The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the world was already turning silver.
Mist clung to the fields in long, low sheets, swirling gently in the breeze like the land itself hadn’t quite woken up. The air was damp and still, and every blade of grass shimmered with dew. Somewhere in the distance, a raven called once, then fell silent.
I stood at the edge of the camp, hood pulled low, breathing in the cold.
Behind me, the others stirred—Calla whispering a quiet spell to dismiss the last of our barrier wards, Garrick stretching with a grunt, Thorne muttering something sharp under her breath as she laced her boots.
The village still looked like a ghost town. Shutters barred. Doors locked. No smoke curling from chimneys. No sounds of waking life.
Just silence.
Then—footsteps.
I turned as the farmer approached from the far side of the field, a thin figure limping through the morning fog. Same worn jacket. Same dead-eyed look. But there was something different now—like he’d aged ten years overnight. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and his gaze stayed on the dirt as he reached us.
He didn’t say hello. Didn’t ask if we slept well.
“Didn’t hear a thing,” he said quietly, stopping a few feet away. “But they came back.”
He jerked his head toward the fence behind his house.
We followed him to the edge of the pasture.
And there they were.
Prints.
Dozens of them.
Twisted, unnatural shapes pressed deep into the wet soil, each one long and narrow, ending in claw-like points. Too big for a cat. Too strange for a dog. The earth around them wasn’t disturbed—no drag marks. No scuffing. Just perfect, clean imprints. As if the creature had hovered an inch off the ground before choosing exactly where to place each foot.
Calla dropped into a crouch beside the first track, brushing aside dew with her fingertips. Her brows drew tight as she examined the spacing. “Too deep for a wolf. And there’s no webbing. Not even a pad structure.”
“They look carved,” Garrick muttered. “Like someone just punched ‘em into the dirt.”
“They’re fresh,” Thorne said. “Can still see the dew disturbed around the edges.”
I took a few steps farther into the field, letting instinct guide me. The wind shifted, just enough for the faintest whiff of something… off. Metallic, almost—but not blood. Not rot, either. It smelled… artificial.
Then I noticed something.
A slight parting in the grass, where the stalks were bowed and snapped low. Barely visible, but consistent. Like something had passed through without disturbing the pattern of the field—just pressed its weight gently into the world and kept moving.
“Trail goes this way,” I murmured, nodding toward the treeline.
Calla stood slowly, brushing off her hands. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
Thorne had already drawn her blade. She gave the field one last glance, then turned to the others.
“Let’s move.”
 
The trail led into the woods like a scar.
Not a path, exactly. More like something had moved through without caring what it broke—grass bent, branches cracked, bark scraped in long lines. But there was a pattern to it. A rhythm. Not wild. Not random.
It moved like it knew exactly where it was going.
We followed in silence.
The forest swallowed us quickly. The trees here were different—leaning at odd angles, their trunks gnarled and knotty like they’d grown around some invisible pressure. Vines curled tightly up the bark like they were choking the life out of them, and the air had a weight to it. Not heat. Not cold. Just… wrong.
Even the light filtering through the canopy looked off. It was too pale. Too sharp at the edges.
I caught Thorne glancing around as we moved. Her usual swagger was a little more measured now, her grip on her blade firm but subtle. I smirked.
“You’re in a better mood this morning,” I said casually, ducking under a low branch.
She raised an eyebrow without looking at me. “Am I?”
“Last night you wanted to keep walking. Said we didn’t have time for side quests.”
Thorne made a noncommittal sound and stepped over a patch of twisted roots. “I changed my mind.”
I grinned. “What happened? Secret soft spot for scared villagers?”
“No,” she said flatly. “I want the XP.”
I snorted. “Sure. XP. That’s it.”
She shot me a glare sharp enough to cut through steel.
Ahead of us, Calla slowed to a stop, lifting one hand. Threads of light flickered across her palm—pale blue lines dancing through the air like drifting snowflakes. She muttered something under her breath, and the magic pulsed outward in a faint ripple, vanishing into the underbrush.
Then she frowned.
“There’s corruption here,” she said, her voice low. “Faint. But definitely present. Too much for open forest.”
Garrick stepped up beside her. “Same flavor as a dungeon?”
“Similar,” she said, still scanning the woods. “But diluted. Older. Like it’s soaked into the soil.”
That made my skin crawl. The idea that a dungeon’s magic could seep out into the world around it… That wasn’t supposed to happen. Dungeons were sealed. Isolated. Contained.
Something cracked nearby and we all froze.
Thorne raised her blade. Calla’s hands flared with quiet light. Garrick stepped forward.
I moved with them, grabbing my daggers and easing toward the sound—slow, careful steps through the brush.
And then we saw something odd.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
A deer.
It lay crumpled in the clearing, legs folded beneath it like it had just gone to sleep and never woken up. Its chest didn’t rise. No signs of wounds. No blood. No trauma.
Just… stillness.
Except for its eyes.
They were wide open. Pitch black. No iris. No white. Just pools of void.
“Shit,” I muttered.
Garrick kneeled beside it, examining the body. “Not killed. Just… stopped.”
Thorne’s jaw tightened. “That’s not natural.”
“No,” Calla agreed, voice hushed. “It’s infected.”
I looked at the trail again.
Still fresh. Still leading deeper.
My fingers tightened around the hilt of my dagger.
Whatever this thing was—we weren’t hunting a beast anymore.
We were hunting something broken.
Something wrong.
 
The forest was holding its breath.
There was no birdsong. No rustle. Just stillness stretched taut—like the whole world was waiting for something to snap.
And then it did.
A blur of motion tore through the trees—silent and fast.
I barely even had time to register the shape before it was on us. Lean like a panther, but too tall, too twisted. Its limbs were stretched just a bit too far, muscles corded with pulsing veins of flickering mana. Where its fur should’ve been smooth, it bristled and warped, shifting like static—phasing in and out of the air around it like it couldn’t quite decide which layer of the world it wanted to stay in.
“Down!” I shouted, diving sideways.
The beast streaked past where I’d been a second ago, a blur of claws and shadow.
Garrick moved fast, intercepting. His warhammer slammed into the creature’s flank, a blow that would’ve crumpled bone. But the beast shimmered—and vanished.
“Shit,” Garrick grunted, stumbling forward.
It reappeared behind him.
A crack of displaced air. A flicker in the mist. Then claws raked his backplate, sending sparks flying as the force drove him to one knee.
Thorne was already moving. She came in from the side, her blade singing as it cut through a flickering afterimage—only to hit nothing.
It had phased away.
Three more appeared around us, darting between trees—each one identical, each one twitching with that same unnatural shimmer. Illusions. Or maybe projections. I didn’t know.
I just knew I had to move.
“Left—!” I shouted, Shadow Stepping just as a clawed limb swung through where my chest had been.
I reappeared mid-sprint, dagger in hand. I had to find the real one.
The orb buzzed faintly in my pocket, like it sensed the distortion. Like it recognized something in the creature’s energy that didn’t belong.
My next strike found flesh.
The dagger bit deep, and the beast screamed.
It wasn’t just pain.
It was rage.
It twisted toward me, eyes glowing—not red, not gold, but white-hot, like furnace embers bleached by too much power.
It lunged. Faster than before.
I barely dodged, shadows slipping around me as it passed. My blade clipped it again—just a graze—but the way it recoiled, the way it snarled? It remembered me.
It hated me.
“Felix!” Calla shouted from across the clearing. A spell flared from her staff—a burst of searing fire spiraling toward the creature.
It ducked. The spell missed.
And then the damn thing vanished again.
“Damn it,” she growled. “It’s learning.”
“Keep casting!” I shouted. “Force it to split again!”
Another flicker—this time to Thorne’s right.
She pivoted, but not fast enough. The creature’s tail lashed out, catching her across the ribs and sending her flying into a low branch.
She hit hard, rolled, and came up with a hiss of pain—but her sword was still in hand.
“I’m gonna gut that thing,” she spat, wiping blood from her mouth.
Garrick had regained his footing and was backing into position—his shield braced, stance wide. He planted himself between the group and the clearing’s center.
“Line up behind me,” he said calmly, eyes locked forward. “Let it come.”
It did.
The beast surged forward, barreling toward Garrick like a living battering ram.
He didn’t flinch.
The impact rang out like thunder. The force of it slammed into his shield, kicking up a spray of dirt and leaves, but Garrick held the line—grunting, knees buckling—but holding.
“Now!” he roared.
I moved.
Thorne lunged.
Calla unleashed another bolt of light—this time, delayed. It struck a moment after I did, catching the creature mid-twist.
We landed the hit together.
Blood splashed the forest floor—dark and oily, like it was half-mana, half-matter.
The beast screamed, stumbling back.
And that’s when I saw it.
At the edge of the trees—half-hidden behind a trunk, eyes wide and unblinking—something small watched us. Not the beast. Not a threat.
A creature.
Cat-sized. Pale silver fur. Big eyes, too bright. Twitchy. Nervous.
It didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Just… watched.
I blinked, and it was gone.
The beast snarled, thrashing—but it was weakening now. I could feel it in the way its movements lost rhythm, in the way its body flickered without fully re-solidifying.
 
It was wounded.
Breathing hard. Movements stuttering. Its flickering illusions gone now—whatever energy had powered them bled dry by our assault. The beast crouched low, trembling, barely holding its form. Strips of fur sliced off like ash in the wind, and the warped glow in its eyes had dimmed to a faint pulse.
This was it.
“Now,” I snapped, voice low but certain.
Garrick moved first. He dropped his shoulder and charged, shield raised. The beast tried to sidestep, but its speed was gone. Garrick slammed into it full-force, knocking it back against a gnarled tree trunk. The wood cracked behind it, splintering from the impact.
“Hold it!” I shouted.
Garrick grunted, boots skidding in the dirt as he wrestled to pin it down. “Trying!”
Thorne was already in motion. She leaped onto a low branch, vaulted off, and drove her blade downward across its flank in a brutal arc. The sound was wet and sharp—metal through sinew. The beast shrieked, legs buckling.
I moved.
Shadow flared at my heels as I blinked forward, one dagger already glowing with dark magic.
Echoing Blades.
Time slowed—just for me. The shadows rose around my arms, swirling like a storm, and when I struck, they struck with me. Not just once, but again and again, echoes trailing behind each motion like my body was playing out every possible angle at once.
I drove the blade into its chest.
The beast arched.
And then—everything changed.
It didn’t bleed.
It fractured.
Glitching. Literally glitching.
Its body twitched, shuddered, and began to break apart—not in flesh, but in jagged system error. Shards of something not-quite-real peeled off it, hovering in the air like corrupted code—pale lines of static unraveling from its limbs, from its eyes, from the gaping hole I’d just carved into its core.
“What the hell…” Thorne breathed.
I stepped back just as the beast collapsed, hitting the ground in slow, twitching spasms. Its form pulsed—then melted into nothing but a flickering smear of data.
Not dust.
Not blood.
Just… noise.
My orb pulsed.
Not gently.
Violently.
It went white-hot, even through the fabric. I hissed, yanking it free. Threads of glowing light spun inside it like a whirlpool on fire.
Everyone saw it.
Everyone froze.
The orb gradually cooled, the glow fading back to its usual faint hum.
Then Calla crouched near what little remained of the creature—bits of fur, a few bone splinters, a faint shimmer of leftover mana. She held a hand out over the ground, whispering a soft incantation. A glyph flickered beneath her palm, mapping the residual essence left behind.
“This wasn’t just mutated,” she said after a beat. “It’s all wrong. Like… four or five different creatures smashed together. Some forest cat. A wolf. Something reptilian? Even a bit of bird anatomy in the wing structures.”
Thorne frowned. “You think a dungeon leaked out?”
Garrick crossed his arms, eyes scanning the trees. “Or it crawled out of one.”
Nobody spoke after that.
Not right away.
Because none of us liked that idea.
Something had glitched.
And this time?
It hadn’t stayed inside the walls of the dungeon.
 
We were still catching our breath.
The clearing was quiet now—eerily so. Just the soft sound of our breathing, the faint crackle of the last system static evaporating from the ground, and the occasional creak of the trees as they settled.
Then—
A rustle.
Soft. Subtle. Almost too light to notice.
I turned toward it, instinct flaring. Not danger. Not quite.
Up in the branches, half-shadowed by leaves and mist, something moved.
It blinked.
Big, luminous eyes. Iridescent fur that shimmered faintly in the fading light. It was small—maybe the size of a fox—but leaner, sleeker. Ears flicked. Head tilted. Curious. Watching.
Not afraid.
Not aggressive.
Just… observant.
It stared at me. Directly at me.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
And for a second, I felt something strange pass between us. Not words. Not magic. Just a moment. An understanding.
Then the creature tensed—
—and vanished, silent as a breeze, melting into the trees above.
“Felix?” Thorne called, glancing back.
I blinked, shook my head. “Nothing,” I said, turning away. “Thought I saw something.”
 
The path back to the village was quiet.
No one talked much. Not even Garrick. Whatever the beast had been, it had rattled all of us in different ways. The idea that something like that could exist outside a dungeon—something glitched, corrupted, wrong—it sat heavy on the air like smoke that wouldn’t clear.
Calla walked ahead with her staff resting on her shoulder. Garrick trudged beside her, armor dulled with blood and dirt. Thorne kept her pace steady, blade sheathed but hand never far from the hilt.
I hung back.
Not far. Just… behind.
Watching the woods.
Listening.
The trees whispered. Just the wind, probably. But every rustle made my fingers twitch toward my daggers. I kept thinking about Hollow. About how the system had warned me that things would change. About how that thing we’d fought didn’t feel like a monster—it felt like a test.
And then, just for a second, I saw it again.
Off to the side. Half-hidden in the underbrush, right at the edge of my vision. A flicker of iridescent fur.
Watching.