Chapter 1 : WHAT MONSTERS ARE MADE OF
The System's voice cut through the dark like cold glass.
[PREPARATION PHASE COMPLETE. ACTIVE PHASE INITIATED.]
I opened my eyes. Cheap motel ceiling. Water stain shaped like Florida. The Dusty Trails Motel earned its name—dust particles drifted through the weak morning light leaking past the curtains. March in Nevada. Cold enough that my breath would fog if I were still human.
Two years. Two goddamn years since I died on a rain-slick highway in a world that didn't have vampires, werewolves, or systems that lived inside your skull. Two years since I woke up in Marcus Webb's body—a drifter nobody with thirty-seven dollars, a fake ID, and no family who'd miss him.
Marcus got eaten by a Skinwalker three days after I arrived.
I survived. Barely. The thing that bit me changed me, and when I killed it with a rusted pipe through its eye socket, something else woke up.
[GOOD MORNING, HOST. YOUR CURRENT STATUS:] [SYSTEM LEVEL: 5] [DOMINION: 30] [PREDATOR ESSENCE: 120] [UNITY INDEX: 0] [HUNTER THREAT LEVEL: GREEN]
The interface hovered at the edge of my vision—translucent blue text that only I could see. I'd stopped flinching at it around month six. The Monster King System. That's what it called itself. A voice in my head that handed out quests, tracked my stats, and whispered about building an empire of monsters.
In my old life, I'd have called it schizophrenia. In this world, I called it my best shot at surviving the apocalypse.
Because I knew things. I knew that in three or four years, demons would crack open a gate to Hell. I knew angels were real and most of them were dicks. I knew two brothers named Winchester would stumble through catastrophe after catastrophe, leaving a trail of dead monsters behind them.
The System didn't know I knew any of that. Some secrets you keep even from the voice living in your brain.
[NEW OBJECTIVE DETECTED]
I sat up, swinging my legs off the mattress. The springs groaned.
[PRIMARY MISSION: ELIMINATE WENDIGO THREAT] [LOCATION: RUBY MOUNTAINS, SECTOR 7] [THREAT ASSESSMENT: MODERATE] [TIME LIMIT: 72 HOURS] [REWARD: +50 EP, +5 PE]
A Wendigo. Perfect. I'd read everything I could find on them during my preparation phase—the period where the System had me learning instead of acting. Fast. Nearly invisible at night. Former humans who resorted to cannibalism and got twisted into something hungry and eternal.
Fire killed them. Not much else did.
[HUNTER ACTIVITY DETECTED IN SECTOR. MISSION PRIORITY ELEVATED. COMPLETE BEFORE HUNTER INTERVENTION TO MAINTAIN GREEN HTL STATUS.]
Translation: hunters were sniffing around. If they found the Wendigo first, fine. If they found me, less fine. Hunter Threat Level determined how much attention I drew from the people who made killing monsters their life's work. Green meant invisible. I wanted to stay invisible.
I dressed in the dark. Jeans, thermal layer, flannel, leather jacket. Boots with thick treads. Everything practical. Everything replaceable. I'd learned that lesson when a Shapeshifter ruined my only good coat with its death throes.
The backpack sat by the door, already packed. Old habits from another life—never leave home without your go-bag. This one held the essentials: silver knife wrapped in cloth, three burner phones still in their packaging, cash in multiple denominations, two fake IDs. One said Marcus Webb. One said S. Morrow.
Silas Morrow. The name I'd chosen for this life. Close enough to my original name that I'd answer to it naturally. Different enough that no one would connect a dead man's memories to a monster's face.
I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I passed.
Marcus Webb had been average height, lean build, dark hair that needed cutting. Brown eyes. Nothing memorable. That was the point—he'd been the kind of man who could walk through a crowd without anyone looking twice. Perfect camouflage for a monster.
I'd stopped flinching at his face around month eight.
[HOST NUTRITIONAL STATUS: STABLE] [LAST FEEDING: 18 HOURS] [RECOMMENDATION: CONSUME STORED RESOURCES BEFORE EXTENDED MISSION]
The cooler sat in the corner. I opened it, pulled out a blood bag—labeled "deer," because lying to yourself made it easier—and drank without heating it. Cold blood tasted like copper pennies and regret, but it kept the hunger manageable.
That was the thing they didn't tell you about becoming a Skinwalker. The hunger wasn't constant, but it was always there. A low hum at the base of your skull. An awareness of the meat walking around in human skin. I'd learned to manage it with animal blood, but the System kept track of my feeding schedule like a disappointed nutritionist.
[FEEDING COMPLETE. HOST STATUS OPTIMIZED FOR COMBAT OPERATIONS.]
I grabbed my keys and stepped outside.
The Dusty Trails Motel squatted at the edge of Elko like it was ashamed of itself. Six rooms, a flickering vacancy sign, and a parking lot with more cracks than asphalt. My truck sat alone near the dumpster—a beat-up Ford F-150 that ran on stubbornness and prayer.
The motel owner was smoking by the office. Old guy, maybe sixty, with the weathered look of someone who'd made peace with mediocrity decades ago. He nodded at me. I nodded back.
"Heading out early," he observed.
"Got business in the mountains."
"Hunting?"
The irony almost made me smile. "Something like that."
I climbed into the truck. The engine coughed twice before catching. The heater wheezed to life, pushing lukewarm air at my face.
[OPTIMAL ROUTE CALCULATED. ARRIVAL AT SECTOR 7: APPROXIMATELY 3 HOURS.]
The sun crawled over the horizon as I pulled onto the highway. Nevada stretched out flat and empty, the kind of landscape that made you believe in monsters. Too much space. Too few witnesses.
I'd spent two years mapping this world. Learning which rumors pointed to real supernatural activity and which were just drunk hunters telling stories. Building a mental database of monster territories, hunter patterns, safe houses, and kill zones.
The System called it preparation. I called it survival.
[BRIEFING DATA ON WENDIGO:] [SPECIES: FORMER HUMAN, CORRUPTED] [KNOWN WEAKNESSES: FIRE, FLARE GUNS, IMMOLATION] [THREAT LEVEL: HIGH IN OPTIMAL CONDITIONS] [NOTED BEHAVIOR: TERRITORIAL, CACHES PREY IN CAVES/MINES]
Three hikers missing in the Ruby Mountains over two weeks. A ranger station spooked enough to close the northern trails. Local news calling it a mountain lion attack.
Mountain lions didn't drag people into abandoned mine shafts.
I stopped at a gas station an hour out from the mountains. The kind of place with one working pump and a cashier who looked like she'd seen too many dawn shifts. I filled the tank, paid cash, and picked up supplies: lighter fluid, three road flares, a pack of beef jerky, and a gas station breakfast burrito wrapped in sad foil.
The burrito was terrible. I ate it anyway, standing by my truck, watching the morning light paint the desert gold.
Food is food.
In my old life, I'd have sent it back. Complained about the soggy tortilla and the questionable cheese. Now I chewed slowly, savoring the warmth, the texture, the fact that I could still taste anything at all.
Small pleasures. They mattered more now than they ever had when I was human.
[TIME REMAINING: 68 HOURS] [RECOMMEND INCREASING PACE TO ARRIVAL POINT]
I finished the burrito, tossed the wrapper, and got back in the truck.
The Ruby Mountains rose ahead, purple-grey against the pale sky. Somewhere in those peaks, something hungry was waiting. It had eaten hikers. It would eat more if I didn't stop it.
And if I killed it cleanly, if I burned the evidence and disappeared before the hunters arrived, the System would reward me. More Evolution Points. More Predator Essence. One more step toward becoming something that couldn't be killed by the things that were coming.
The apocalypse was three years away, give or take. Angels. Demons. Leviathans. The whole biblical horror show.
I intended to be ready.
The truck rattled past a sign: RUBY MOUNTAINS — 47 MILES.
I checked the rearview mirror. Empty highway. No followers. No hunters.
Just me and the monster waiting in the cold.
My hand found the silver knife in my jacket pocket. Cool metal against my palm.
Tonight, I'd find out if two years of preparation meant anything.
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