whittled piece of wood. He paused, picked up the man’s small, sharp whittling knife, and slipped it into his pocket. A tool.
The sounds of the camp grew louder. The two men had stopped sparring and were now arguing by the fire over a wineskin. The big bearded man—the leader, Eric guessed—was berating the sleeping man, kicking at his bedroll. The one sharpening the dagger was still sharpening, the skritch-skritch of stone on metal a steady rhythm.
Eric stopped at the very edge of the tree line, behind a thick oak. The firelight danced just feet away. He could smell them—sweat, ale, unwashed bodies. The hunger stirred, not a roar now, but a low, eager growl.
Alright, he thought. Let’s see what 12 units can do.
He didn’t step into the light. He focused on the nearest source of noise and irritation: the leader kicking the sleeper.
"Get up, you lazy sod! You’re on watch after Harlen!"
Eric reached out with his will. Not to control, not to move. He reached for the man’s boot. Not the man, just the worn leather and stacked sole. He remembered the feel of Silk’s daggers lifting, the floor shifting under Stanley’s foot. This was the same instinct, but he pushed mana into it—a single unit from his new bank.
The leader’s planted foot, the one he was standing on, suddenly slid forward in the greasy mud by the firepit. It wasn’t a big movement. Just a few inches.
With a startled yell, the big man’s legs went out from under him. He crashed backwards, landing hard on his rear in the mud, the wineskin flying from his hand.
"What the hell, Borik?" one of the sparring men laughed.
"Slipped!" Borik roared, scrambling up, face flushed with anger and embarrassment. "This damned mud!"
Chaos. A distraction.
Eric was already moving. While the others were focused on the cursing, mud-smeared leader, he closed the distance to the man sharpening the dagger. The man heard a rustle, started to turn.
Eric was on him. A gloved hand over the mouth, the other gripping the wrist holding the dagger. He didn’t fight for the weapon. He just drained.
[MANA BANK: 23 UNITS ACQUIRED]
The warmth flooded him again, sweeter this time. The man slumped against the tree, his whetstone dropping into the grass. Eric propped him up, making him look like he’d just nodded off. Two down.
The hunger was a quiet, satisfied hum now. His body felt alive, thrumming with stolen power. His thoughts were crystal, ice-cold.
"Where’s Harlen?" one of the men by the fire asked, looking toward the empty log. "And where’s Tarn?"
The camp grew quiet. The laughter died. Borik stopped brushing mud off his trousers. The two remaining conscious thugs looked at each other, then out into the darkening forest. They reached for their weapons.
Eric didn’t bother with stealth this time. He walked into the circle of firelight.
The three men stared. A masked figure in a dark uniform, emerging from the shadows like a ghost. For a second, they were frozen, confused.
"Who—" Borik began, hefting a heavy axe.
Eric didn’t let him finish. He moved, and he was fast. The 12 units, then 11 more, they weren’t just numbers. They were in his muscles, his blood. He crossed the distance before the man with the sword could raise it.
He didn’t punch. He grabbed the man’s sword arm and pulled.
[MANA BANK: 34 UNITS ACQUIRED]
The man’s eyes rolled back, and he crumpled. Eric let him fall, turning to the next.
This one was smarter. He threw his wineskin at Eric’s face and lunged with his dagger. Eric sidestepped the lunge, his movements fluid, almost casual. He caught the man’s wrist, twisted, and pulled him close, chest to chest. The drain was quicker this time, a swift, brutal siphon.
[MANA BANK: 42 UNITS]
He dropped the second body.
Only Borik remained. The leader’s bravado was gone, replaced by raw, animal fear. He held his axe in shaking hands, backing away toward the fire.
"Demon..." he whispered. "What are you?"
Eric didn’t answer. He just walked toward him. Borik screamed, a high, ragged sound, and swung the axe with all his strength. It was a wild, terrified blow. Eric leaned back, letting it whistle past his chest. Before Borik could recover, Eric stepped in and placed a single gloved hand on the man’s broad, heaving chest.
He didn’t just drain this one. He let the hunger, now sated and powerful, feast.
[MANA BANK: 59 UNITS ACQUIRED]
Borik’s scream cut off. He didn’t just weaken; he seemed to shrivel, his vitality ripped away in a torrent. He fell to his knees, then toppled onto his side, breathing in shallow, ragged gasps, his eyes wide and empty.
The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the shallow breathing of six broken men.
Eric stood in the center of the camp, surrounded by the results of his work. The raging hunger was gone, replaced by a deep, satiated stillness. His mana bank was fuller than it had ever been. He felt incredible. Strong. Clear. Invincible.
He looked at his hands again. Still clean. No blood. Just stolen lives.
The beast hadn’t needed to roar. It had just... consumed.
He walked over to the fire, picked up a fallen strip of dried meat from near the pot, and took a bite, chewing slowly. He wasn’t hungry for food, but the action felt normal. Human.
He had hours before he needed to be back at the wall. He had a camp to search, and six bandits who would eventually wake up, weak and terrified, with no memory of the masked shadow that had ended their reign.
He was no longer just hiding. He was hunting. And for the first time since arriving in this world, he felt the terrifying, exhilarating shape of his true power. It wasn’t in the strength of his arms, but in the silent, devouring void he carried within.
He was the curse. And the curse, when fed, was peace.