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Undying Hunger
Chapter 10 The Scholar, the Mask, and the Bloodshed

Chapter 10 The Scholar, the Mask, and the Bloodshed

Chapter 10 The Scholar, the Mask, and the Bloodshed

The daylight filtered through the towering spires of Terramill, casting long shadows across the city as it settled into the quiet of midday. Inside the Kingdom of Legulia’s great library, Viktor Volcas, a young scholar of the St. Reyhaeart academy bearing the weight of exhaustion, moved quietly between the shelves. His fingers brushed over the spines of countless books, their age-old dust mingling with the scent of old paper. A briefcase sat beside him, its contents unopened for now. He was gathering books—ancient texts on wars, legends, and the forgotten corners of history.

Viktor's face, drawn with fatigue, betrayed the sleepless nights that had become routine. He placed a stack of books onto a long wooden table, the titles of which spoke of forgotten battles and long-lost cultures. He needed them. He was searching for answers, a thread to unravel the mystery that had gripped his town. But this investigation had not been his choice.

The case had originally belonged to his mentor—Professor Harrold Dolron. The man had been a pillar of the academic world: an investigator, archaeologist, and historian renowned for his extensive research on ancient legends and forgotten rituals. His books had won prestigious awards, cementing his place as a respected figure in archaeology. Yet there had always been whispers—rumors of an abusive temper, troubled relationships with his family. But none of that had been enough to tarnish his public image.

Until he disappeared.

Two months ago, while investigating a strange group of people potentially linked to the case of multiple disappearances in Terramill, Professor Dolron vanished. One evening, he’d stepped into an alleyway…and was never seen again. No trace, no sign of struggle, just… gone.

Viktor's grip tightened on a nearby shelf. “Where are you now, Professor?” he muttered, frustration clouding his thoughts.

With a heavy sigh, he set his briefcase onto the table and opened it. Inside were stacks of papers—reports, some of which had been hastily written—among them, one caught his eye: The Strange Hero of the Town of Kremherg. It was a local folklore, but unfinished, abandoned like so many of the professor's other works. Beneath it, however, lay something more personal: a broken totem, pieces of what seemed to be a deity, and—Viktor’s pulse quickened—the professor’s diary.

Curiosity piqued, Viktor flipped it open to a page marked with a worn ribbon. He began to read aloud, the professor’s familiar handwriting taking him back in time.

“Year 1802, after ‘The Great Leak’ — January 26th.” The professor’s words were sharp, precise. “I was investigating the strange disappearances around the slums of Terramill. The latest was Korven Gar, a retired adventurer. He was 48 years old, a large man, bearded, with impressive strength for his age. He vanished sometime between 2:00 and 2:30 AM, January 25th. I spoke to the locals, but no one seemed to know anything. No one even seemed concerned. His friends, who knew him personally, claimed they had no idea who would want to harm him… this is a very interesting case, mainly because the pattern in which the victims vanished had similarities to some ancient traditions long forgotten to time specifically the days of the disappearance, its always the full moon. November 15th, December 15th and now January 25th”

Viktor frowned. “The professor really dove deep into this… that old man,” he muttered to himself, turning the page.

“February 26, 1802.” The professor’s penmanship was neat but growing more urgent. “I think I’ve found another pattern. Most of the victims were men—strong, experienced in combat, but no longer active. A civilian found a broken piece of a totem near the alley where Samuel Mestos, a retired war veteran, was taken. He was 63 years old. The disappearance occurred between 2:30 and 3:30 AM on February 24rth. There were signs of a struggle—scratches on the ground, likely from Samuel’s sword, which his grandson swears he always carried with him.”

Viktor flipped the page, a frown tugging at his lips. He was getting closer. He could feel it.

“February 4, 1802.” The professor's voice sounded more strained. “I have obtained the piece of the totem for closer inspection. It is from a local deity—Nytheris the giver, I had studied a few parts of its history from my travels, one of the gods from the sunken city of Thalmyra. The god is believed to be the proliferator of knowledge and giver of power… ”

As Viktor continued, a sudden chill ran down his spine. He turned the page—and froze. There, in the professor’s familiar hand, was a sketch. A figure that seemed to twist the very fabric of reality. A humanoid form, arms multiplying into grotesque, unnatural lengths. Its head was a grotesque flower, the petals curled and broken, and at its center—a black void. No face, only an endless, yawning abyss.

Viktor's breath caught in his throat. His fingers trembled slightly as he studied the image.

“What is this thing?” he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible. His skin prickled, as though the very presence of the drawing had awakened something dark and ancient. Something that could not be easily explained or understood.

It was then that the room seemed to shift, as if the air itself had grown heavier, thick with something far older than the library’s dusty shelves. Something far older than even the professor's research could explain.

Viktor couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. That whatever the professor had uncovered… it was not just a mystery to solve. It was a warning.

And he was dangerously close to crossing the line.

-Break-

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After a long walk through the bustling streets of Terramill, Scorn and Mifa finally arrived at the city’s famed adventurers’ guild. The building stood tall and proud, with its first floor resembling a lively tavern. Outside, rows of adventurers lounged on benches, their polished armor, robes, wands, and bows gleaming in the morning light—a testament to the guild’s high reputation. Some were preparing for quests, checking their gear with practiced ease, while others scanned the sprawling quest board for their next challenge.

“Ah, Gryphon’s Claw,” Scorn remarked with a note of admiration. “Cool name for a guild, huh, Robert? This place was founded 87 years ago by the Sirenteas—a commoner family of adventurers. They built this guild into one of the finest in the kingdom. Eighty-seven years, and they still hold the record for the most quests completed annually.”

“And you think this guild will have a copy of the quest Mava’s group took?” Mifa asked.

“If you wanted to test a new weapon, wouldn’t you target something strong?” Scorn replied with a sly grin.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Mifa nodded. “Fair enough.”

As they stepped inside, the lively chatter softened, and a wave of suspicion filled the air. Most of the adventurers turned to glance at Scorn, their gazes lingering on his strange white mask. His mysterious appearance screamed that he didn’t belong.

“Just as planned,” Scorn muttered under his breath.

The two made their way to the front desk. Mifa stepped forward, her expression softening into a look of worry as she approached the receptionist.

“Hi, ma’am,” she said, her voice adopting a boyish charm. “My father and I came from the village of Forgerosa. We’re looking for a relative—an adventurer—who left twelve days ago on a quest. We haven’t heard from him since. His name is, uh... Finrod! Do you have any news about him?”

The receptionist frowned and rummaged through a stack of records beneath her desk. “Let me check… Finrod, you say?” She thumbed through a few papers, then paused. “Ah, here it is. It says he took part in a raid quest nine days ago to stop Regras the Savage and his bandit crew near the outskirts of Halletheas.” Her expression darkened. “I’m sorry to say, we lost contact with his party eight days ago.”

“Eight days!?” Scorn exclaimed, his tone dripping with feigned concern. “Why haven’t you sent a rescue team?!”

The receptionist looked down, visibly uncomfortable. “Sir, I understand you’re upset, but there’s a process for these things. We sent scouts two days ago to assess the situation. We’re awaiting their report, which should arrive tomorrow morning. I’m truly sorry.”

“And who approved such a dangerous quest?” Scorn demanded, his voice rising. “Whoever made this request needs to be held accountable if something happened to... uh, Finrod!”

The receptionist flinched but maintained her composure. “I’m afraid the requester wished to remain anonymous.”

“Damn it!” Scorn coughed dramatically, clutching his chest. His over-the-top performance earned glances from the adventurers nearby—some sympathetic, others skeptical.

“Father, calm down!” Mifa said, rushing to his side and placing a hand on his chest. “Let’s just leave. Please!”

“I’m fine, my boy… COUGH!” Scorn rasped, waving her off. As they turned to leave, he muttered, “Did that sound convincing?”

“Not at all,” Mifa replied flatly.

“Good,” Scorn whispered, his tone amused.

As they exited the guild, they accidentally bumped into a young man in a suit carrying a leather briefcase. Papers and books spilled across the ground.

“Ugh…!” the young man grunted, dropping to his knees to gather his scattered belongings. “Oh no…”

“Let me help you, young man,” Scorn offered, kneeling to assist.

“You don’t have to,” the young man said hurriedly, gathering the papers.

“Don’t worry about it,” Scorn replied, picking up a few sheets. As he did, his gaze caught on one of the documents—a quest request. The words ‘Sunken City of Thalmyra’ were printed clearly at the top.

“You’re headed to Thalmyra?” Scorn asked casually.

The young man glanced at him, hesitating. “Yeah… It’s not like I have a choice. I have to go.”

“Thalmyra’s long been abandoned,” Mifa chimed in. “That place is crawling with sea monsters.”

“I know the risks,” the young man replied sharply, standing and stuffing the papers back into his briefcase. “But I have no other option.”

Scorn handed him the remaining papers and offered a handshake. “Well, good luck on your journey, young man.”

The boy hesitated, then shook Scorn’s hand. “Thank you. My name is Viktor, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you, Viktor,” Scorn replied. “My name is... Aizen, and this is my son, Robert.”

With that, Viktor nodded and hurried off into the crowd.

Scorn watched him leave, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he turned to Mifa. “Come on. Let’s find a place to stay for the night.”

As they left the guild, the vibrant noise of the city streets welcomed them, but Mifa felt a faint unease creep up her spine. She glanced over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of a figure in a dark cloak blending into the crowd. It was brief, fleeting—so quick she wasn’t sure if her mind was playing tricks on her.

“Something wrong?” Scorn asked, his tone casual but his masked face tilting slightly toward her.

“No... it’s nothing,” she replied, brushing off the feeling, though her gaze lingered a moment longer on the bustling crowd behind them.

Scorn said nothing, but his pace slowed ever so slightly, and his hand rested briefly on the hilt of a dagger concealed under his cloak.

They continued walking, weaving through the city’s labyrinthine streets. Even as they made idle conversation, that creeping sensation of being watched never quite faded. Occasionally, Scorn would glance at the reflections in shop windows or pause at street corners, as if listening to the rhythm of the crowd.

After a few turns, Mifa frowned. “Where are we going?”

“Just finding the quickest way to our next stop,” Scorn replied vaguely.

Mifa couldn’t help but feel the weight of unseen eyes on her again. Her hand instinctively brushed the hilt of her sword, and this time, even Scorn’s usually carefree gait had stiffened.

“Are we being followed?” she finally asked in a hushed voice.

Scorn didn’t reply immediately, but the faintest smirk tugged at his lips beneath the mask. “You’re sharper than you look, Robert. Let’s find a quiet place to talk.”

Instead of heading toward the inns and taverns, Scorn led her down a shadowy alley.

“There aren’t any inns down here.” Mifa said, her voice tense.

“Keep walking,” Scorn said firmly.

Mifa followed, her unease growing with each step. The alley grew darker, quieter, and the faint noise of the city faded into silence.

Suddenly, shadowy figures stepped out from the corners of the alley, their movements silent but deliberate. Within moments, Scorn and Mifa were surrounded.

“This isn’t personal,” said the leader of the thugs, his voice low and cold. “But you two need to die.”

Scorn tilted his head slightly, the white mask on his face catching a faint glint of moonlight. “I see,” he replied, his tone calm, almost indifferent. “Then… you won’t mind if I ask you a question before we die, will you?”

The thug leader smirked. “Go ahead, friend. Ask away. Not like you’ll be telling anyone anything once you’re dead.”

“Thank you,” Scorn said, his hand slipping into his pocket. He withdrew something small and grotesque, holding it up for the group to see. In the dim light, the object became unmistakable—a severed, decayed finger, its rotting flesh curling back to reveal bone. “Do any of you know what this is?” he asked, his voice unnervingly casual.

“What the hell is that?” one of the thugs muttered, his face twisting in disgust.

The group’s confusion was almost unanimous—except for two of them at the very back. Their wide eyes and nervous shifts betrayed something the others didn’t know.

Scorn’s lips curved into a subtle, sinister grin beneath the mask. “Gotcha,” he whispered.

Without warning, he put the severed finger aside on his pocket, his movements eerily smooth. “Well,” he continued, his voice dropping into something low and guttural, “it seems the rest of you are useless to me now. Forgive me… but I’ll need to make this quick.”

Mifa, her instincts razor-sharp, reached into her bag and tossed a small, toothpick-sized object to Scorn. He caught it effortlessly, his focus unbroken. Without a word, Mifa dropped to her knees, sensing what was about to come.

Scorn poured mana into the object, and in an instant, it expanded with a crackling surge of energy, transforming into a long, wicked spear.

The thugs hesitated for only a moment before the leader snarled, “Kill him!”

With a roar, the group lunged at Scorn. But he didn’t flinch.

Scorn raised the spear pointing to his left arm and muttered a single word: “Transmutate.”

What followed was grotesque. His arm convulsed violently, the flesh rippling and twisting as if alive. In seconds, it morphed into a monstrous, whip-like appendage, lined with serrated blades that glistened with a malevolent sheen.

The first strike was too fast for the thugs to react. The whip lashed out, slicing through the air with a sickening whistle, and in one brutal motion, it tore through the group like a scythe through wheat. Blood sprayed across the alley as bodies crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Amid the carnage, Scorn moved with an eerie grace, his movements almost like a dance. He spun and struck with precision, his whip-arm carving arcs of destruction through the shadows. What little light seeped into the alley illuminated his form—a monstrous figure drenched in gore, his mask stark white against the crimson backdrop.

When the bloodshed finally ceased, only two thugs remained—the ones who had shown fear earlier. They stood frozen at the back of the alley, their trembling hands gripping their weapons uselessly.

Scorn slowly turned toward them, his whip-arm retracting slightly, the serrated edges gleaming menacingly in the dim light. He tilted his head, his voice quiet yet chilling.

“Now… you two.”

The thugs took a step back, their faces pale as death.

Scorn took a deliberate step forward. “Tell me everything… or I’ll make what comes next far worse than anything you can imagine.”

The alley fell deathly silent, save for the faint drip of blood pooling at Scorn’s feet.