Wolf woke with a slow groan, eyes heavy but sharp, his back stiff from the cave wall. For a moment, he lay still, listening. No sound but the whisper of water outside and the brittle pop of the dying fire.
He exhaled, long and steady, then pushed himself up to stand. His joints cracked as he stretched, arms reaching overhead until his spine arched and the tension bled out. A yawn dragged from his chest, loud in the quiet.
Once finished, he rolled his shoulders and set about his work. Every trace of him had to vanish. He crouched low, fingers scraping over stone as he scattered the remains of the bonfire. Ashes mixed into soil, the embers crushed into nothing.
He gathered the half-burnt sticks into his hands, dirt clinging under his nails. The stones at the entrance — he carried them one by one outside, each weight a reminder of vigilance. When he finished, he stood in the hollow space, breathing the cave's silence. Nothing in its darkness spoke of him anymore. He had been here, but he had not.
No trace. No sign. Good.
He walked straight to the river, crouching at the edge, Wolf's fingers broke the river's surface, scooping cold water that bit at his skin.
He drank deep, letting the chill chase the dryness from his throat. He splashed his face, water dripping in thin rivulets down his jaw. The shock sharpened him.
He stood, surveying himself in the reflection. His clothes were a mess — dirt streaks, dust, faint stains like clay smeared by accident. Wolf tugged at his sleeve, sniffed, then smirked.
"Mm. It's not blood, doesn't even smell like it. There won't be a problem." He tugged the sleeve tighter, then dropped it, letting the movement feel casual.
He stood still for a heartbeat, then tossed everything into the river — every stick, every bit of brush, even the smooth stones he had once arranged. Only the sharpened rock remained in his hand, its edge catching faint sunlight like a dull fang. That one he kept.
Then he began to run. His pace steady, his breath measured, he cut through the trees and brush, keeping low but swift. The forest gave way in time, and the air thickened with what he had expected. His lips twitched.
Wolf's mouth curved into a wide smile, a rare expression that split his face like a child's grin. "Ohh, boy… It's gonna be a good meal. I can already smell it."He chuckled low, almost giddy, like a boy coming home from school to his mother's favorite dish waiting. His pace quickened.
When he broke from the treeline and returned to the starting place, the change was obvious.
What once had been chaos and noise was now divided into order — or the beginning of it. Two great clusters of people.
Klion stepped into view, arms folded, jaw tight, eyes calculating.
The farthest group looked stronger, larger. They had already divided duties: fires burning in rows, some carrying branches, others butchering something that looked like meat. The air buzzed with orders, footsteps, conversation. Organized. Disciplined, in its crude way.
The nearest group, though, was scattered and loose. Smaller numbers, people wandering on their own, no real chain of command. Some argued over scraps, others sat watching, hollow-eyed, waiting for direction. Disorder, but flexible disorder.
Wolf walked casually toward this second group, eyes flicking over faces without stopping. His steps were unhurried, hands loose at his sides, but his presence carried weight all the same. It didn't take him long to find Klion — and Klion spotted him just as quickly. But instead of moving forward, Klion waited, letting Wolf close the distance.
Klion stood among the others, arms folded across his chest, posture tense. His jaw tightened as Wolf approached.
"Greeting, leader," Wolf said, voice calm, almost indifferent, as if they were resuming a conversation cut short.
"You're late, vice leader," Klion answered, his tone heavy, demanding. His voice carried enough to draw attention, and immediately those nearby turned to watch. But they understood something unspoken, and began to drift away, murmuring among themselves.
Gossip sparked like fire in the underbrush, but neither man paid it any mind.
Wolf tilted his head, eyes glinting, expression unreadable.
Klion stepped closer, his voice dropping, low and edged. "I need to talk to you. In private."
The two stood facing one another, the weight of unspoken expectations thick between them. The crowd gave them space, curiosity burning in their eyes.
Klion broke first. His words came quick, tangled with anger, relief, suspicion. "Where the hell have you been?" His eyes narrowed, studying Wolf for lies, for cracks. "Do you have any idea—?!"
Wolf lifted a hand slightly, palm out, as though brushing away a gnat. His tone was light, dismissive. "I just started exploring early. No need to freak out."
"You—!" Klion's voice rose, then broke into a heavy sigh. He dragged a hand through his hair, face tense with frustration. His chest heaved once before he steadied. "So what're we going to do next? You gonna help me manage—"
"Shhh."
Wolf interrupted softly, almost gently, but sharp enough to cut Klion's words in half. His eyes narrowed, his tone lower now, deliberate. "Tell me what happened while I was gone."
Back when they were separate:
Fuu… Klion let out a long, steady breath, almost soundless. His fingers, hidden inside his pockets, flexed once, twice, nails biting into his palms as if to anchor him.
Okay… I can do this. I have to do this. I just need to be cautious and patient.
His eyes moved over the people in front of him — jittering silhouettes against a backdrop of dying campfires.
Their faces were a collage of exhaustion, fear, and restless hunger. Shadows lengthened across the clearing, curling like claws around the roots of the trees; the smell of damp moss and unwashed bodies hung heavy in the air.
He shifted slightly, leaning back into the tall grass at the edge of the crowd, letting the blades brush against his forearms.
Wait… not yet. They're still simmering. Wait for the pot to boil.
The murmur of voices swelled and broke like small waves: gossip, bickering, whispers about food, danger and who should lead.
There it is. The fracture point.
The noise is like sparks in dry tinder… one push and it'll flare. His breath slowed; he focused on the sound until it blurred into a single rhythm.
Then, as if on cue, the spark appeared.
A man stepped forward from the thicker knot of people — tall, polished, out of place. Blonde hair combed back with care, catching what little light there was. His round glasses glinted like twin coins; even his boots looked freshly buffed.
A rich-boy type, Klion thought bitterly, someone who's never eaten from a chipped bowl, never run until his lungs bled.
The man's voice rose above the noise, smooth and practiced, carrying a tone of benevolent command:
"Listen, everyone!" He raised one hand high, palm open, the gesture confident, even theatrical. "We need to stick together, with honesty and unity. Only by that can we survive here and now. Join me — show your honesty, show your status window, and prove your innocence!"
A ripple passed through the crowd — faces tilting upward, curious, hopeful, nervous. The man adjusted his glasses with two fingers, smiling like someone unveiling a gift.
"You'll be given the right tasks to do," he continued, "and you'll be paid fairly. Join me. Join us… The Union!"
Klion felt his jaw tighten. The Union. Of course he's given it a name. It's always names and slogans. Let wrap the blade in silk, and the crowd won't notice when it cuts their throat.
He stepped forward, letting the grass whisper against his boots. The crowd parted just enough for him to slide through; his shadow stretched across the flickering firelight like a black seam splitting the group. His voice cut in, low but clear:
"The Union?" He let out a short, humorless laugh. "That's a bit laughable, no?"
Several heads turned. Klion's eyes swept across them, steady, unblinking. "What are the people who've got low stats going to do, huh? They won't get any tasks, any duties, will they? Since the others — the strong ones — will take them instead. What's your plan for them?"
The man with glasses turned his head slowly, as if regarding a child. His smile stayed, but his voice softened to something rehearsed and kind: "Of course, they'll be trained until they're ready. His eyes flicking to the back of the crowd. We, The Union, won't let anyone die under our watch."
"Oh?" Klion tilted his head, his hair falling into his face. His tone sharpened, like a knife drawn over a whetstone. "Resources we don't have. People you call not ready. Are you really going to waste both while we stand here?" His voice carried now, louder than before, bouncing off the trees. "Anybody believe that? Raise your hand for me, please. Anyone?"
Silence pressed in like a held breath. A few exchanged looks, but no hands rose.
Klion's mouth curled faintly, though his heart hammered against his ribs. Push now. Push them where they already want to go.
"Oh, please, everyone," he said, letting his tone drip with scorn. "Do you know what this man is really going to do with people who've got low stats? They'll kill them. Use them as bait. Force them to work until they drop."
A gasp, a sharp intake of breath. Someone muttered, "No way…" Another voice, "Could he?" The crowd's stillness cracked like thin ice.
Klion's eyes flashed. He moved a half step forward, palm open, not pleading but slicing the air with his words. "What stops him from doing that? Absolutely nothing. So tell me — are you really going to join this man? Join The Union?"
He took another breath, chest rising and falling in controlled rhythm. His voice shifted — less anger, more fire. A new current rolled under his words: promise.
"If not," he said, his hand pressing over his heart now, "then join me."
A murmur rippled outward. Faces turned fully toward him.
"Join Haven of the Forsaken!" The name came out like a banner unfurled. He straightened, shoulders squared, gaze bright.
"I offer you freedom. You won't have to show your status window. You won't have to sit down and wait for another order, another task!"
He could feel their eyes on him now — hundreds of small flickers of hope, suspicion, desperation. They're hungry. Not just for food. For a choice. Give it to them.
"I'll announce new tasks every day," he said, pacing slowly now, his boots scraping dirt, voice rolling like a tide. "And it's up to you to decide what you want to do. The reward is all the same — but the amount will depend on your performance. Isn't this far better? Isn't this what you hope for?"
He extended a hand toward the crowd, fingers spread, palm open. "Then join us! Join Haven of the Forsaken now!"
The moment his banner rose.
the name Haven of the Forsaken—the clearing erupted.
Haven of the Forsaken!
Haven of the Forsaken!
Haven of the Forsaken!
Voices swelled into a single, hungry roar, hands clapping, feet stamping, the sound vibrating through soil and bone.
People shouted the name back at Klion as if it were an incantation, a promise. Faces brightened; some kissed their hands, some pointed at one another with sudden, fierce hope. Fires cracked, embers spun upward like answering stars.
Klion felt the heat of it against his chest, adrenaline prickling the hairs at his forearms. Good. He watched the crowd's movement—who cheered loud, who clung at the edges, who kept silent—logging everything the way a man logs debt and credit. This is a harvest.
He turned toward Wolf, breath still caught from the speech. "Well," he said, voice hoarse from shouting, "that was what happened." He let the words fall flat between them, waiting for the verdict.
Wolf's eyes narrowed for a heartbeat.
He paused, fingers lifted to the side of his temple as if tuning something in the air, and let the silence draw out like a wire. Then Wolf spoke, measured and clinical. "I see." He let the thought steep, pouring over the scene in his mind — faces like ingredients, voices like spice.
For a moment, a small thrill flickered:
You don't disappoint. Seems I picked the right ingredient. This meal is delicious.
He snapped back to the present with a faint, polite smile. "How many people you got? Tell me—roughly." The question came quick, no preamble.
He wanted numbers, distribution, the raw counts the crowd never thought to count.
Klion blinked, thrown off. "What?! You don't really expect me to count people, right?"
His tone held a brittle edge of incredulity. He straightened, hand rubbing at his jaw.
Did he—does he actually think I did headcount? He swallowed and managed to steady himself.
"No. Of course not. I didn't—" He sighed, then gave a rough estimate, eyes flicking to bits of the crowd as he did the mental math.
"Well… it's like—about seventy percent of the crowd's with me. The Union's got thirty."
Wolf's lips twitched; the corner of his mouth lifted. "Oh?" he said softly, eyes gleaming. "So most of your people already left to do their things. I see."
Very good.
He let a thought smile bruise his expression. You don't disappoint me. He didn't say it aloud
he didn't want to. His fingers brushed the sharpened rock at his hip in a casual check.
This meal is delicious.
He thought again, savoring the metaphor like a man tasting a plan that promises profit.
"Anyway," Wolf continued in a lighter voice, "continue like this. Focus on food first."
Short. Direct. Necessary.
Food meant survival, meant leverage; who controlled sustenance controlled loyalty.
Klion hesitated. The question hovered like a moth around a lamp—practical, clumsy, oddly human.
"Y-yeah… about that…"
He shifted weight from one foot to the other, face folding with a thread of worry. "The Union… they found some meat. They're out hunting—looks like they've got something to butcher."
Wolf's eyes sharpened. "You think there's an animal field or some weak monster for them to hunt?" His tone was more curiosity than command; his mind was already mapping possibilities—how many animals, what size, how to intercept.
"Yeah," Klion answered, relief and uncertainty braided together. "I figured the same."
Wolf's gaze drifted almost idly across the scattered faces near the Union's side. "How many people from Asia are in the Union?" he asked suddenly—practicality masking a peculiar specificity.
Klion's brow furrowed. "How would I know that?!" he snapped, immediately embarrassed at the sharpness in his words. He paused, cheeks flushing with a half-laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "If I eyeball it… maybe thirty to forty percent? Hard to be exact though."
Wolf nodded once, the motion small but precise. His mouth quirked at one side into a smile that had no warmth. "Alright. I'll deal with that union." The intent behind the words felt like the tightening of a net.
Klion frowned, confusion and a flash of something like moral discomfort crossing his features.
Is he… racist? he wondered, the thought souring his mood. He opened his mouth to protest, but the words tangled. "I don't know what you mean, but—don't make trouble right now," he said instead, cautious and practical.
"Of course I won't," Wolf answered casually, as if dismissing any hint of accusation with a wave. Then, almost offhand, he gave an order that made Klion pause. "Also—tomorrow at dawn, prepare five people for me. Pick Asian people, alright?"
Klion blinked, the request jarring. "Umm… sure?" He said the word with a thinness that revealed his inner question: Is he like racist? He glanced around, feeling the weight of the crowd's eyes even though no one watched them closely now. The ambiguity gnawed.
Wolf gave a quick nod and stepped back, posture lightening. "I'll go now. Don't overwork." He flashed a brief, breezy goodbye wave before turning to melt into the crowd, movement fluid and purposeful.
"You too—don't die!" Klion called after him without thinking, a reflex born of irritation and something like concern. The words stuck between them—casual, human—and for a beat both men held the moment before it dissolved into the noise of the camp.
Wolf slipped from the center of the crowd without a sound, his shadow thinning into the trees until the campfires were no more than faint orange pulses behind him. His boots pressed against the wet soil, muffled by layers of fallen leaves and creeping brush. Every step, he scanned—ears twitching for distant movement, nose cutting through the musk of moss and damp earth.
His pace was unhurried, fingers brushing against bark now and then, grounding himself in the forest's breath.
A murmur pricked at his ear. Wolf stilled, tilting his head. Voices, low but distinct, drifting through the trees. He crouched, spine bent like a hunting beast, and followed in a curve, always keeping distance.
Through the branches, he caught sight: a group of ten. Their breaths fogged in rhythm. Wooden weapons in their hands—clubs, hastily carved spears, planks bound with vines. Their leader, a square-jawed man, barked softly at them to keep formation.
Wolf's lip twitched. Ten people. Minimum number for a hunting group, I suppose… He scanned their gear. Weapons already? Wooden, crude. Still, better than bare fists. Hm. Maybe they're replacements, sent to relieve the ones who went before.
He angled his body away, sinking lower, before ghosting to the far right of their path. When he was sure none would glimpse him through the gaps of trees, he broke into a run—fast, silent, the air breaking across his teeth. His breath stayed measured as his feet flew over roots and soft earth. Soon the forest thinned, light pooling ahead. He slowed, stopping just before the treeline.
A broad stretch of field opened before him. His nostrils flared. The stench hit first: animal musk thickened with rot and iron. His eyes narrowed as the monsters revealed themselves.
Beasts—hyena-like in shape, bodies broad and low, their coats dense and bristling like armored straw. No eyes. Instead, each bore a horn jutting from its forehead, the length gleaming as though honed. They sniffed and turned, their movements eerily coordinated without sight. Their growls vibrated low, guttural, the sound of stone grating under water.
Wolf's pulse didn't waver. He crouched, those horns… they're weapons with out a doubt. Sharp enough to split bone. Dangerous in a charge. They're feeding stock for the Union's little hunts, then. His smile came thin, glinting. Perfect.
He stepped forward, sliding into the field while the monsters' attention locked on larger groups battling them head-on. Shouts tore through the field—commands, curses, cries of pain.
One group, about twenty meters ahead, struggled. Seven beasts against them. Their wooden weapons clashed against horns, the sound of splintered wood echoing. Someone screamed. A man's arm lay torn at an ugly angle.
Wolf drifted near them, slipping behind. His eyes fell on a young man, face pale with terror, body trembling as he swung weakly at the monster's flank.
Wolf's hand tightened on his sharpened stone. He lunged, swift as shadow, and drove it into the boy's calf.
The scream split the air, blood gushing dark. The boy collapsed, clutching at his leg, his voice drowned by chaos.
Wolf didn't linger. He was already moving. His face, cold, almost blank, carried a faint gleam of interest, like someone testing texture. He slid behind a middle-aged woman next—her breath ragged, her arms stiff with fear as she tried to thrust her spear.
Wolf's hand snapped forward. The sharpened rock bit into her throat. A wet gurgle. She staggered, dropped her weapon. Wolf wrenched the wooden spear from her dying grip, spinning it once in his hand as though testing its weight.
The monsters snapped their heads toward the new noise, horns glinting as their guttural growls spiked into a chorus of rage.
With one crippled, one dead, the group collapsed under pressure. The monsters surged, sensing weakness, and soon the balance tipped. Wolf slipped away without watching the full collapse. Waste not time. Their death will feed the field either way.
He blended into another group further down. His body hunched, steps uneven, his breath shallow, desperate. His face twisted into fear, his voice trembling like an unstrung bow.
"Guys! Guys!" he gasped, staggering into their sight. "There's a group of monsters coming—backup pack! My group… we had three, we—we were fine! But then—five more came out of nowhere—" He stuttered, shoulders trembling.
"They tore through us! I—I don't know who survived, I just—escaped…"
The group froze. Their leader, a man wielding a wooden shield and spear, swore. "Fuck!" His grip tightened, sweat slicking the wood. "Are they following you?!"
Wolf stammered, eyes wide, feigned terror dripping from his every syllable. "I… I don't know! Maybe! But they'll come for all of us—if the new squad doesn't arrive soon to hold them off—"
"Shit, he's right!" another man shouted, voice flustered, cracking under strain.
"We should find another group! Isn't that what we should do?!" Panic pitched his tone higher.
A young girl—barely past sixteen, her hands trembling around her club—nodded frantically.
"Y-yeah! We… we gotta find the others before those things find us!"
Their breathing grew sharp, chaotic, the ground buzzing beneath them as fear began its infection.
"Shit—they're here!" another girl screamed. Her eyes widened, fixed on the dark horizon. And then—the pack came. The ground shook under their charge. The beasts rushed like a tide of muscle and horns, jaws snapping, their growls guttural.
"No! No, no, no!" An old man's voice cracked—his knuckles white around his crude spear. His hands shook violently, teeth clattering. "How are we—how are we going to survive this?!" His eyes darted, wild.
"Hold your position!" the leader roared, his shield raised. His voice fought to be iron, but strain leaked through. "Don't panic, old man Ian! We just need to hold them—until the new group arriv—"
The words cut.
A wooden spear jutted through the side of his skull, blood spraying across the faces of those closest. His body dropped in silence, the sound of his death heavier than the beasts' growls.
The spear was Wolf's.
He stood among them, grip steady, face split with a hollow grin. He turned before shock faded and tore the weapon from the hands of another old man who tried to resist. A sharp shove, a rip, another scream swallowed by chaos.
Panic detonated.
The formation broke.
The monsters surged in. People fell, torn apart—screams shredded into wet sounds, wood cracking against horns before flesh split.
One beast lunged at the nearest man, but the sudden scream behind it split its focus. Its companions adjusted their angles, snarling in frustration.
Old man Ian bolted before Wolf could even touch him, legs trembling as he sprinted across the bloodied field. His voice babbled prayers and curses, but they all died when the beasts caught him. His last sight, his last shiver of consciousness, was of Wolf—slick dark hair streaked faintly with gray, lips drawn into a smile that stretched too wide, too pleased.
Wolf laughed. The sound wasn't human—it was sharp, guttural, carried on the thrill of slaughter. No guilt, no hesitation.
Another laugh slithered out, low and guttural, weaving through the chaos that still echoed faintly from the field. It was pleasure.
"The ingredients… prepared" His eyes gleamed. "Let's move on to another one."
The world seemed to pause, his figure slipped back into the dark, his laughter trailing in the field like a sickness that wouldn't leave.