The lantern on the bedside table flickered. Its weak flame threw long shadows against the wooden walls. Noctis sat in the lone chair, one hand resting on the Blood Katana across his knees, eyes glowing faint violet.
The maid stood before him, posture straight, her gaze glassy. The Binding Stare held her still.
"Speak," Noctis said. His voice was calm, steady. "Tell me of this city. Its rulers. Its ties to the crown. Leave nothing unsaid."
"Yes, master," she whispered.
The City's Shape
She spoke first of the city itself.
"This is Varath," she said softly. "A trade hub on the southern road. We are not a military garrison. The guard force numbers less than two hundred, and most are poorly trained. Only the captain and his three lieutenants are true fighters. Adventurers come and go. Mercenaries take coin from anyone who pays. The guild hall is the strongest presence here, not the crown."
Her words drew a faint smile to Noctis's lips. A city without teeth. Easier than the last.
The Nobles
"The lord of Varath is Baron Elric. He rarely leaves his manor at the northern edge. He has no army of his own, only coin, and he spends it on comfort more than steel. Some say he fears his own people. Others say he waits for the kingdom to break itself in war, so he can pick clean what is left."
She paused. "The merchants hate him. The commoners tolerate him. The guild respects him only for his coin."
The Kingdom
Her voice turned more urgent as she spoke of the wider realm.
"The kingdom is unstable. The king grows older. His sons argue over succession. Nobles in the east rebelled last season; the baron who ruled them was executed. In the north, border raids grow bolder, and rumors say demon cults stir again. The High Church sends bishops everywhere since the cathedral collapse. People say the bishops search for… something. No one knows what."
She swallowed, though her eyes never blinked. "Varath has no army. If war comes, we will fall first."
Noctis leaned forward slightly, listening with sharpened interest. Church. Bishops. Always circling closer.
The Guild
"The Adventurer's Guild is strong here," she continued. "Dozens of blades-for-hire, mages, and hunters. They answer to no one but the guildmaster. If there is real power in Varath, it rests with them. Even the baron hesitates to cross the guild. Contracts flow through them. They decide who eats, who prospers, who starves."
Her lips trembled faintly. "It is said the guild keeps records of every traveler, every mercenary, every job. If you wish to remain unseen, master, do not cross their notice."
The Maid's Fear
Noctis rose slowly, the chair creaking as he stood. He circled her once, studying her posture, the steady breath forced by compulsion.
"You speak truth," he said quietly.
"Yes, master."
"You fear me?"
"Yes." Her voice cracked. "But I fear the church more."
Noctis paused, faint amusement tugging at his lips. Even bound, her fear of bishops outweighs her fear of me. Interesting.
He released a fraction of the Binding Stare. Enough for her to breathe, not enough to free her.
"You will return to your duties," he said. "You will serve me when I call. You will forget the glow of my eyes, but remember my command."
"Yes, master."
Closing Scene
The maid bowed and left, lantern swaying in her hand. The door clicked shut, leaving the room in quiet shadow.
Noctis stood by the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to look at the streets below. The city slept. Torches guttered on the walls. The guild hall loomed in the distance, lanterns still burning bright.
Behind him, the Binding Stare still hummed in the air. Every word the maid had spoken was folded into the Blood Grid, another thread in his growing map of prey.
He smiled faintly.
"This city belongs to me already."
The tavern below had quieted. Dice stopped rolling, mugs stopped clinking. The bard had played his last song. One by one, adventurers stumbled into the streets or upstairs to rented rooms. The fire in the hearth burned low, throwing only embers against the walls.
But not everyone slept.
The Plot
Three men waited in the alley behind the tavern.
"Did you see it?" one whispered. "That gem could buy us a manor."
"Traveler's a fool," another muttered. "Walks in with coin he don't understand. He'll be bled by dawn."
The third spat. "Quiet. We go in, cut his throat, take the stone, and split it clean. Easy."
They exchanged grins—sharp, hungry, confident. They thought themselves predators.
They were wrong.
The Climb
The back wall of the inn offered easy handholds. The thieves scaled it with the ease of men who had done such things before. A shutter creaked as one pried it open, easing inside. The others followed, moving silent as cats, knives already in hand.
The hallway above was dark. The maid had extinguished the lamps. Only faint moonlight spilled through slats in the shutters.
They padded across the floor, every board groaning softly beneath their weight. They stopped outside the traveler's door.
A smirk passed between them. The lead thief pressed his ear to the wood. Nothing.
He nodded once.
The latch turned.
The Room
The door creaked open.
The room was nearly dark, the lantern long since snuffed. A faint shape rested on the bed, hood still drawn, body still beneath blankets.
The thieves slipped inside, closing the door with practiced silence.
"On three," the leader whispered. He raised his dagger.
"One…"
"Two…"
The third never came.
The Predator
Violet light flared in the dark.
[Skill: Allure's Gaze III — Binding Stare]
The leader froze mid-step, knife trembling in his hand. His eyes widened, pupils constricting, breath stalling in his throat. Behind him, the others faltered, knees buckling, their bodies caught in the unseen grip of will.
From the chair in the corner—not the bed—Noctis rose. His hood slid back just enough for his eyes to burn in the gloom.
"You thought me prey," he said softly. His voice cut sharper than steel. "But you walked into my den."
The thieves shuddered, still fighting, but their will was nothing against his.
The Feast
Noctis moved first to the leader. He wrenched the dagger from the man's hand with effortless strength. Then he stepped close, fangs bared.
The thief tried to scream. Only a whisper left his lips as Noctis sank teeth into his throat. Blood flooded his mouth, hot and frantic, flavored with fear and desperation.
He dropped the body to the floor and turned to the next. The man struggled weakly, eyes rolling back under violet compulsion. Noctis bit deep, drained him dry, then let him fall.
The last thief whimpered, collapsing to his knees. His knife clattered to the boards. Noctis crouched before him, one hand cupping the man's chin.
"You should have stayed hungry," Noctis whispered. Then his fangs sank.
Moments later, silence returned. Three husks lay in the dark, their essence gone, their blood folded into the Grid.
Resource Update
[Blood Essence +120][Iron Essence +8][Soul Essence +1]
New Skill Acquired — Cutthroat's Instinct
Reflexive strike against exposed throats and arteries.
Upgrade — Assassin's Veil II
Stealth suppression expanded: no sound, no scent, no shadow trace.
Noctis stood, crimson glint in his eyes fading to shadow. He dragged the bodies to the wall, laid them side by side, and extended one hand.
[Skill: Devour]
The corpses dissolved into mist, their flesh and blood unraveling into crimson vapor that streamed into his veins. Their essence sank into the Grid, their voices silenced forever.
When the glow faded, only scraps remained—clothes crumpled where bodies had been, boots toppled, knives gleaming faintly in the lantern light.
Noctis studied them for a moment. Evidence. Proof that something unnatural had happened here.
He crouched, picked up one of the knives, and twirled it between his fingers. The steel was dull, unremarkable. Still, he slipped it into his coat before sweeping the rest of the gear into a pile against the far wall.
A snap of his fingers, and a flicker of crimson flame from the Grid caught the fabric. Smoke curled, slow and thin. By dawn, there would be nothing left but ash and warped metal.
Noctis straightened, pulled the hood back over his face, and returned to the chair.
The city slept, thinking itself safe.
He smiled faintly.
"Blind fools."
Morning broke over Varath, pale light spilling through the shutters of the inn. The city stirred—merchants dragging carts into the square, smiths stoking forges, children already chasing each other through muddy alleys.
In the small rented room, Noctis stood by the door, hood drawn, fingers brushing the edge of a cloak. His own Blood Armor, forged from his essence, could not protect him from the sun. Its crimson sheen offered power, but not shelter. The light burned too deeply, biting past magic and into his very nature.
So he adapted.
He had stripped the corpses of the thieves the night before, salvaging what remained after their bodies were consumed. Now he wore their gear—patched leather, steel greaves, worn gloves. Over it he draped a heavy cloak, thick enough to shadow his face and cover his hands.
It was crude. But it would have to do.
The Sun
He stepped outside.
The morning light struck instantly. His skin prickled. Heat poured through the cloak, searing even the shadowed flesh beneath. His face paled, lips tightening as if he had swallowed ash.
The city moved around him, oblivious. Merchants barked prices, children tugged mothers' skirts, guards laughed over shared bread. Noctis forced himself forward, step by step, ignoring the weight of the sun pressing down on his skull.
Endure, he told himself. Until I find what I need.
The Market
The market square swarmed with color and noise. Vendors lifted bolts of cloth, shouted prices for fruit and salted meat, thrust jewelry and charms into passing hands.
Noctis cut through the crowd, head bowed beneath the hood. He found a stall lined with tools and second-hand gear. The merchant eyed him with suspicion at first, but his mood shifted when Noctis laid the thieves' goods on the counter—daggers, boots, belts, and scraps of armor.
"Not much," the merchant muttered, turning one dagger in his hand. "But steel is steel. I'll take it."
Coins clinked into a pouch, pushed across the counter.
Noctis picked it up, the weight unfamiliar but sufficient. He had no interest in haggling. The thieves' belongings were dead weight; better to turn them into currency.
The Blacksmith
With the pouch tucked inside his cloak, Noctis moved deeper into the city. The clang of hammer on anvil guided him, sharp and rhythmic, echoing off stone alleys.
He found the forge in the eastern quarter. The blacksmith stood bare-armed, muscles blackened with soot, hammer rising and falling in practiced rhythm. Sparks leapt, ringing metal sang, and the scent of coal hung thick in the air.
Noctis lingered at the edge of the forge until the man noticed him.
"What do you need, traveler?" the blacksmith called, wiping sweat from his brow.
Noctis stepped forward, cloak heavy around his frame. He lowered his voice just enough to carry.
"Armor," he said. "Not for battle. For cover. Every inch sealed. No light must touch me."
The smith raised a brow. "Full plate? Costly. Hot in summer. And you'll suffocate if you're not used to it."
Noctis's faint smile never wavered. "Make it."
The forge's heat pressed close, heavy with the smell of coal and the steady ring of steel. The blacksmith stood with arms folded, squinting at the cloaked figure before him.
"You want full armor," he said, voice skeptical. "Sealed against the light, every inch covered. Not for battle, you said—yet you want it strong enough to take a blade?"
"Yes," Noctis replied. His voice was calm, even. "But not bulky. I need to move. Quickly. Fluidly. It must not slow me."
The smith frowned. "That's… a tall order. Full cover without bulk means layered plates, reinforced leather beneath, chain hidden inside. Expensive. And heavy."
Noctis tilted his head. "Make it. The weight will not matter."
The Design
The smith scratched his beard, muttering under his breath as he eyed Noctis's frame.
"I can craft a helm with no slits—ventilation through narrow mesh. Breastplate curved to deflect. Greaves that hinge clean. You'll sweat like a trapped beast in summer, but if you're set on shadow, it will work."
"Do it," Noctis said.
The smith raised a brow. "No negotiation? No haggle? You must be rich indeed."
Noctis said nothing. His eyes glinted faintly beneath the hood.
The Sword
The smith turned, rummaging through racks of weapons. He returned with a massive blade—two-handed, longer than most men were tall, its hilt bound in black leather.
"This is no merchant's toy," the smith warned. "A greatsword forged for knights. Even trained men need both hands."
Noctis reached out and took it.
The blacksmith's warning died in his throat.
Noctis lifted the weapon with one hand. His arm did not tremble. He turned the blade once, letting the edge hum faintly through the air. The weight balanced as though it were no heavier than a dagger.
The blacksmith stared, stunned. "Impossible…"
Noctis set the tip against the forge floor and leaned lightly on the hilt. "This will do."
Payment
The smith shook himself from his shock. "For work like this—armor to your measure, full cover, and this sword—the cost will be beyond coin. Weeks of labor. And I'll need half in advance."
Noctis reached beneath his cloak. He set a second blood-forged ruby on the anvil. Crimson light flickered through its depths like a trapped flame.
The blacksmith froze. His calloused hands trembled as he touched it. "This stone… I could buy another forge with it. Or three."
"Then it should suffice," Noctis said flatly. "Take it. Begin the work."
The smith swallowed, clutching the gem as though afraid it might vanish. "Yes… yes, I'll start today. Come back in a week, and it will be done."
Closing
Noctis turned, cloak shifting around him. He left the forge without another word, the greatsword balanced casually across his shoulder, drawing stares from apprentices and passersby alike.
Behind him, the blacksmith stood frozen by his anvil, staring at the gem, whispering under his breath.
"What sort of man lifts steel like that with one hand?"
Noctis's faint smile lingered as he disappeared into the crowded street.
The forge's hammer-song still echoed faintly in his ears as Noctis slipped back into the city. The greatsword rested hidden beneath his cloak, its weight meaningless in his hand. He moved with no hurry. Time was on his side now.
The streets bustled with midday life. Merchants cried their prices, smiths barked for apprentices, and carts rattled over cobblestones. Noctis walked among them unnoticed, hood drawn low, just another traveler with coin enough to stay.
But he watched. Always.
The Adventurer's Guild
At the far end of the market square, a wide building stood two stories tall, its sign painted with two crossed swords. Adventurers came and went in steady trickles—swordsmen with patched armor, mages clutching scroll cases, hunters dragging pelts. The air outside hummed with contracts and competition.
Noctis paused at the edge of the square, eyes narrowing beneath his hood.
The heart of power in this city, he thought. Not the baron, not the guard. The guild.
He studied the flow of people, the way the guild doors never closed, the way merchants lingered nearby hoping for protection. His lips curved faintly.
"I will return," he murmured, and turned away.
The Church
Further on, bells tolled faintly, guiding him to a wide stone building marked with the sigil of the High Church. Wards shimmered faintly along its edges, invisible to mortal eyes but clear as lines of fire to Noctis. The place was fortified in silence, woven with prayers and sigils designed to repel what he had become.
He stopped in the shade of a tree across the street.
Children played in the courtyard, laughter rising as they chased each other in circles. A woman in gray robes called them in, ushering the slowest through a side door marked with a carved sun.
An orphanage.
Noctis's gaze lingered. He felt the pull of blood, the warmth of hearts beating so close. But the wards flared like knives the closer he leaned. His instincts warned, sharp and insistent.
He turned away. "Not here."
The Alley
The streets brightened with harsh sun. Noctis slipped into an alley, the shadows giving him reprieve. The heat lessened. His skin eased, though the sting of daylight still clung to him beneath cloak and leather.
He leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed. His mind flickered inward, into the lattice of crimson script burned into his sight.
"Status," he commanded silently.
The Blood Grid flared into view, branches spreading in radiant arcs, nodes glowing with doctrines of sword, spear, shield, ranger, tempo, vector, beast, and the fused Predator Sovereign lattice. The numbers unfolded, crisp and absolute.
Three days passed. The city of Varath carried on in its rhythms—markets opened, guild contracts shouted, bells of the church tolled. Noctis kept to the shadows, wandering at night, waiting.
On the morning of the fourth day, he returned to the forge.
The blacksmith stood at the anvil, hammer still in hand, sweat streaking his soot-darkened arms. Beside him, on a heavy rack, gleamed the armor.
It was not a knight's parade plate, nor a mercenary's patched cuirass. This was something else entirely.
Every inch was covered—helmet, gorget, cuirass, vambraces, greaves, boots. The lines were sharp, the plates layered with cunning craft to allow movement without bulk. Etched into the steel were faint blue sigils that pulsed with cold light.
The blacksmith allowed himself a grin, pride clear in his voice. "It's finished. You asked for armor sealed against the light, and I've done it. Not only that—" He tapped the chestplate, and frost curled faintly from the engraved sigils. "I wove ice into the metal. It will keep you cool, no matter how much heat builds inside."
Noctis studied the armor and inclined his head slightly. "You thought of everything."
He reached into his cloak and placed a blood-forged ruby onto the anvil. The gem pulsed once, crimson light reflecting in the smith's wide eyes. The man's hands shook as he touched it, almost reverent.
"This one stone," the blacksmith muttered, "is worth more than my forge. It's far too much."
Noctis's voice was steady. "It is not too much. It is enough. Your work deserves it."
He drew two more rubies from his cloak and set them on the iron. Their glow lit the smith's face, and he staggered back as if they radiated heat.
The man stared at the stones in disbelief, shaking his head. "I cannot earn this. Three rubies like these could buy me half the quarter."
"You have earned them," Noctis said, his tone final. "I will not take them back. The work is worth the cost."
The blacksmith bowed low, clutching the rubies with both hands as though they might vanish.
Noctis removed his cloak and began fitting the armor. Piece by piece, the blacksmith strapped buckles and adjusted plates until the last clasp locked into place.
When it was finished, Noctis stood tall, every inch of his body encased in steel and shadow. The helmet sealed with narrow slits that admitted no light. Inside, the cool hum of the ice enchantments wrapped him like a second skin, and the sting of the sun's heat vanished completely.
He reached over his shoulder and lifted the greatsword, mounting it across his back. The weight rested perfectly, the balance seamless. He flexed his arms, rolled his shoulders, and stepped forward. The armor moved with him, not against him. Silent, efficient, and deadly.
He walked to the forge's open front where sunlight spilled across the cobblestones. The blacksmith held his breath, sweat dripping from his brow as he watched.
Noctis extended his arm into the light.
There was no sting, no burn, and no weakness. Only shadow held within steel.
A faint smile curved beneath the helmet. "Perfect," he said, his voice quiet but certain.
Noctis turned back to the smith. "You have done well," he said. "These stones are yours. Take them and build something greater than this forge."
The blacksmith lowered his head, voice trembling with awe. "I do not know who you truly are, traveler, but you are no ordinary man. May the gods guard you."
Noctis did not answer. He pulled the cloak back over the armor, shadows swallowing the steel.
He stepped out into the street, the weight of the sun gone, the city sprawling before him.
The predator was no longer bound to the dark.