The night stretched before Arlen like an endless expanse of shadow and silence. Only the steady rhythm of his breathing and the soft thud of Fenri’s paws disturbed the stillness. The shadowy armor enveloping him made him feel both powerful and distant, a wraith gliding through the moonlit wilderness. Yet, a heavy weight pressed upon his thoughts.
Fragments of memory flickered in his mind. ‘Why am I here?’ The question echoed as he recalled waking in that strange forest, his body no longer flesh but shadows given form.
He glanced at Fenri, the wolf running effortlessly at his side. Once a timid cub, Fenri had grown into a formidable companion. His fur, streaked with vivid shades of red, glowed faintly under the moonlight, and his eyes shone with an uncanny intelligence. Arlen wondered about their meeting. Was it fate? The bond between them felt profound, as if they were connected in ways he couldn’t fully grasp.
A subtle pull drew his attention. Instinctively, he summoned the interface that had appeared to him countless times since his arrival. The glowing window materialized before him as he ran. Scanning its familiar contents, a new tab caught his eye: “Companions.”
His heart quickened. Opening the tab, he found two categories. The first read “Summoned”—empty. The second, “Bonded 1/1,” held an entry:
Bonded 1/1
Voidflame Wolf
‘Voidflame Wolf... that’s Fenri?’ The realization settled over him. The term “Bonded” suggested a deeper connection, perhaps with limits. Why was the capacity one? Questions swirled, but answers eluded him.
He looked at Fenri again. The wolf’s glowing red eyes met his, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. The bond pulsed like a heartbeat, tangible and strong. Whatever it meant, Arlen knew they were intertwined in ways that went beyond mere companionship.
He dismissed the interface, the window fading into the darkness. Pushing aside his musings, he focused on the path ahead. Ithlul awaited, and with it, perhaps, the answers he sought.
They had been running for what felt like hours when Fenri suddenly halted, ears perked and body tense. Arlen nearly stumbled at the abrupt stop.
“Fenri? What is it?” he whispered, scanning the forest. His heightened senses detected nothing unusual—no movement, no sound beyond the rustling leaves.
Fenri’s gaze fixed on the trees. Then he glanced up at Arlen, eyes pleading. Without warning, the wolf darted into the woods, his dark form melding with the shadows.
Suppressing a sigh, Arlen followed. He wasn’t particularly interested in whatever had caught Fenri’s attention, but he couldn’t let his companion face danger alone. They weaved through the forest with silent steps, Arlen’s shadowy form gliding effortlessly among the trees.
They had stumbled upon a camp. A dozen men in rough leather armor sat around a small, somehow smokeless campfire, drinking and laughing together, their voices blending into a chaotic chorus. Arlen strained to hear their words, but the noise made it difficult to pick out any specifics.
Arlen slowed his pace, crouching behind a thicket as he observed. A dozen men in rough leather armor sat around a small, smokeless campfire, drinking and laughing together. Three wagons stood behind them, two of them standard, like those a merchant would use. The third wagon, however, was of far better quality, with reinforced wooden panels and intricate carvings that made it stand out.
Arlen’s gaze shifted toward the figures bound in front of the ornate wagon—a woman in brand-new plate armor and a man in colorful, expensive-looking clothing. The woman had dark brown hair, her tan skin glistening in the firelight as she struggled against her bonds. The man, by contrast, was clearly a merchant, his clothes fine but now tattered, his expression one of pure terror.
Arlen narrowed his eye as he watched the scene unfold. The woman had sharp features and dark brown hair that caught the firelight, her tan skin glistening with sweat from the effort of trying to free herself. The man, on the other hand, looked more like a merchant than a warrior, his colorful clothing stained and torn, his face pale with fear.
The men around the fire continued their revelry, oblivious to the prisoners’ plight. But it was the figure at the center of the group that caught Arlen’s attention—a massive man with blonde hair, dressed in leather armor accented with metal. A huge club hung by his side, its head resting against the ground like an ominous reminder of his strength.
The big man stood, his voice booming over the clamor as he raised his mug in a toast. “To tonight’s haul!” he shouted, his words slurred with drink. “We’ve got goods, gold, and these two will make fine offerings to Rafka!”
Arlen’s eyes narrowed as he listened, his focus sharpening. ‘Rafka?’ The name was unfamiliar to him, but the tone in the man’s voice made it clear this was no ordinary celebration. There was something darker at play here.
The leader continued, a twisted grin spreading across his face as he gestured toward the bound prisoners. “These sacrifices will bring us great fortune in the months to come! Our god will be pleased with the blood we offer tonight!”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group as the men raised their mugs in unison. The woman in the armor struggled harder against her bonds, her eyes flashing with defiance, but the ropes held tight. The man beside her whimpered, his face pale with terror as he realized his fate.
Arlen clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. ‘Sacrifices?’ The thought urked him. These people—whatever they were involved in—weren’t just bandits. They were part of something much darker. He had seen violence before, been a part of it in warzones and battlefields, but this… this was different.
‘Are they cultists? Rafka... that’s probably the god they were talking about,’ Arlen mused, his mind racing. The name didn’t sit right. He thought back to the conversation he had with Evelyn a few days prior, when they had spoken about the gods of this world. He remembered it vividly—how she had described the gods while they sat near the fire, her words warm and full of childhood memory.
“There are the Seven Great Gods,” she had said, looking up at the night sky. “Each moon is named after one of them. They govern the biggest forces in our world—light, darkness, fire, water, time, the earth, the sky. But there are smaller gods too… ones that control more specific things like death or fortune. I don’t know much about them, but they aren’t as widely worshipped.”
Arlen had tilted his head, intrigued. “Smaller gods?”
“Yeah, they say the Great Gods rule over the big domains, but there are minor gods that handle more… specific things. People don’t pray to them often, though. They’re more feared than loved.”
He had frowned at that. “Like what?”
Evelyn had shrugged. “I’ve heard of a god of undeath, who controls the spirits of the dead. And others… gods of luck, of the sea, of war. But no one in the village really talks about them. They’re considered dangerous, and most people stick to worshipping the Seven.”
The Seven. Arlen had committed their names to memory as she listed them off.
“Solara is the goddess of light and healing,” she had begun. “She’s like the sun itself—people pray to her for life, hope, and purity. Then there’s Nocturis, the god of darkness and secrets. Some view him as an evil god due to his nature. He’s not evil, but people respect him because he’s connected to death and shadows. Without him, there’s no balance.”
Arlen’s mind perked at the mention of Nocturis’s role. ‘Maybe I’m connected to him in some way.’
The more she had spoken, the more Arlen realized how deeply these gods shaped the world.
“Aeris is the goddess of wind and freedom—she governs travelers and change. Pyros is the god of fire, passion, and war. He can be destructive, but he also creates. Blacksmiths and warriors worship him. Terra, the goddess of earth and nature, is for farmers and anyone who relies on the land. Aqua is the goddess of water and wisdom, and Chronos, the god of time and fate, watches over everything.”
Arlen had been fascinated by the balance of elements and forces these gods represented. Now, standing at the edge of the camp, watching the men preparing for their twisted sacrifice, Arlen’s mind raced. ‘So, who is Rafka? A minor god? Something else? Some forgotten deity or demon?’ Whatever it was, it wasn’t one of the Seven Great Gods Evelyn had spoken of.
Still, the idea of intervening didn’t stir anything within him. In his past life, Arlen had been a paramedic, someone who helped people. But now… there was nothing. The plight of the prisoners—the woman and the merchant—left him indifferent. Their fate was none of his concern.
Fenri, however, growled lowly beside him, his eyes focused on the captives. The wolf turned to Arlen again, his gaze pleading, as if begging his companion to act.
Arlen’s jaw tightened as he stared back at Fenri. ‘What are you doing?’ he thought, his brow furrowing. It was almost as if the wolf was trying to communicate with him. Fenri’s eyes flicked back to the prisoners, his body tense with a kind of urgency.
The men cheered, mugs raised high. The woman pulled harder at her bonds, determination blazing in her eyes. The merchant whimpered, despair washing over him.
Fenri growled softly, his posture low and ready. He glanced at Arlen, urgency in his gaze. Arlen remained still, his expression impassive. The plight of the prisoners stirred nothing within him. In another life, he might have felt compelled to help, but now... there was only emptiness. He had helped Evelyn not out of compassion, but because her plight had stirred something inside of him.
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Fenri growled again, more insistent. The wolf’s tension was palpable, a stark contrast to Arlen’s detachment. Finally, Arlen gave a slight nod. If Fenri wanted to intervene, he wouldn’t prevent it.
He turned his attention back to the camp, assessing the situation with cold precision. The men were distracted, their guard lowered by drink and arrogance. Shadows cloaked the edges of the clearing, offering ample cover.
Arlen flexed his hands, shadows swirling around his fingers. Perhaps he didn’t feel the pull of compassion, but he recognized an opportunity—to test his abilities and to honor the unspoken bond with Fenri.
Together, they would act. Not out of heroism, but because, in this moment, their paths led them here.
Arlen observed the camp from the shadows, his form melding seamlessly with the darkness. The cultists remained oblivious, their attention fixed on their leader, who brandished a ceremonial dagger above the bound woman. The flickering firelight cast eerie patterns across their faces, highlighting twisted grins and glazed eyes dulled by drink.
Fenri crouched beside him, muscles coiled like springs. The wolf’s glowing red eyes reflected a shared intent. Without a word, Arlen reached into his inventory and pulled out his combat knife—a familiar weight from a life that felt distant. The blade gleamed faintly, its edge honed to perfection.
He tightened his grip, the shadowy armor around his hand shifting to accommodate the weapon. The memory of sunlight burning his skin flashed briefly in his mind. It was the only thing that had harmed him since arriving in this world, but caution was necessary. He couldn’t afford to underestimate other threats.
As the leader began a guttural chant, the cultists joined in, their voices rising in a dissonant chorus. Now.
Arlen moved like a wraith, silent and swift. He slipped behind the nearest man, the shadows cloaking his approach. In one fluid motion, he drew the blade across the cultist’s throat. Warm blood sprayed, but Arlen had already vanished into darkness. The man gurgled, eyes wide in shock, before collapsing.
Before the others could react, Arlen dispatched a second cultist, the knife finding its mark with lethal precision. The bodies fell almost simultaneously, thudding against the ground and sending a hush through the clearing.
The chanting ceased. Mugs halted mid-air. Confusion etched itself onto the faces of the remaining men as they turned toward the sound.
From his vantage point behind a cluster of barrels, Arlen assessed the situation. His mind operated with cold efficiency, drawing upon years of training as a Ranger. Twelve men minus two. Ten left, including the leader. Prioritize targets. Neutralize threats.
“Stay alert!” the leader barked, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. “Form up! Mages, center by the fire!”
‘Mages? Based on their lighter armor and the lack of weapons, it must be those two. I have to play this more carefully, I have no idea what magic is capable of.’ Arlen devised as his eye rapidly observed the men drawing thier weapons.
The cultists scrambled to obey. The two mages moved quickly, positioning themselves near the flames. One began tracing symbols in the air, fire sparking at his fingertips. The other closed his eyes, murmuring incantations as a faint glow enveloped the remaining men.
Arlen noted the shift. ‘That one must be some kind of support mage.’ The fire mage posed a different threat. Flames could illuminate shadows, reveal hidden places.
Fenri growled low, the sound barely audible. Arlen placed a hand on the wolf’s back, feeling the tense ripple of muscle beneath fur. A silent understanding passed between them.
He adjusted his strategy. Direct assaults were no longer optimal. Time to sow confusion.
Drawing upon his Shadow Manipulation, Arlen extended tendrils of darkness toward the fire. The shadows danced unnaturally, stretching and twisting, casting looming figures around the camp. The cultists glanced around nervously, their enhanced senses picking up movements that weren’t there.
“What’s happening?” one of them muttered, his voice edged with fear.
“Hold your ground!” The leader snapped, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face.
From the periphery, Arlen watched their formations falter. He moved swiftly, using Stealth to circle behind the group. With precise aim, he threw a small stone toward the opposite side of the clearing. It clattered loudly against a metal pot.
“Over there!” another cultist shouted, swinging his weapon wildly toward the sound.
The fire mage raised his hands, launching a burst of flame into the darkness. The sudden light momentarily blinded the men, casting deep shadows behind them—shadows where Arlen now stood.
He struck again, this time disabling the support mage with a swift blow to the back of the head. The man crumpled without a sound, his enhancement spell dissipating as the glow around the cultists faded.
The leader whirled around, eyes wide. “Protect the mages!” he yelled, but it was too late.
Panic began to ripple through the group. The unseen assailant, the unnatural shadows—it was as if the night itself had turned against them.
Arlen felt nothing as he moved. No thrill, no remorse—just a void where emotions once resided. Each action was calculated, purposeful. The faces of the men he dispatched were unremarkable, their lives extinguished without consequence in his mind.
A cultist charged toward the bound prisoners, perhaps seeking leverage. Fenri intercepted, leaping from the darkness with a ferocious snarl. The wolf’s jaws clamped down on the man’s arm, crimson staining his fangs as the cultist screamed.
“Monsters!” another shouted, backing away.
The leader’s gaze darted between his dwindling forces and the encroaching shadows. His bravado waned, replaced by a glint of fear. Gripping his club, he stepped toward the fire mage.
“Burn everything!” he commanded. “Light up the shadows!”
The fire mage nodded shakily, moving his hands rapidly, summoning a swirling orb of flame above his palm. With a thrust, he sent it hurtling into the surrounding trees. Flames erupted, casting a harsh light that pushed back the darkness.
Arlen shielded his eyes from the sudden brightness as flames erupted around the camp. The heat seared his form, causing a sharp pain that he hadn’t felt since his encounter with sunlight. His shadowy flesh sizzled and recoiled from the fire’s touch, his movements slowing as his regeneration struggled to keep pace with the damage.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed through the pain, darting between pockets of darkness. The cultists were in disarray, fear gripping them as their numbers dwindled. With swift strikes, Arlen eliminated them one by one, his knife finding its mark despite the agony coursing through him.
Soon, only the fire mage and the leader remained. The mage’s hands crackled with fiery energy, while the leader stood beside him, a sinister grin spreading across his face. Reaching into a pouch around his waist, the leader uncorked a small vial and downed its contents in a single gulp.
Seizing the opportunity, Arlen moved to strike. He slipped behind the leader, aiming his blade for the man’s exposed throat. But as he pressed the knife against the skin, the blade skidded off as if hitting solid steel.
The leader chuckled darkly. “Surprised?” he sneered.
Before Arlen could react, the leader spun around, his enhanced strength evident. He grabbed Arlen by the arm, lifting him effortlessly, and swung his spiked club with the force of a speeding truck. The impact slammed into Arlen’s side, sending him hurtling through the air. Separating the shadowy appendage from the rest of him. He crashed into the ground yards away, the world spinning around him. His head throbbed, vision blurring as he tried to regain his bearings.
“Look at you,” the leader taunted, stepping closer. “A creature of darkness, thinking you can stand against us. Pathetic.”
He turned to the mage. “Burn him. Let’s see how the shadows like the flames.”
Arlen struggled to move, his limbs unresponsive. The fire had weakened him more than he anticipated, his regeneration working frantically to mend his scorched flesh. He watched helplessly as the mage conjured a blazing orb of fire, the heat intensifying as it grew.
A wave of exhaustion washed over him—he had been in this world for a week, and the cumulative strain was catching up. Mana exertion and relentless combat had taken their toll, but regeneration demanded even more from him. His body craved energy, but from where?
Just as the mage hurled the inferno toward him, a dark blur leapt into its path. Fenri soared through the air, intercepting the fiery attack. The flames engulfed the wolf, and for a horrifying moment, Arlen’s heart lurched. Rage welled up inside him, a fierce storm threatening to consume his detached composure.
But as the flames subsided, Fenri stood tall, unharmed. The red streaks in his fur glowed brighter, pulsing with an otherworldly light. His eyes ignited, twin embers burning with fierce intensity. With a guttural growl, Fenri opened his jaws wide, unleashing a torrent of red and black flames. The searing blast engulfed the mage, his screams silenced almost instantly as he was reduced to ashes.
The leader’s confident facade crumbled as he realized he was alone. The potion’s effects faded, his muscles shrinking back to their normal size. Fear flickered in his eyes as he watched Arlen rise to his feet. Shadows coalesced around Arlen’s form, his missing left arm regenerating, tendrils of darkness weaving together until it was whole once more. His charred flesh mended itself, though wisps of smoke still rose from his body.
Arlen noticed a strange sensation building within him. His own heart began to glow with a deep red light, visible even through his shadowy form. His single eye pulsed in sync, the glow intensifying. The colors of the world around him started to fade, draining into shades of black and white as if reality itself were desaturating.
“You... what are you?” the leader stammered, backing away. “Some kind of demon?”
In the center of the leader’s chest, where his heart beat with borrowed strength, Arlen saw a brilliant white light. It beckoned to him, warm and alluring. An irresistible hunger stirred within, and his thoughts blurred into oblivion. His body moved on its own accord.
“Tell me your name,” Arlen demanded, his voice echoing unnaturally.
The leader hesitated, confusion flickering across his face. “Idun,” he replied cautiously.
Arlen stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Before Idun could react, Arlen grasped his face with one hand. He opened his mouth, and a tendril of ethereal, glowing smoke began to flow from Idun’s chest into Arlen’s maw. The light carried with it a rush of vitality, filling the void within Arlen with an almost overwhelming sensation. It was intoxicating, a surge of energy that drowned out all pain and fatigue.
Idun’s eyes widened in terror as he felt his life force being drained. His skin tightened, wrinkles etching deep lines as years seemed to pass in mere moments. His hair whitened, body shriveling as Arlen continued to draw out the glowing essence. The once formidable leader aged rapidly, vitality siphoned away until nothing remained but a withered husk.
When the last wisp of light faded, Arlen released his grip. Idun’s lifeless body crumpled to the ground, appearing as though it had endured centuries in an instant. The pulsing glow in Arlen’s heart and eye subsided, colors slowly returning to the world around him.
Arlen stood there, breathing steadily. The exhaustion that had plagued him moments before was gone, replaced by a newfound strength. Yet, the memory of what he had just done lingered—a mixture of power and an unsettling awareness of the lengths he could reach.
Fenri approached cautiously, his eyes reflecting concern. The wolf sensed the change in his companion but remained by his side, a steadfast presence amidst the turmoil.
Arlen looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as shadows wreathed around them. The sensation of absorbing Idun’s life force had been overwhelming, almost euphoric. But beneath that, a hint of unease stirred. What had he become?
He turned toward the prisoners. The woman, Elara, stared at him in shock, her face pale. The merchant beside her seemed frozen in fear.
“Are you... all right?” Arlen asked, his voice steady but softer than before.
Elara swallowed hard, finding her voice. “You... what did you do?”
He hesitated. “I’m not sure.”
She took a cautious step forward. “You saved us, regardless. Thank you.”
He nodded, though the weight of her gaze made him acutely aware of the widening gap between himself and humanity.
“We should leave,” he said. “The fire will draw attention.”
Elara agreed, helping the merchant to his feet. As they gathered what they could from the remnants of the camp, Arlen kept his distance, the reality of his actions settling heavily upon him.
They set off toward Ithlul, the path ahead illuminated by the soft glow of dawn breaking on the horizon. Arlen felt the familiar discomfort of approaching daylight but pushed it aside. The energy he had absorbed from Idun seemed to shield him, at least for now.
Elara walked beside him, her demeanor cautious but grateful. “My name is Elara, a knight of Barad Niserie,” she offered. “This is Marcus.”
“Arlen,” he replied.
She glanced at Fenri, who padded silently alongside them. “Your companion is remarkable.”
“He is,” Arlen agreed, managing a faint smile.
They traveled in silence for a while before Elara spoke again. “Ithlul isn’t far. Perhaps there, we can find answers—to many things. If you would like to join us?”
“Perhaps,” Arlen echoed, though uncertainty gnawed at him. He preferred the comfort of solitude and the looks that the gave him made him feel uneasy—inhuman even. “Let’s find some shelter to rest first.”
Elara nodded in response.
As they continued, Arlen couldn’t shake the lingering sensation of what he’d done—the hunger, the power, the ease with which he’d taken a life to restore himself. It was a line he hadn’t known existed, and now he’d crossed it.
Fenri nudged his hand, a silent reminder that he wasn’t alone. Arlen looked down at the wolf, the bond between them a small comfort amidst the confusion.
“Thank you,” he whispered to Fenri.
The wolf’s eyes met his, understanding reflected within them.
For now, all Arlen could do was move forward, seeking answers in a world that grew more complex with each passing moment. The path ahead was uncertain, but with Fenri by his side and a faint hope flickering within, he continued on, one step at a time.