"It's nothing," Xin replied, brushing the thought aside, his voice low and clipped. He turned away from Toren, his gaze drifting back to the smoldering ruins of the city below, where the fire had finally begun to die, leaving only curls of black smoke against the crimson sky. The lie tasted bitter, but he swallowed it. Admitting the weight of his thoughts—about Belial, about the cliff, about the blood on his hands—would only invite questions he wasn't ready to answer.
Toren didn't press. He simply walked up beside him, his presence a quiet anchor in the chaos of Xin's mind. Not Belial quiet, though. Not that unsettling, deathly silence Belial had mastered, like he was a shadow that refused to be noticed until it was far too late. No, Toren's presence still made sound, a crunch of sand under his boots, the faint whisper of leather against stone as he shifted his weight. It was human, grounding, a reminder of the world beyond Xin's spiraling thoughts.
A few other hunters joined them, their silhouettes sharp against the Summit's glow. Wordless nods were exchanged between familiar faces, each marked by the wear of countless hunts—scars, weathered skin, eyes that held too many stories. There was Lila, her silver hair braided tightly, her etheric crossbow slung across her back. Joren, broad-shouldered Beastman and silent, his hands still stained with the blood of something he had eaten. And Kate, barely nineteen, her fingers twitching nervously around the hilt of her blade. They were a patchwork crew, bound by necessity and survival, not trust. Not yet.
The group headed out across the forests, their forms flickering between the city's prismatic light and the heat mirage that warped the crystalline air. The sand was warm underfoot, even through Xin's boots, and it shifted with every step, whispering secrets of the ancient Realm. The gravity made their movements light, almost buoyant, but it also made the world feel unsteady, like a dream where the ground could vanish at any moment. Above, the sky shimmered with the faint glow of etheric crystalline, their alluring vibrancy a constant undertone to the desert's silence.
They hunted for hours, a ritual as familiar as breathing. Xin, as always, stayed just behind the front line, his role not to strike but to mend. While the others clashed with the monsters—tusked beasts with molten breath and armored hides that gleamed like obsidian—he moved between them, a shadow in their violence. His hands were steady as he patched wounds, sealing lacerations with ether that glowed faintly as they knit flesh together. He calmed the nerves of those who'd seen too much too fast—Mira, whose breath hitched as she clutched her blade, or Joren, whose stoic mask cracked when a beast's claw grazed his ribs. Xin's voice was soft but firm, guiding them back from the edge of panic.
It was clockwork now. Clean, practiced. His hands knew the motions, his mind detached as he worked. But every wound he sealed reminded him of the ones he couldn't. Rami's the floor. Ary's lifeless eyes. The crew he'd failed to save. The betrayal that had burned them all to ash. And Belial—always Belial, lingering like a ghost in the corners of his mind.
By the time the last beast fell, its massive body collapsing into the sand with a shuddering roar, the sun was beginning its descent, dyeing the sky in soft crimsons and golds. The dunes glowed like embers, and the air carried the sharp tang of blood and scorched earth. The hunters took a break, sprawling among the cracked rock and jagged roots that jutted from the desert like the bones of some ancient giant. The scouts, Lila and a wiry newcomer named chaunce, headed out to check the next area, their forms vanishing into the haze.
Toren sat beside Xin, stretching his arms over his knees, his scarred skin catching the fading light. The crescent moon tattoo on his hand stood out, its thorns a stark reminder of the crew they'd lost. They weren't quite friends, not yet. But something close to it had begun to grow between them—like the first green bud before a blossom, still unsure if it should bloom or shrivel in the cold. Xin felt it in the way Toren lingered nearby, not pushing but present, a quiet offer of camaraderie in a world that offered little.
Xin broke the silence, his voice softer than he intended. "...What do you think of Nero?"
Toren looked over, his brows raised in surprise. "Nero? Huh."
He gave a one-shouldered shrug, tugging off his glove to scratch at the tattoo on his hand, a habit Xin had noticed before. "Sloppy fighter. Talks too much. Wild swings, little discipline... but—" he paused, his eyes narrowing as he considered his words, "he had a good heart. Kid tried before he jumped. That counts for something."
Xin nodded slowly, his eyes downcast, fixed on the sand between his boots. His chest tightened. Toren's words weren't about Belial. They couldn't be. Nero was someone else, another ghost from another hunt, another loss. But the description didn't fit Belial at all.
Belial was not sloppy. Far from it. His movements were precise, brutal, intentional, each strike a calculated act of survival. Xin could still see him in his mind's eye, fighting blind during a raid gone wrong, his blade finding its mark with a clarity that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than training. Even wounded, Belial's strikes held a terrifying grace, drawn from a place of instinct and memory—a place that knew only survival. Xin had watched him once, years ago, cut through a pack of ether-warped hounds, his body a blur of motion, his face calm as stone. No wasted effort. No hesitation. Just purpose.
But Xin didn't say any of that. He had no reason to. The weight of Belial's name sat heavy in his throat, unspoken. He let the silence stretch, the desert's hum filling the space between them.
The scouts returned, their footsteps soft but urgent. Lila's silver hair glinted as she shook her head. "No more monsters in the area," she said, her voice clipped. "Just stone and bones."
The group packed up, gathering the dead beasts' hides and tusks—valuable in the city's markets, where etheric materials fetched a high price. They fell into a quiet line under the descending dusk, their shadows long and thin across the dunes. The city glimmered far off like a nest of stars, its towers pulsing with light, a beacon in the vast emptiness. Xin's legs ached from hours of movement, but he welcomed the burn. It kept his mind from wandering too far, from sinking back into the memory of the cliff, of Belial's fall.
The world was merciless, but it was honest. It didn't pretend to be kind, didn't hide its dangers. Unlike people. Unlike Zayd, with his false promises. Unlike Belial, with his unreadable silences. Xin's vow, not to kill, not to become the thing he hunted—felt fragile out here, where survival demanded blood. He wondered if he'd already broken it, if pushing Belial had been a choice or a reflex, a moment of rage or justice. The uncertainty gnawed at him, a wound that wouldn't close.
They reached the summit as the last light faded, the sky now a deep indigo streaked with a blue eye. The city sprawled below, Xin paused, his breath catching as he looked out over the expanse. The others moved on, their steps purposeful, but Xin lingered, his eyes tracing the horizon. The weight of his task—his next hunt, his next fight—pressed against him, as inevitable as the stars above.
He wasn't ready to face it, not yet. But the stars didn't wait, and neither could he. With a final glance at the city's glow, Xin turned, falling into step with the others, onward to his next task.