The camp never slept. Not truly. Even after a battle, even after the scavengers dragged corpses to the pyres, the smoke lingered. The wounded moaned, the drunk brawled, and always—always—someone whispered.
Tonight, the whispers were all the same.
The Soul-Eater.
Kael heard them even from the shadows at the camp's edge. His hood was drawn low, face hidden, but he felt their eyes. He could smell the fear. It was in the way soldiers hunched over their dice, glancing at the fire's edge. It was in the way mercenaries fingered their blades as if reassurance.
And it was in the way three men peeled from the fire and stalked into the smoke after him.
Kael didn't quicken his pace. He could hear them well enough—the crunch of boots, the scrape of steel being drawn. The forge thrummed in his chest, a predator's heartbeat.
They come to test you, it whispered. Let them.
The three closed in near the ruins of a collapsed wall. Their leader was a scarred mercenary with a hooked axe. His voice was low, but not low enough.
"You saw the bodies. Husked. Burned. That wasn't war." He spat. "That was a weapon. And if that bastard is carrying it… then he bleeds like anyone else. We take it, we're kings in this pit."
The second man chuckled, nervous. The third muttered something about demons, earning a cuff to the ear.
Kael stopped walking. Slowly, he turned. His hood slipped back enough to show his eyes.
They glowed faintly in the smoke.
The nervous one flinched. The leader grinned, covering his own fear with bravado. "So it's you, then. The Soul-Eater."
Kael said nothing.
The leader lifted his axe. "Let's see if you scream like the rest."
They struck together.
The first swung low, blade shrieking off Kael's sword. The second lunged from the side. Kael twisted, shadows spilling from his arm, lashing upward in a Wraith Claw. The man shrieked as his chest was torn open, soul ripped from his body in a flare of light.
The forge drank deeply.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
[ Soul Count: 1,463 → 1,464 ]
Forgecraft: 34 → 35
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The second merc stumbled back, terror dawning. "Gods—he's—"
Kael moved before he could finish, sword flashing. Steel split flesh, and the second collapsed, soul torn free in a silent scream.
Two gone.
The leader froze, axe half-raised. The firelight showed sweat streaming down his face.
"…you're not human."
Kael's voice was hoarse, raw from ash and hunger. "Not anymore."
The forge urged him to strike. To finish it. But Kael hesitated. He remembered the whispers, the fear spreading through camp. Every kill made him stronger—but every husk left behind added to the legend.
If he slaughtered openly, they would hunt him with more than three men.
The mercenary seemed to sense the pause. He staggered back, then turned and fled into the smoke.
Kael didn't chase. Not this time. He sheathed his sword with trembling hands.
The forge hissed with disappointment. Mercy feeds nothing.
"…survival does," Kael muttered.
Far away, the mercenary leader collapsed near the fires, gasping. He shouted of glowing eyes, of shadows that ate souls. Laughter met him, then unease, then silence. By morning, half the camp would have heard.
The Soul-Eater wasn't a rumor anymore. He was a man.
And hunters always came for prey that shone too brightly in the dark.