A palpable dread choked the air in the bar. No one spoke, no one moved. Outside, the rain crashed against the windows, the storm drowning everything—everything except the chilling sound they had heard before, the sound that always heralded death.

  A slow creak echoed from the entrance. The door opened, slowly, deliberately, as if whatever stood beyond it savored the moment. And then, they entered.

  Three figures, dressed as men, their steps calm, their clothes pristine, untouched by the filth of Black Hollow. Yet, their mouths dripped crimson—thick, viscous, fresh. People stiffened, gripping whatever makeshift weapons they possessed, pressing themselves deeper into the bar's shadows, as if darkness could offer a shield.

  The tallest of the newcomers paused, tilting his head slightly, his expression pleasant, human—almost inviting. Then, he spoke. "We are hungry."

  A simple statement, yet every syllable felt wrong, as if the words themselves weren't meant for human tongues. The bartender's hands trembled. Someone at the back of the room shifted, a quiet prayer whispered under their breath.

  The Bloodbound did not move immediately. Instead, their lips twitched—just slightly. Something was happening, something was changing. The longer they stood there, the longer they smiled, the more their faces lost their humanity. Their jaws tightened, their cheeks twitched, their lips stretched wider—just a fraction too far. A subtle grind of bone underscored the sickening change. Their teeth—too sharp now, too many now. They were human, yet grotesquely transformed.

  And then, panic spread. Someone knocked over a glass, the sound shattering through the silence like a gunshot. The Luminaries stood, their hands hovering over their weapons, but none drew their blades. None moved forward. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with unmasked terror.

  A low, amused chuckle cut through the rising panic. That's when the stranger at the bar—the pilgrim—spoke, his voice calm, almost amused. "Aren't you supposed to be warriors?"

  The words landed like a blade, cutting through their pride, their arrogance. The Luminary closest to him turned sharply, his face contorted in immediate insult and anger. But the stranger merely took another sip of his drink. "Why are you just standing here?" He tilted his glass slightly, almost lazily. "Want to share my drink?"

  The Luminary clenched his teeth, fury sparking in his eyes. Yet, even he couldn't ignore what stood before him. The Bloodbound were watching—silent, smiling, waiting. And none of them knew which would strike first.

  The bar became a prison of fear. The air thrummed with a tangible terror as people held their breath, pressed against the wooden walls, hiding behind overturned tables, their eyes locked on the horrors unfolding before them. The Bloodbound had begun their feast.

  A man barely had time to scream before a twisted limb stretched unnaturally, its bones snapping, joints bending in ways no human should move—it caught him effortlessly. Another Bloodbound crawled, its fingers pressing into the ceiling like an insect, its grin wide—too wide, unnatural. Its head twitched sharply, gaze locking onto a shaking woman at the back of the bar. The third stepped forward, slow, deliberate, heading for the center of the room.

  The Luminaries, spurred by a desperate flicker of pride, finally moved. Their hands gripped their weapons—they tried to stand tall, tried to look strong, tried to look like warriors. But it was a lie. The Bloodbound overpowered them immediately. One was caught, a hand twisting around his throat like a steel vice; another slammed into the ground, unable to rise. Their screams turned into silence.

  Amidst the chaos, one man kept drinking. The stranger—his second glass of fruit juice untouched by the carnage around him. His fingers tapped against the wood in leisure, ignoring the terror unfolding mere feet away. A faint, almost bored, hum escaped his lips.

  Then, a sudden movement. One Luminary tried to run. He turned, rushing for the exit, abandoning the town, abandoning his men, abandoning his pride. And the stranger acted. A hand gripped his wrist—firm, unyielding. The Luminary gasped, frozen, turning sharply to face the man who had barely spoken a word.

  "What?" the stranger murmured. His voice was calm—too calm. His grip tightened. "Trying to save your own skin?" And then—he lifted him. Effortlessly. The Luminary was thrown, his body sent flying toward the Bloodbound gripping the ceiling. The creature caught him, barely reacting, barely registering the shock—and bit deep into his neck.

  But its gaze shifted—away from the broken corpse, away from the weaklings dying on the floor. It locked eyes with the stranger. And finally—Emmet revealed himself.

  His hood fell back, his presence fully exposed. The Totem on his back—secured by thick chains, now clearer, smaller but heavier, bound to him with intent. The Bloodbound paused, something within them shifting—not fear, but something close.

  Emmet rolled his shoulders, stretching his body properly, adjusting the weight of his weapon, his purpose, his hunt. "Let's play."

  Then—he dashed forward. His Totem was already moving, thrown directly into the first Bloodbound, the force sending it outside, crashing through the entrance, its body rolling onto the soaked streets. Emmet didn't stop. He jumped, rising to meet the Bloodbound clinging to the ceiling. His left hand gripped its throat, twisting, pulling—then, with pure, brutal force, he slammed it into the ground below. The floor cracked beneath the impact. The creature twitched, body broken, form distorted. And Emmet—his Totem still bound to his right arm by chains—stood over it. Not stopping. Not hesitating. The hunt had begun.

  The Bloodbound did not attack recklessly. They were watching, studying him—the man who threw a Luminary like he was weightless, the man still gripping his chains, the man still standing while they had lost two already. They moved with a calculated, predatory grace.

  A shifting formation—one darting left, one cutting forward, one coiling upward along the ruined beams of the bar's ceiling. Their movements were unnervingly silent. They thought they were fast enough. They thought he was just another human. But Emmet did not run. Did not panic. Did not care.

  As they struck—he pulled. The chains around his totem vanished, sucked into nothingness as the massive artifact ripped forward, growing heavier, larger, now fully in his grip. The Bloodbound realized too late. "So you wanna come closer?" The words came just before the fall.

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  Emmet slammed the Totem down, and in an instant—Gravity Pull activated. A force far beyond any earthly weight, beyond any illusion of control—ripped them toward the core of destruction. Their bodies twisted—air shifting around them as their movements were no longer theirs to command. They were dragged, forced, pulled. And before their feet even touched the ground—the first shockwave hit.

  Slow-motion destruction. A pulse through their bones, their skulls fracturing first, limbs bending inward, bodies floating yet breaking, locked in the power of something far greater than themselves. They were trapped in the air, unable to fight, unable to resist.

  And then—the second wave. This time, the impact burned. Their skin melted, their muscle tore apart, their very essence crushed from existence. The Bloodbound screamed—not in rage, not in strength, but in horrific understanding. They had never been stronger. They had never been in control. They had never had a chance.

  And before even a sliver of their souls could escape—Emmet threw the Totem once more. This time—unbound. Small. Controlled. A final strike—a grenade of pure force. The explosion sent a shockwave tearing through the room, fire and energy obliterating everything but him. The bar collapsed—wood shattered, cement crumbled, dust swallowed the world in thick smoke.

  And when the chaos settled—when the air finally stilled—nothing remained. No Bloodbound. No bodies. No whispers of the horrors that had once feasted on this town. Only Emmet stood, amidst the ruins, his Totem resting beside him. He exhaled. A calm breath. He dusted an invisible speck from his shoulder, glancing at the destruction around him.

  "Sorry," he murmured, voice even, utterly unbothered. "I think I might have overdone it this time." His fingers tightened slightly around his Totem. "I didn't know you guys were so weak." And with that—he turned away, leaving nothing but dust where monsters once stood.

  Emmet stepped out of the bar, rolling his shoulders as the last embers of conflict faded into the streets behind him. The fight had ended—the Bloodbound warriors lay broken, their bodies cooling under the dim glow of street lanterns—but he knew this wasn't over.

  Then came the voice. Calm. Measured. Almost amused.

  "Ahh, if it isn't the renowned Demoncrusher, the Totemwalker. Your reputation precedes you."

  She clapped slowly, taking deliberate steps forward, the clicking of her heels uncomfortably refined for someone standing among corpses. A noblewoman? No—not quite. There was something wrong, something off about the way she carried herself, how she looked at him not as a threat, but as entertainment.

  "You've been hunting our kind for quite some time now, haven't you?"

  Emmet didn't respond—not yet. He merely watched, assessing.

  The woman smiled, unfazed, brushing aside an invisible speck of dust from her sleeve. "I will retreat for now," she said lightly, as though announcing the conclusion of a dinner party rather than a battlefield. "But you know there are more of us here, don't you?"

  Emmet narrowed his gaze. This wasn't a message for him. It was a performance.

  "Why don't we make a deal?" she continued, tilting her head ever so slightly. "Meet us outside the gate."

  Emmet exhaled slowly, shifting his stance. "The gate? Why not now?"

  The Bloodbound noble's grin widened. "Ahh, you see—I need witnesses." She gestured loosely toward the outskirts of town. "Also, so that you have a better view. A better view of just how many of us are waiting."

  Emmet didn't blink. "Alright. What time?"

  "An hour." She made a grand gesture of giving him time, as though it was a courtesy. "I'll give you the chance to run. If you decide to escape, that's fine too."

  Emmet smirked—not in amusement, but in understanding. "How kind of you."

  The Bloodbound leader's expression did not waver. "One hour. Be there." Then she was gone, her presence dissolving into the murmurs of the wind and the distant screams of the dying.

  Emmet turned, scanning the shadows, finding the lone surviving Luminary soldier who had hesitated in the aftermath of the fight. "You heard her, didn't you?" Emmet said flatly.

  The soldier flinched. The authority in his voice wasn't aggressive—but it was absolute. "Find your elder. Find the town's leader. You have one hour."

  The Luminary hesitated, his pride momentarily clashing with his survival instinct. "Why would I listen to you?"

  Emmet's gaze didn't waver. He spoke as if the answer was obvious. "Oh? You think I care? Tell your elder. Make sure they meet her there. I'll up her offer."

  The Luminary frowned. "Up her offer?"

  Emmet's tone remained infuriatingly steady. "I will leave this city." Silence. "So tell me—why should you listen to me?"

  The Luminary swallowed. He knew Emmet wasn't bluffing. He had seen what he was capable of, had seen the blood trail left behind him, the precision in which he dispatched enemies like it was second nature. Then he ran—cowardly, desperate, rushing to relay the message to his leaders.

  And with that, the stage was set. One hour. Emmet watched the city in eerie stillness, knowing the parley wasn't about negotiation—it was about spectacle. And he was about to give them one hell of a show.

  The hour passed. A stillness weighed heavy on the air as the town leaders gathered at the gate, their expressions betraying the mounting terror beneath their composed facades. The towering wooden arch loomed before them, framing the wasteland beyond—and the gathering of figures waiting in the shadows.

  Emmet stood at the gate. Watching. Waiting. Uninvolved. Douglas, the town leader, visibly swallowed, his gaze darting to Emmet like a drowning man to a distant shore, searching for some sign that he would step forward—that he would take the burden of negotiation himself. But Emmet merely tilted his head, arms crossed, before uttering two words. "Good luck."

  Douglas stiffened, but he had no time to reply. From beyond the gate, the Bloodbound stepped forward, their leader moving with a grace that felt too refined for a creature of slaughter. Divina.

  She stood before them, dressed in dark silks that should have belonged in courtly halls, not battlefields, her presence unsettling, not because of monstrous features—she had none—but because of the cold amusement in her eyes, which seemed to chill the very air around her. She stopped just within arm's reach, a hand resting delicately at her side, before exhaling in mock disappointment. "Ah, Totemwalker. How dull of you."

  Emmet didn't react.

  "I had hoped you'd join us at the table. But instead..." She turned, eyeing Douglas and Conor—both trying, desperately, to appear resolute. "Instead, I am entertained with this."

  Douglas swallowed, forcing himself forward. "We are here to speak for the town—"

  "Ah." Divina held up a finger. "Correction." She leaned forward, voice almost mocking in its patience. "You are here begging for your lives. Not for your town."

  Silence. Conor clenched his jaw. Douglas hesitated.

  Divina smiled. "How quickly you separate yourselves from your people."

  Douglas choked down his pride, hands trembling slightly as he forced his words out. "The Totemwalker—Emmet—is not one of us. We do not support his cause. He is a traveler, a pilgrim. He has nothing to do with this town."

  A pause. Then, soft laughter. Divina glanced at Emmet, eyes shimmering with amusement. "And yet, you still glance at him. Hoping he'll save you." Douglas averted his gaze. "Interesting."

  She turned fully to face them now, the weight of her gaze pressing like a hand around their throats. "I am not cruel." Her voice was even. Elegant. A performer in absolute control of the stage. "I am someone who honors promises. But you see..." She smiled. "I set the rules." Her cold elegance shattered, revealing the monster beneath her silk. "Pick twenty people and leave. The rest will remain as our feast."

  The words hung in the air. Heavy. Crushing. Designed for despair. Divina watched them break, knowing that Emmet—who stood untouched by fear—would see just how easily mortals crumbled before inevitability. She was enjoying this. She wanted them to feel it.

  Sweat dripped from Douglas' brow as he stepped back into the city, Conor walking silently beside him, his hands clenched into fists. Neither spoke. Neither could. The words still echoed in their heads. "Pick twenty people and leave. The rest will remain as our feast." They had one day. One day to decide who would live and who would die.

  Conor was the first to break the silence. "Fair deal. I pick ten from my side. The rest is yours. We need to save our skin."

  Douglas turned sharply, staring at him—disgusted. "You have no shame."

  Conor didn't flinch. "And you have no power. We don't get to choose."

  Douglas inhaled deeply. "I cannot decide for myself. The townspeople must know the situation before we act."

  "Fine," Conor exhaled, shaking his head, already tired of the conversation. "But you only have ten spots."

  Douglas said nothing. It wasn't just about numbers—it was about betrayal. They were already walking on the blade's edge.

  The clock had begun its relentless countdown to the unimaginable choice.