“Well fuck you too, I guess,” Damian scoffed and began pacing. “Okay, so what do I know about wendigos and their weaknesses?”

  If he remembered correctly, they were spirits of winter, hunger, and selfishness that could possess or transform humans. To kill one without being a shaman or spellcaster, you had to remove the beast’s heart and burn or melt it with fire. Luckily, they were susceptible to iron and steel, so he didn’t need to worry about that part. The problem: wendigos were ambush predators. They’d stalk prey for hours before a brutal, fast chase to finish off anyone unlucky or stupid enough to trespass.

  He gripped his new knife tightly, grateful for the Blood-Quenched Resonance that would at least indicate where the beast came from. Ideally he’d track and kill it before it knew he was there, but the chances were slim. Even if he stalked successfully, he was unlikely to land a meaningful blow before it was noticed.

  Damian blew out a frustrated breath and rubbed his temples. With little choice, he moved deeper into the forest, placing his feet carefully while scanning for tracks or signs. As he crept into the light taiga, day flipped abruptly to night, no stars, visibility down to fifteen feet. Unnatural silence fell, like the forest held its breath. Pines leaned in, ready to carry the slightest sound to the beast that called this place home.

  Half an hour later, he spotted the first sign, not footprints or scratches, not fur or droppings. The temperature plunged further. Whispers on the wind begged for mercy and food in equal measure. Worst: the certainty he was followed. The thing knew he was there, waiting for him to lose rationality. It would unleash a bloodcurdling screech to scare him into wasting energy or weapons, then chase and maul him.

  Damian forced calm and took stock.

  ‘I can’t outrun it, it moves faster than the eye can track. My only chance is to limit its attack vectors, force a cut from Sanguine Ember to activate Ephemeral Shroud, then use the last WD-40 can and lighter to set it alight. The question is how.’

  He moved forward slowly, whipping his head side to side to sell the panic. He wracked his brain and barely remembered Ancestral Puebloans and other southwestern tribes used symbols like roadrunner footprints and crisscrossing lines to confuse evil spirits; they couldn’t follow the tracks, and lines obscured paths. In the next clearing, he’d slash patterns into trunks crazily but accurately, making it look like panic.

  Two minutes later, he reached the clearing and put the plan in motion. He froze as if hearing something, screamed obscenities, ran at a tree, and slashed wildly with Sanguine Ember, the blade bit deep into the pine easier than it should. He charged another tree, repeated, until one trunk remained unmarked. He threw his back against it.

  With his foot, he drew two X’s in the snow on either side, forcing the beast straight at him. The wendigo shrieked, like an elk call mixed with clattering bones, and Damian swore beneath it he heard his father begging for help. He shook his head, braced against the tree, knife ready, and let out a guttural scream of fear and defiance.

  “WENDIGO! Come and face me, coward!” he screamed, knowing fearlessness and using its name would enrage it. “Do you take your time hunting because you were so bad at it as a mortal you starved to death?”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  That did it. The beast barreled into the clearing, nine feet tall, mostly twig-thin arms and legs. Skeletal ribs wrenched open displayed an oversized heart above a potbelly from prolonged starvation. Face covered by an elk skull with one antler broken off; beneath, faint human contours showed it had once been human, transformed by the malicious spirit.

  The wendigo roared, slamming hands on the ground to intimidate. It tried to circle, paused in confusion, anger forgotten, head tilted. It stepped back, tried the opposite, stopped again. Growled in frustration, stepped forward, same result. It froze, snarled, whipped its head toward Damian.

  Damian tensed, ready to dive. The wendigo tensed its legs, he dove sideways, but a fraction too slow. Claws impaled his torso, slamming him against the tree. Horror hit as the beast loomed.

  An unnatural calm came over him. He lashed out with Sanguine Ember, the wendigo reeled back with a shriek, dropping him. The blade buried to the hilt in its forearm as it desperately tried to pull free.

  Damian drew his lighter and WD-40 can with trembling hands, aimed as the beast froze and turned, what he hoped was horror. He emptied the can into the small flame. Whoosh, the upper torso ignited. It screamed in pain and fear as flames took root, holy burn spreading up the arm from the lodged knife. Just a matter of time.

  Damian forced himself up and stared dumbfounded as the spirit abandoned its host, withdrawing into the heart. It froze over rapidly and flew from the cavity.

  “Oh, fuck no you don’t!” Damian snarled. He leaped with desperate energy, caught the fleeing heart. Savage grin: “I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to find a way to torture you if I survive this!”

  He snatched his knife from the smoldering corpse as a sharp ping sounded.

  Damian snorted with what mirth he could muster as the world blurred. He found himself on a well-traveled dirt path, trees thinning ahead, faint campfires glow in the distance. He groaned but dragged forward, determined not to bleed out. If he completed the trial, the system would heal him, it was just a matter of time. Minutes felt like hours as he staggered.

  Just as he thought he couldn’t continue, a deep voice with a light Mediterranean accent came from his left. “Well now, this is surprising. You actually managed to stumble to my camp in that condition. I must say I’m impressed, boy.”

  Damian turned. A large man sat on a stump, staring with curiosity and anticipation. Short curling ram’s horns on his head, faint amber-glowing eyes. Renaissance-era Italian merchant trappings: poofy sleeves, lacy cuffs, tights that left little to the imagination.

  “Don’t just stand there, lad. Have a seat and let’s see if we can do something about those wounds, hmm?” the stranger asked.

  Damian took stock and didn’t like the conclusion. Intersection that wasn’t there before, horned stranger offering aid? Obvious demon. Body about to give out, he could only hope the price wasn’t too high.

  “Tell me, demon, what will your help cost me?” Damian asked with a resigned sigh as he sat on a log that appeared behind him. The demon smiled, amusement growing.

  “I’ll give you three options. First, and the one you expect, your immortal soul in ten years’ time. Second, that knife of yours; something that banishes my kind and leaves lasting harm is always in demand.”

  Damian’s grip tightened, jaw clenched, which made the demon chuckle. “Third and final: the trophy you claimed from your last challenge.”

  Damian debated a second, tossed the wendigo heart. The demon caught it; warm energy washed over Damian, closing wounds and easing fatigue. He marveled at the first true magic he’d seen before the demon spoke.

  “Wonderful! You, my friend, may call me Maladus, humble merchant at the crossroads, purveyor of goods and info from across the planes! You are welcome to warm yourself at my fire, dine at my table such as it is, and partake of my hospitality while we discuss more trade. What do you say, friend?” Maladus exclaimed.

  Damian buried his head in his hands and moaned at his poor luck. Maladus guffawed in amusement at his new friend.