The forest stood quiet in the pale light of dawn, shadows stretching long between the towering pines. Malric crouched low, his hollow sockets scanning the forest floor for signs of his quarry. His skeletal frame blended with the gnarled roots and dead leaves, motionless save for the faint gleam of his hand brushing against the dirt. A hunter’s patience—this was what today demanded.

He had followed the tracks of a large stag for hours, hoofprints pressed into the soft soil like subtle runes leading deeper into the forest. Nearby, he found broken branches, clumps of fur snagged on bark, and the faint musky smell of the beast. A predator could have taken this path, he mused, but this one still lived. It was bold to roam so far from safety.

Malric studied the terrain. The stag was strong and swift, likely relying on its speed and powerful antlers to fend off threats. Such traits made it a dangerous prey but an ideal specimen. The heavy weight of its bones could fortify his fragile torso, and the antlers—yes, those jagged crowns—might serve a purpose in his craft. His ribs, cracked from the last hunt, still ached with phantom sensations, though his undead nature dulled the pain.

He moved forward, stalking without sound, his form slipping through the underbrush like a shadow. Soon, he spotted it. The stag grazed in a small clearing, its proud antlers glinting faintly as sunlight pierced the canopy above.

Malric froze, observing. The beast moved with a rhythm, each twitch of its ears and flick of its tail a language unto itself. It was cautious, alert, aware that predators roamed this forest. He waited for it to lower its head, the moment he’d make his strike.

But the stag suddenly froze. Its ears twitched, its head snapping toward his direction. Had it sensed him?

Malric lunged, bones scraping against the earth as he darted forward. The stag’s reaction was immediate, its body twisting as it bolted, hooves hammering against the ground in a deafening rhythm. Malric cursed inwardly, the chase already tipping out of his favor.

He raced after it, his heavier frame crashing through the undergrowth. His skeletal limbs, though quick, couldn’t match the speed of living muscle. Branches slapped against him, snapping or catching on his bones, slowing his progress. The stag’s figure vanished and reappeared between the trees, always just out of reach.

It was infuriating, this reminder of his limits. Malric’s undead form spared him the exhaustion of the living, but his movements were heavier now, his body less agile than it had been before. His ribs, reinforced with scavenged bones, gave him durability but at the cost of speed. The stag would win this race unless he out-thought it.

Slowing his pace, he tracked its path, noting how it veered toward denser vegetation. Clever creature. It was using the environment to obscure itself, but Malric’s hollow sight caught subtle movements: the sway of a bush, the flicker of a white tail.

He smirked internally. “You won’t escape.”

Rather than chase recklessly, Malric adjusted his path, steering the stag toward a rocky outcrop ahead. The terrain narrowed there, a bottleneck where the beast would be forced to slow. If he could time it right, it wouldn’t have room to dodge.

The stag burst into the clearing, its breath heavy, nostrils flaring as it sought an escape. Malric waited in the shadows, hidden among the jagged rocks, still as death itself. The stag stepped forward hesitantly, its hooves crunching on loose gravel.

Malric struck.

He lunged from the darkness, his bony hands reaching for the stag’s legs. The beast reared back, its powerful antlers swinging downward with a ferocity that caught Malric off guard. He barely dodged, the sharp prongs scraping against his shoulder, sending him sprawling.

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The stag charged, slamming into him with the full weight of its body. Malric crashed against a boulder, the impact reverberating through his ribs. He felt the cracks worsen, a sharp, grinding sound that would have driven any living creature to despair. But Malric didn’t feel despair—he felt rage.

As the stag backed away, preparing another charge, Malric rose unsteadily. His fingers flexed, grasping the terrain for balance. The creature had strength, but strength alone couldn’t defeat him. He was no ordinary predator.

The stag charged again, but this time Malric sidestepped, his bony fingers snapping out to grip its antlers. The beast thrashed wildly, its muscles straining, but Malric held firm, twisting its head downward. With a surge of unnatural strength, he wrenched the stag to the ground, pinning it beneath his weight.

It kicked and struggled, but its movements slowed as Malric pressed harder. Soon, its body fell still, its breathing shallow and final.

The forest was silent again. Malric stood over his prize, his skeletal frame marred by dirt and splintered wood from the struggle. He gazed down at the stag, admiring its proud antlers, now motionless in the dirt.

His ribs ached faintly, reminding him of his own fragility. He knelt, his fingers tracing the stag’s form as he began his work. The bones beneath the hide were strong, dense—ideal for his needs. He carefully pried the antlers loose, their jagged edges gleaming in the dim light. These would reinforce his torso, he decided, forming a protective cage around his fragile core.

As he worked, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. Each hunt, each kill, brought him closer to perfection. The living fought fiercely, but they always fell in the end. Their strength, their vitality, all of it could be harvested, repurposed.

Malric carried his spoils deeper into the woods, seeking a quiet place to integrate the new parts. The forest darkened as he walked, shadows growing longer and deeper. Finally, he stopped, standing in the silence. The hunt was over, but the work had just begun.

In the stillness, he began to disassemble himself, the faint creak of bone on bone echoing through the trees. The stag’s remains lay nearby, its power now his to claim.

The forest stretched endlessly before Malric, dark and dense, the faint rays of sunlight filtering through the canopy unable to pierce the gloom below. He walked in silence, each step calculated, his new boar-enhanced limbs moving with a weight and power unfamiliar to him. Yet, for all their strength, they were slower than he was used to. His movements felt cumbersome, and he frowned inwardly at the thought of a misstep costing him his prey.

He had to adapt.

His thoughts drifted back to the goblins. Their diminutive forms had surprised him during his first encounter—their bones were not brittle like those of rodents or other small creatures but surprisingly sturdy for their size. Their bodies seemed to carry a raw vitality he found appealing for his craft. That shaman, though... Malric felt a flicker of frustration at his inability to take its remains. A creature capable of wielding rudimentary magic could offer so much.

That failure would not repeat itself.

Malric stopped abruptly, crouching low. His sharpened eye sockets scanned the forest floor, now littered with subtle signs of life. He saw the telltale evidence of goblins: a broken arrowhead buried in the dirt, a set of tracks leading off into the thicker underbrush. The trail was fresh.

“I’ll find them,” he thought, his jaw clicking faintly as he clenched his teeth. “And this time, I’ll take what I need.”

The trail wound through increasingly treacherous terrain. The air grew heavier, more oppressive, as the forest thickened into a maze of tangled roots and jagged rocks. Malric moved slowly, careful to avoid the traps scattered in his path.

He crouched near a shallow pit lined with crude spikes, its edges smeared with blood. A small animal, a rabbit perhaps, had fallen victim here. The goblins were clever in their savagery, their traps designed to maim rather than kill outright.

Malric stepped over the pit, his bony fingers brushing a taut length of vine hidden in the brush. He paused and followed the line with his gaze, spotting a bundle of rocks suspended overhead. A trigger trap, simple but effective. With a swift motion, he cut the vine with his claws, watching as the rocks tumbled to the ground.

"Efficient, but predictable," he mused.

Night fell by the time he reached the edge of a ravine. A faint flicker of firelight danced in the distance, visible through the dense foliage. Malric crept closer, keeping to the shadows, his body low and silent as he moved.

The goblin camp sprawled below him, larger than he’d anticipated. Crude tents made of stitched-together hides formed a ragged perimeter, with fires burning in the center of the camp. He counted two dozen goblins, maybe more, moving about in chaotic patterns. Some argued loudly near the fires, while others sharpened weapons or huddled over scraps of food.

His eye sockets narrowed as he scanned the camp for anything unusual. Then he saw it—a figure standing apart from the rest, hunched over a staff adorned with bones, feathers, and other trinkets. A shaman.

Malric’s jaw tightened. This tribe was better organized than the last, with sentries patrolling the perimeter and clear lines of sight between their posts. The shaman’s presence meant potential magical defenses, and Malric’s encounter with the boar had reminded him he was not invincible.

Still, the prospect of harvesting those bones...

Malric retreated to a safer vantage point, crouching in the shadows as he began to plan his attack.

“These creatures are not strong alone,” he thought. “Their power lies in their numbers, their chaos. I’ll dismantle that advantage.”

His gaze flicked back toward the camp, lingering on the sentries. One of them, a lanky goblin wielding a crude spear, had begun to wander further from the group, its route taking it into the darker parts of the ravine.

“A perfect start.”

He would take his time, picking them off one by one. The goblins relied on each other, their confidence bolstered by their numbers. If he thinned the herd, fear would spread, disrupting their cohesion.

The shaman would be last, isolated and vulnerable.

Malric’s skeletal fingers flexed, his claws glinting faintly in the moonlight. As the goblin sentry moved further from the camp, Malric followed, silent and patient. The hunt had begun.