Noctis moved like a shadow that chose its moment. He did not wait for mistake or bravado; he made the moment itself—an instant of calculation, motion, and ruin.
The camp smelled of smoke and meat, cheap ale and human laziness. Flames licked low. Men dozed half-sated and full of bravado. Their guard was the kind that comes from boredom, not vigilance. Noctis used that bored slack as deftly as any blade.
He stepped from the tree-line without announcing himself. The first movement was a breath, the second a cutting line through air. He unfolded the Grid like a weapon.
Wallbind Step bent the nearest oak into a false barrier; a man who tried to step between trunk and shadow found the space rearranged against him. He stumbled, right into the arc Noctis chose.
Shadow Split Arrow split into phantom shafts the instant his hand suggested a bow. They were not needed to kill—only to fracture the night further, to make the bandits' muscles reach for protection that would not come.
The first throat opened before its owner could draw breath. The motion came as one clean, economical arc. A blade glanced along ribs, a dagger found a neck. Where Noctis struck, a man's life ended with the same efficiency a smith uses to split iron. There was no scream to carry, only the wet sound of life cut and the quick, inhuman inhale of a body that still thought it might fight.
They moved in confusion. Torchlight flared, bodies rose, boots thudded—then fell. Each counter met a doctrine Noctis had folded into himself over months: sword sweep into spear thrust, shield crush into vectored stomp, phantom arrows into a tempo that made every step into a trap. He chained Formation Breaker III into Tortoise Collapse III, and rows that might have shouldered through a charge instead folded inward and slammed into one another.
It was fast. It was surgical. It was merciless.
Noctis did not gloat. He catalogued.
A man with a round shield tried to brace and take the weight of a blade; the shield caught metal, but the force returned in a way the man had never trained for. He staggered, then Noctis finished him with a driving angle that split shoulder from chest. A second rose to draw bow but never reached his feathered tips; Shadow Volley met muscle and throat. Two men lunged together, only to find themselves trapped by Blood Chains, their legs bound and mouths gagging as the cold noon of death rushed in.
When the captain—larger, older, a scarred jaw and an axe that had earned trophies of its own—pushed to his feet, Noctis changed nothing about the outcome. The man swung, wide and practiced. Noctis corrected the vector of contact with a step that was geometry, not chance. The axe met steel at an angle that surrendered leverage. The captain's balance broke. A short, precise series of strikes followed. The man slumped. Noctis stepped close, lifted his forehead, and slit his throat with a method that left the eyes open and the question unfinished.
He did not waste time on bodies. He drank where it mattered.
He fed in place, moving from fallen to fallen with the practiced silence of a butcher who has been given a field and told to work fast. Flesh and blood yielded into the Grid; the cathedral of his hunger expanded with each swallow. Each feed tightened a node, brightened a line. Skills flared—Cutthroat's Instinct sharpening, Assassin's Veil II smoothing him into the night until he was not a man in armor but a shadow passing over flesh.
He left things in deliberate disorder. Clothing, boots, tossed weapons—evidence enough that this had been a fight. That was the calculus of what he did next. If the guild found no trace at all, questions would grow larger than the neat proof they required. He needed their curiosity to stop at the right point: enough to satisfy the guild's demand for proof, precise trophies to hang on a nail, but not so much that anyone could trace the absence to a single impossibility.
So he decapitated the captain and the two lieutenants. The cuts were clean; the heads were severed with a single pull and a clean reblade. He wrapped them in oilcloth, slid them into a sack. Those proofs would speak exactly the language the guild wanted. They would not mention the vanished bodies; they would report the captain cut down and the head brought back. The guild's men would nod and hand him coin and rank; they would not ask the questions he did not want.
Noctis crouched over the captain's body. The man's blood was thick, iron-laced, a veteran's life reduced to warmth in the dirt. Noctis drank until the last twitch faded, then let the flesh vanish into crimson vapor.
The Grid reacted at once. Lines lit. Branches curled, searching, rewriting.
A new node pulsed: Brutal Chop. His arm remembered the weight of the captain's axe, the crash of a vertical strike. The Grid refined it, smoothing reckless rage into a clean execution line. Another node sparked—Guardbreaker Slam—the impact knowledge of smashing through defenses folded neatly into his ledger.
He rose and stepped to the next corpse. A leaner bandit with knives still strapped across his chest. Noctis fed.
The taste was quick, bitter—blood laced with instinctive trickery. The Grid answered with shadows. Backstab Reflex sharpened in his mind, a reflexive twitch for the spine's soft target. Cutpurse's Hand flared—sleight turned into a predatory disarm, able to steal blades mid-clash. Then Poisoned Blade, not the crude smear of toxin, but twisted by the Grid into Crimson Venom Strike—a strike that seeded rot in the bloodstream.
He licked the last of the rogue's blood from his fangs and moved to another.
A scout, half-bent with a bow still at his side. The blood was thin, taut with nerves and alertness. The Grid pulsed again. Quick Draw lit, bowstring angles folding into the Ranger's Ledger. Then Pinning Shot, which merged into Silent Pin II, strengthening the existing shadow-binding. A final spark: Tracking Snare—simple traps twisted into shadow-ropes that would rise where his prey stepped.
Each body added a note to the symphony. Night Prowl crept in as well, stealth layered into stealth, sharpening Assassin's Veil II until it became less of a skill and more of an absence.
The Grid swelled. Soldier's Edge brightened, its Formation Breaker node branching into Formation Breaker II under the weight of stolen duelist tactics. Vector Cavalier stretched, its Spur-Vector growing sharper, surer. Bulwark Dominion's Lockbreaker Bash thickened, now able to shatter not just shields but bones beneath them.
When at last the final body collapsed into mist, the Grid shimmered whole before his eyes—no longer the narrow lattice of soldier and captain but a sprawling, mutating archive of every doctrine he had consumed. Rogue deceit. Warrior brutality. Scout precision. All of it his.
He breathed once, the armor humming with his pulse. The satchel at his back grew heavier with the heads he had kept, but lighter than the feast he had taken in. Proof in both forms: one for the guild, one for himself.
He rifled through their camp. Bandit treasure is small things collected in small greed—purses of coin, a few trinkets of silver, a stolen signet, two amethyst chips, a merchant's broken ring. He took what the men would have missed in a sudden rout: a sealed iron strongbox under a bundle of hides, a worn map of trade routes, a single leather pouch with heavier coins than he expected. He emptied the strongbox into his own sack, wrapped the map safe, and pocketed the coins. He left chests ajar, coins scattered where men might see and believe the story of a sack snatched by a rival gang.
For the bodies he consumed, only clothing remained. Boots, torn tunics, a shield propped up against a stump. He piled the remaining gear into a neat heap at the perimeter. It would appear like remnants of a fight where men fell and their gear lay where they had collapsed. He struck a small circle of coals, lifted one of the knives, and burned the most distinctive pieces—badges, daggers with guild stamps—until those marks were useless. The rest he stacked and prepared to sell in Varath if the need arose. Practicality after predation.
When the slaughter paused, when the night's screams had been swallowed into the trees and the only sound left was his breathing and the slow crackle of a dying fire, Noctis turned to the earth. He dug: hands if he must, but the Grid offered easier means, and he used them. The ground yielded under a knife-edge of shadow, a hollow opening to swallow the less useful proofs. He buried the bulk of the bandits in a shallow grave just beyond the firelight, covering the earth, tamping it down, leaving no body form to be found at a passing glance. He kept a small satchel—leather, sealed with wax—that contained the three heads, the strongest coins, the map, and one of the captain's rings. That satchel he tied and slung across his back. That would be visible proof later, easily produced, indisputable.
Once the burial was done and the camp arranged to tell the story he wanted—one of a violent fight ended abruptly—he tested the armor again. He stood in the low moonlight and extended his arm where the fire's embers made shallow, angry light. Nothing. The ice-woven sigils held. Heat was a rumor against his skin. He flexed, struck with the greatsword in a slow arc at a log until it split, and let the tip rest lightly on the captain's discarded axe. The metal bit a note and stayed.
He lingered, tasting the essence of broken men and a triumph that was more than muscle. The Grid integrated the addenda—bandit stances now stitched into his Book, scavenger tactics folded into Predator Sovereign. The new nodes shimmered: Shadow Swarm Volley had filed itself where range and rhythm met; Vector Crash caught an added line from the captain's charge; Linebinder Aura gained new density from the camp's scattered formation. He noted each upgrade without haste.
He spent another measured hour among the remains, not feeding now but arranging. He wrapped the heads with oilcloth, tied the satchel, and buried a cache of coin in a ring under an old stump near the grave. He would recover some things later; practical needs and contingencies mattered even to someone who ate kings' children.
At last he stood and looked at the camp the way one examines a field after harvesting. No trace of a visitor's presence marked him. The fire burned down to ash. The smell of death was already a thin veil on the air. The saddle on his back creaked as he adjusted the weight of proof tucked near his spine.
Before he left he paused with a thought—one of logistics. The satchel was a crude solution. Heads and trophies could rot, coins could chafe, maps could fray. There must be a better way to carry trophies without the smell, without the risk that a curious hand would lift a cloth and see what he kept. He considered skin-sealed vials, a box of polished ebony that might mask scent, a small iron reliquary lined with salts to delay decay. For now, the satchel would do. Later, he would find a craftsman—someone discrete—who could make storage that matched the breadth of his appetite.
He moved away from the camp with the same silence he had brought it. The trees swallowed his passage. The road toward Varath was a thin line through the black. He walked with the satchel at his back, the heavy sword balanced as if it were simply an instrument, the sealed armor humming an invisible song against his ribs.
By morning the guild would find the camp. They would tally the dead, find heads brought as proof, grant coin and perhaps rank. They would not see the missing bodies. They would not guess the hole that yawned where men should have lain. The proof they sought would be given to them by their own eyes: heads, blood, a trashed camp.
Noctis allowed himself a small, private smile as the forest closed behind him. He had tested his armor in a full day's heat and a night's exertion; he had tested his doctrines against disorganized foes and found them sharper; he had solved the problem of evidence in a way that suited him. He had also set aside questions that would matter later: better storage, disposal, and the meaning of trophies in a world where he never intended to keep anything that would betray him.
The satchel at his back rubbed once against the armor as he stepped into the road. He walked north with the map tucked into a pocket and the echoed lessons of the camp filing into the Grid. Dawn would find him a traveler returning with proof. Night would find him a predator returning to a ledger of more hungry nodes.
The city was quiet when Noctis returned, his cloak drawn over the sealed armor. Two sacks swung in his grip—one heavy with coin and trinkets, the other light but foul with the weight of severed heads.
He stopped at the inn first. The maid glanced up from the counter as the armored figure crossed the threshold, her face pale when she noticed the dark stain dripping from one sack.
Noctis said nothing. He set the bloodied sack down against the outer wall, left it by the door, and carried the other upstairs. Inside his room he laid the treasure sack beneath the bed, covering it with his cloak. A map and coins he tucked into his belt. The weight was secure.
He descended again, calm, and retrieved the first sack. The odor of iron already clung to the cloth. Patrons at the tavern's tables watched him, some turning away, others narrowing their eyes. Noctis ignored them and stepped into the street.
The guild hall was louder than before—afternoon light had drawn adventurers back from contracts, their chatter filling the long room. Dice rolled, mugs slammed, a lute strummed in the corner.
Noctis entered and silence followed, one thread at a time. First from the nearest table, then the next, until a quiet gap opened in the noise. Cloaked, helm shadowed, he carried the sack to the counter.
The same clerk straightened at the sight of him. Captain Deyric was nearby, sorting parchment, but he stopped when Noctis set the sack down. The sound was wet, final.
"I was given a trial," Noctis said evenly. His voice carried without effort. "The proof is here."
The clerk hesitated. "P-proof?"
Noctis untied the cord. The cloth fell open. Three heads rolled onto the counter—the bandit captain's scarred jaw, the lieutenants' slack faces. Gasps rippled through the hall. A mug fell and shattered.
Deyric stepped forward. His eyes locked on the grisly trophies, then shifted to Noctis. "You went alone?"
"Yes."
Deyric examined the captain's head, nudged it with his gauntlet. The scar matched the reports, the expression unmistakable even in death. He gave one slow nod. "It's him."
The guild hall murmured louder now—disbelief, awe, and the beginning of unease.
The clerk scribbled quickly, hands shaking. "By guild record, completion of a probation trial grants formal registration and entry at rank… C."
Deyric corrected her, his voice sharp. "B. A bandit camp cleared in a single night, their captain slain, no survivors—that is no novice's work."
The clerk faltered, then amended the parchment. She slid a wooden badge across the counter, iron-banded now, stamped with the crossed swords and a single stripe.
"Your rank," she said softly.
Noctis took it. The badge felt fragile, but it would open doors.
Deyric's gaze stayed hard. "We'll have contracts suited for your level. Bring them back the same way you brought these." He gestured to the heads. "But know this: adventurers will talk. They'll want to see if the stories are true."
Noctis inclined his head slightly. "Then let them."
He gathered the sack and left the hall, leaving whispers behind him. Some admired. Some doubted. Others feared.
On the street outside, the city bustled unaware. To them, he was only another adventurer with proof of a kill. To the guild, he was now B-rank.
Noctis walked back toward the inn, the badge slipping into his cloak, the treasure waiting upstairs.
The trial was finished. The hunt was only beginning.
Noctis returned to the inn in silence. The guild's murmur still chased him through the streets, stories of the cloaked stranger who had brought heads into their hall. He ignored them, climbed the stairs, and shut himself in his room.
On the table, he emptied the treasure sack. Coins clattered into a dull heap, rings slid across the wood, a broken amulet rolled against his palm. Most of it was crude plunder, nothing to feed the Grid. He kept only what might buy discretion later.
A knock interrupted.
The maid's voice, soft and cautious: "Sir? Do you need anything?"
He opened the door slightly. The violet glow flared.
[Skill: Allure's Gaze III — Binding Stare]Effect: Compulsion. Will opposed.
Her eyes widened, breath hitched.
"Tell me of the city," Noctis said. "What happened while I was gone?"
She obeyed. Markets, feasts, a fire in the east ward—trivial things, none of weight.
When she finished, he gave one short nod. "Return to your work. Come back tonight."
"Yes, master," she whispered.
By nightfall, she returned. Blankets twisted beneath her as she lay curled, breathing unsteady, eyes half-lidded. The weight of what had passed between them still clung to her.
Noctis dressed again, but not in the sealed armor that bound him to daylight. Instead, the blood-forged armor rose over his frame like a second skin—dark, fluid, formed from his own essence. Plates of crimson sheen and shadow masked his body, helm faceless and sharp. It concealed his identity completely, hiding man beneath predator.
The maid's gaze lingered on him even as exhaustion pulled at her. He left her to rest, pulling the door closed behind him.
The tavern below was still alive. Boots scuffed, mugs clattered, laughter cracked into shouts. Adventurers drank deep after coin and contracts, careless with their blood.
Soon, they would leave in scattered groups, swaggering into alleys and streets, blades dulled by drink and pride.
Noctis smiled faintly behind the blood helm. Tonight was no trial, no staged proof for the guild. Tonight was for hunger.
He descended the stairs without a sound. The tavern air thickened with smoke and noise, but none marked his passing. The blood-forged armor swallowed the light, a faceless predator moving through men who did not yet know they were prey.