The stench of rot thickened, like a damp, cold mist seeping slowly from deep in the grass, carrying the cloying sweetness of decaying flesh mixed with wet earth.

  Garrett held the torch high; the flame flickered faintly in the mountain breeze, illuminating a patch of trampled grass. Black fluid still oozed slowly from the edges of the wild boar’s wounds, thick as aged resin, while the buzzing of flies mingled with the wind and a low, wet gurgling sound.

  Del tightened his grip on the wooden stick, his knuckles paling, palms slightly sweating, the rough grain of the wood pressing painfully into his skin.

  He crouched again for a closer look at the wounds. The bite marks were deeper than usual for ghouls, the impressions larger, edges ragged and torn, exposing pale tendons beneath flipped flesh—this was no ordinary reanimation.

  Garrett said quietly, “More than one.”

  He pointed deeper into the shallow valley, toward a slope of jagged stones bathed in pale moonlight. The twin moons cast a sharp, cold light, stretching the rock shadows long like twisted fingers.

  Del stood without a word.

  He silently invoked the chip: Scan for nearby heat sources and movement trajectories.

  A stream of data appeared soundlessly: temperature distribution across the valley floor, wind deflection, subtle grass shifts—like a thin grid overlaid on his retinas. Thirty paces to the right, an abnormal cold spot moved slowly.

  He made no sign, only shifted the stick to his left hand.

  Garrett had already unslung his shortbow; only six iron-tipped arrows remained. He drew steadily, the arrowhead glinting dark red in the firelight, string humming low.

  “Fall back,” his father said—nothing more.

  Del did not retreat.

  The cold spot surged.

  Grass parted violently as a gray-black figure lunged—half a head taller than normal ghouls, skin like weathered bark with cracks oozing dark fluid, arms unnaturally long with hooked claws. Its gaping mouth revealed layers of jagged teeth, emitting a shrill, infant-like wail that carried a cold, fishy reek.

  Garrett loosed.

  The first arrow glanced the shoulder, tearing away a strip of rot that landed with a soft pat.

  The second missed, burying in the ground with a faint quiver.

  The monster was terrifyingly fast, stiff yet explosive, as if driven from within. In the moonlight, its empty black eyes locked precisely on the torch.

  Garrett frowned and drew again—no words.

  Del watched its motions.

  The chip ran silently: capturing trajectories, predicting points, calculating drift and gravity.

  Data lines overlaid the creature, marking its next paths.

  Del murmured, “Raise half an inch. Left wind.”

  Garrett adjusted without question and released.

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  The arrow struck true in its left eye.

  Black fluid sprayed, hissing on the grass; the monster howled sharper, staggered, yet charged faster.

  Quiver empty.

  Garrett dropped the bow, drew his hunting knife, blade flashing cold—no sound.

  Del gripped tighter as the chip analyzed: stiff joints, weaker left leg, deepest rot at neck—fire weakness confirmed.

  The monster lunged, claws whipping foul wind, stench overwhelming.

  Del sidestepped, sweeping the stick into its left knee—the chip’s optimal angle.

  It buckled, grass crunching, but propped up and slashed back.

  Del retreated, thrusting at its throat to stall, the stick shuddering with immense force, numbing his arms.

  The strength gap was crushing.

  A claw raked his left arm; blood soaked his sleeve in burning pain.

  He held, teeth gritted.

  Chip: Strength ratio 1:4.7. Prolonged survival under 20%.

  Garrett charged.

  He seized the stick with both hands—no words.

  Del felt strange heat from his father’s callused palms.

  Garrett sank his hips, heels grinding leaves, and thrust straight—the first form from the sheepskin.

  Speed utterly different; the tip hissed, tearing air.

  The monster blocked late; the stick sank deep into chest rot with a wet sound.

  It seized the stick to drag him.

  Garrett held.

  A low growl; his eyes blazed redder than the torch, veins bulging like molten flows, sweat gleaming.

  A life-burning eruption.

  Smoke rose; black fluid boiled, flesh shriveling with acrid smell.

  Garrett thrust again—at the neck, piercing through.

  The monster collapsed, twitching, claws scraping earth.

  Garrett dropped to one knee, knife propping him, blood at his lips, face ashen, breathing ragged.

  Del steadied him, arm wound bleeding, pain searing.

  The chip recorded: sequence, muscles, breathing, heat.

  The monster twitched, fluid pooling, stench thicker, moonlight oily on it.

  Del knew it lived.

  He helped his father stand, then gripped the stick.

  Chip: Replicate—Garrett burst.

  Data overlaid: sink hips, grind heels, neural signals forcing muscles.

  Del thrust at the brow.

  Near-identical.

  The monster convulsed harder.

  Another—neck.

  His body tore inside, vessels burning, vision darkening, breath short.

  It stilled at last, withering dry, skin taut on bone.

  Del knelt, stick thudding.

  Blood drenched his sleeve; chest ached like inner fire.

  Garrett leaned on rock, breathing—no words.

  Silence, only wind and leaves, distant insects.

  Then faint footsteps.

  Weightless, grass barely bending.

  Garrett looked up.

  “…Ean.”

  A figure emerged from moonlit rocks.

  Average build, black robe and hood. Utterly ordinary face—short ash-brown hair, regular features, slightly crooked nose, square jaw. Unremarkable, like any village hunter or passing merchant. A slender black shortsword at his waist, hilt with three dark-red gems.

  He stopped ten paces away, voice low and hollow. “Garrett.”

  Garrett coughed blood—no response.

  Del studied him.

  Chip scanned: low temperature, slow pulse, prediction failure 87%.

  The man tilted his head, noting Del.

  Golden eyes glinted beneath the hood, calm.

  He ignored the corpse. “Mutated poison.”

  Garrett grunted.

  Ean stepped closer, sword drawn—silent, lightless.

  One casual flick.

  The corpse split cleanly; black fluid gushed, evaporating to ash mid-air, falling soundlessly.

  Effortless, like chopping wood.

  He sheathed it, eyes lingering on Del.

  “You carry a shadow of that bloodline.”

  Calm, certain.

  Del froze.

  Garrett looked down—no sound.

  Ean continued, “Faint. Barely a trace. But enough… enough to awaken it.”

  He glanced at Garrett—no more.

  Garrett coughed blood, silent.

  Ean shook his head slightly. “Your home. Wounds need tending.”

  He turned without waiting, leading silently.

  Father and son exchanged a glance.

  Garrett pushed up—no words, only a nod.

  Del supported him, tearing cloth for rough bandages, fabric darkening with blood.

  The torch burned low, lighting three shadows—Ean ahead, silent as mist.

  The path home long, wind cold, moonlight on the trail.

  At the cabin, Lily slept, room lit only by dying embers.

  Garrett sat; Ean drew a vial, sprinkling herbal powder on wounds, sharp scent mixing with blood.

  Movements practiced, familiar.

  Del watched from the side.

  In firelight, Ean’s ordinary face seemed even plainer—like a wandering scholar teaching village children, or a Royal Academy instructor.

  Wounds dressed, Ean sat by the fire pit, adding wood, crackling softly.

  Long silence.

  Garrett said nothing.

  Ean turned to Del. “Your gift is broken. Weak. But real. Nightcrow takes no weaklings… yet my open face is a teacher at the Royal Academy. Sword and study. If you seek learning… find me.”

  Tone plain, no pressure.

  Del looked to his father.

  Garrett closed his eyes, then murmured, “His choice.”

  Ean added no more, gazing into the fire.

  The hearth crackled, lighting three faces, shadows dancing on walls.