Miles crouched amidst the branches, expanding his senses through the forest. He would pause at every shadow, the lightest noise or scent that felt out of place, searching for anything unexpected.

But... nothing.

It was just a forest in an entrenched valley, with the bones of a giant beast and the stench of sickly blood.

'Why did she want me to be silent? What does she want me to see?'

Unless the strange girl was intent on making a fool of him, he was missing something.

The wind, ever his ally, decided to assist and breezed over his skin, tapping upon him the barest of replies. It was more of an estimate, than any manner of confidence.

The winds were unsure. All it knew was that maybe, perhaps, something was amiss.

That seemed to be enough, for the moment Miles blinked, the world shifted (as it seemed to do rather frequently now), and they appeared.

The winds were correct, for Miles himself was unsure of what he saw.

Despite thin gaunt bodies caked in grime and dust, they left no stench. Though they crunched over branches and rock, his ears picked up no noise. Only the wind could sense a vague presence, yet unable to feel what they truly were. They were a fundamental contradiction of all his senses but sight.

He would never have detected them if not for the fact that he was looking directly at them, from a position of clear sight. Had he not been warned by the fae girl, he would have been caught entirely off guard.

At first glance, they seemed to be three men, dressed in nothing but tattered leather. They did not travel light and dragged large packages behind him, wrapped in the same discolored leather they wore. They were massive, larger than even the men that dragged them and seemed to be alive, for they moved and wriggled about like fattened larvae. Miles could not be sure, for even that made no noise and gave no smell.

They were akin to barbarians, the picture of a wild, uncivilized people. But as if to grant them a sliver of order, etched upon their sleeves were clear numbers.

217, 101 and 666.

Miles paused at the troubling insinuation of triple digit numbers on their clothes, and wondered, 'What are they?'

Miles refused to believe these numbered savages ere Elven, or Dwarven for that matter. The pointed-ear cavalry and the forgers of the Chasm were legends, not ghosts.

'Some manner of revenant then? Related to the ghost-like wintry fae?'

Possible, but despite their unnatural nature, their behavior was ordinary. Boorish and uncouth, savage and tribal, but human all the same.

They were not physically blessed, for they struggled to move the packs they dragged, pausing to rest every so often. They had little care for hygiene, scratching at dirty skin, unwashed hair and even other unmentionables. At least they seemed to be capable of speech.

Miles attempted to read their lips, but quickly realized it was not a language he was familiar with. That was unexpected, but he could understand enough from their body language.

Number 666 the apparent elder, had his chest puffed out despite a bulging pot belly, and laughed brazenly. 101, the youngest and the tallest, had his head lowered, seemingly uncomfortable. The third number 217, muscular and heavily bearded, laughed along, reacting appropriately to whatever 666 said or did. But he would occasionally stop to pat the back of the youngest, who seemed to appreciate it.

Miles narrowed his eyes in thought. It was obvious that these numbered savages were somehow related to the (maybe Fae) girl he had encountered prior. These savages exhibited nearly the same characteristics as her, invisible to most of his senses, and perhaps even the uncanny ability to appear and disappear.

'They... are not Fae, I'm sure. But they are not Human either, not entirely.'

Well, it was high time he found out exactly, for unlike the strange girl who would vanish as soon as he saw her, these men were slow. He had ample opportunity to have his questions answered.

Miles called upon the prowess of Detect and the air above their heads flickered, revealing legible text.

[Veilbound Human - Spiritsworn - Lvl 20~]

It was not of much help and the terminology was meaningless for anything but conjecture. As for the levels, while a a bit troubling, if push were to come to shove he should be able to handle them.

So Miles continued to observe the trio of Veilbound as they approached the center of the valley, where the broken cave of spinal and rib bones stood.

The Numbered paused for breath, and his focus returned to the leather wrapped packs they carried, still wriggling and bumping about. His eyes moved along the outlines of their content, a sinking feeling rising within his gut. he savages began to pull their packs into the dreadful cavern of bone, instantly wreathed in its dark shadows.

He could still see well enough to know that as soon as they stepped in, they changed. The prior joy and relaxedness seeped out of them like air from a deflating balloon. They moved like inhuman automatons going through the motions. Only the youngest, 101, seemed mildly terrified, but he too mimicked his elders.

A sudden flash caught Miles's eye.

Metal, reflecting light.

The three Numbered were now wielding... military grade knives. As he wondered how they had access to forged weapons despite having no proper clothing to wear, they cut through the ropes that held the leather packages. The discolored, off-putting leather fell apart at the sides, revealing the contents.

Miles wished he could say he was surprised.

Wrapped in leather were people, men and woman, who too were unsensed by all his senses but sight.

They were different from the Veilbound, naked as the day they were born, entirely hairless, bald and morbidly obese. Were it not for their human skin, Miles might have mistaken them for some manner of orc, with a particularly bad case of consumption disorder.

Though these human cargo had their eyes shut, fast asleep, they moved, wriggling here and there as if acting out the dreams they lived in. It reminded Miles of something familiar, especially when one of them began dry humping the air.

Then he saw the brick sized block of ominous metal, blinking, attached to the backs of their necks...

Other-junkies.

The same manner of victim that populated the streets of Yumekuro, only these were addicted to some ancient version of the same brand of virtual reality neural implant.

‘...How? How do these Veilbound, inside a Doorway, have access to our tech?’

The Otherjunkies continued to wriggle about with disgusting motions, unaware of who stood over them, wielding knives.

Miles felt the grip of his hands, holding onto the branch he was balanced on, tighten. Despite the pain, his nails dug deeper, even through the wood.

He had no information on these numbered savages, not beyond what little he had gleaned from Detect. Sure he could learn much from kill notifications, but, he had sworn just hours ago that he would not allow the mistake of blind action again.

So, Miles could only set his jaw and stare with unblinking eyes.

One of the Otherjunkies, a woman, began to laugh. Miles could not hear it, but it seemed particularly loud and ecstatic.

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The oldest, 666, slit her throat, but she seemed unaffected and unaware, continuing to laugh as she spluttered blood.

The rest of the Numbered followed, and whatever discomforts the youngest 101 had had were forgotten, for he acted decisively and tore through the jugular of his Otherjunky just as mercilessly as the others.

That was when the Otherworld implant revealed a rather poorly thought out feature unique to this particular series. The moment the device sensed the critical state of its users, they shut down, dragging the dreaming into the harsh reality of death.

With their throats long ripped apart, they could only gasp, scream, and uselessly struggle to keep in the blood that gushed out of their throats.

Miles grinded his teeth. The sight was somehow made worse by the fact that he heard no sound. He could only see their suffering.

The oldest of the Veilbound walked back into the depths of the bone cavern, returning with a collection of metallic bowls. They divided them among themselves evenly, and began to place each under the gushing necks of the dying, gathering any and all blood they could.

They were entirely detached from the morbid act they involved in, as if they collected gutter-beer from a keg and not blood from a corpse.

Miles let out a shaky breath, eyes stuck upon the sight of appetizing crimson. The moment the bodies of the Otherjunkies went still with death, he smelled it.

For a moment, he wondered if he was imagining it, filling in the blanks for a smell he should have felt, but this was…

Fresh, metallic, leaking life. Death, real death.

The scent of warm, fresh blood tickled his nostrils, calling him to drink, to satiate himself entirely and dance in gluttony. He managed to reel it in, focusing on his returned senses.

He could smell the familiar filth of the dead. He could hear the flatlined beep of the monotone Otherworld implants. Even the wind seemed aware now, tapping upon his skin about the dead that had manifested out of nowhere.

‘Did… did their deaths cancel whatever effect had kept them hidden from my senses?’

...Possible. Unfortunately for Miles, what he had just witnessed was not the end. ‘What in the holy–?’

He watched, disgusted but drooling, as the trio of still intangible Veilbound brandished their knives and got to work.

They carved out the stomachs, removing bulging piles of fat, the digestive system and other inessentials. Then they skinned and carved out the flesh, packing away blocks of meat into the leather the presently dead had first been brought in.

The Veilbound acted as if they were seasoned butchers working on cattle, each cut thorough and perfectly placed. It was only the cuts of the youngest, numbered 101, that seemed inexperienced, causing blood to squirt into the air. But then there was a flicker of gold, and within minutes he had improved to match the other two, as if he were a blessed genius of the blade.

The numbered savages were anything but wasteful. They did not leave a speck of flesh on the bone, going so far as to scratch out even the ligaments and cartilage. Every portion of flesh was thoroughly squeezed out, gathering blood into those same metallic bowls.

Miles’s eyes were glued to the process. He told himself this was to keep an eye on the three barbarians, but with his mouth salivating at each splatter of fresh blood, he was not so sure.

Soon the bowls were filled with blood, but the numbered savages brought out more and continued their macabre butchery and blood collection. Eventually the corpses, got the expected fate.

The Veilbound worked with clinical efficiency, lifting the remains and mercilessly piercing them upon the spikes, joining the dozens of similar corpses that existed within the bone cavern.

That particular mystery was resolved rather quickly, but Miles did not care. His throat was scratching with an itch that did not end, his skin burned as if dipped in fire, and he was swallowing gulps of empty air.

The sight of the rippling, scarlet liquid, now placed in laden bowls (about three from each numbered savage). It was as if they had prepared the blood for him.

Miles might have just pounced, but fortunately he was not starved and somehow managed to control himself with focused breathing. By the time he regained his focus, the Veilbound were moving out. They carried their portions of blood-filled bowls, and split up into the forest.

The older, rotund 666, remained closer to the center, while the other two moved further. Number 101 ventured to the very edge of the forest valley, and 217 remained somewhere in the middle, closest to where Miles was.

The three Numbered barbarians stood still for a moment, as if waiting for the others to get in place, and then, they began to walk, and… shout.

It was not just the additional force in their vocal movements that led him to believe they were shouting. For the first time somehow, Miles could hear them. Or at least, he thought he did.

Resounding screams, perfectly timed such that each voice overlapped, resonating into a single unearthly voice. Though they were loud, they seemed to be echoing from some far off, distant place.

Miles felt his skin crawl. From the intonation, from the purposeful movements and actions that adorned each phrase, he could tell this was a chant for a ritual, all based on sacrifice.

The very forest seemed to change. The invisible current he had felt the moment he had stepped in this valley, surged to a new intensity. Even the winds seemed to pick up, roaring through the valley, screaming of incoming destruction.

It did not take Miles long to realize that the path the numbered savages walked on was not entirely random, but a purposeful circling around the valley, centered upon the sacrificial bone cavern. Every few steps, the Veilbound would stop, dip their hands into the bowl of blood and flick it out into the forest.

The ground would hiss, puffing out smoke, as if the blood were corruptive acid. Plants or leaves that touched it would shrivel, scattered bones would yellow and thin. Any colors would fade and discolor. There was a heaviness to the air.

The blood was reminiscent of the black ichor Miles had accidentally brought out from the mind world, but not as dangerous. For soon enough the blood disappeared. It did not evaporate, but seeped deep into the forest, taking all of its effects with it. He was struggling to make sense of this sickly ritual.

A common theme in this forest had been strange visions. From mysterious little girls, visions of trees and monsters, to even arrays of colored orbs. Maybe this ritual was related?

Miles was unsure. At least until he… blinked, again.

This time was wholly different from the visions he had seen before, in this Valley.

It was that strange sixth sense, relying on a new muscle, which caused his connection with the Lupine Spirit Within to expand outward into reality. This was the first time Miles had managed to do so, without the assistance from the Seat of the Wurkan and it showed.

The bird's eye view of the forest from the canopy flickered, filled with a horde of sudden stutters, flashing and sparking with discolored light. They were darkened, faded, and… beset by a black rot. They seemed to resemble the same globes of vibrant color he had seen before but it was as if he was seeing with squinted eyes, blurred and unclear.

Amidst them, rose the quadrupedal form of the monstrous being that had first manifested over the behemoth skeleton, trapped down by chains and suffering from festering wounds. It struggled against its entrapment, exhausted but desperate.

The surges and sparks of energy moved as one, melding and gathering together, finally forming into slashes that struck the body of the monstrous being. If this strange behemoth of light were alive, Miles could swear what he saw was a scream, as the lashes of darkness seared into its body as burning festering scars. Contrary to its pain though, its faded luminosity grew more tangible.

Though it faded, it was also greater.

The weight upon the world increased and the ominous energy surged, crackling, burning and seething.

Whatever it was that surged within the air, it entered him as well. Perhaps it was due to the close proximity, but Miles could feel it, sneaking through his breath, his eyes, ears, nostrils, and even pores. He didn’t think much of it, for it was not particularly painful. It felt like a mild heat, which he expected would be cured by conditional undeath soon enough.

The Veilbound savages continued their ritual, scattering blood, and causing the chained being of light to be lashed more and more. Eventually, the weight within the air reached a crescendo. And that was the same moment that Miles’s role as a silent observer ended.

By now, enough of the mysterious energy was within him. It could state its purpose now, in a message spoken by its very essence.

It started as a whisper, but it grew louder, forming a clear voice.

Blood. Rage. Murder.

Whatever that was, it was quickly overshadowed by the severity of the notifications that appeared within his vision.

Ding!

[You have discovered (Tier III) Source Fulcrum #2: Tomb of the Fallen(?) General]

[Veilbound sacrifice at the intersection of four Doorway Loci, have catalyzed the casting of the Vinasha Rite of Bloodied Land (Lesser).

You, an agent of Vinasha, a newborn Kindred will be granted a blessing of +10 to all attributes for as long as you remain within this land.]

There was a tangible, haunting sense of loss, as if he took back several steps from whatever progress he had made, but Miles couldn’t care much when it was overshadowed by the rewards. All he wanted to do was relish the sudden onset of power from the attributes.

But fortunately, he had self control, well aware the effect of this ritual was merely temporary.

As for the adverse effects, Miles could tell that the words the ritual had spoken to him had to be answered first. As long as he remained silent, whatever problems that occurred would only inconvenience him for a few moments. Unfortunately for him, he may have forgotten that there was something within him that was extremely willing to respond.

Newborn, concordat.

A growl almost rumbled out of his throat. Something within him had echoed the sentiment, more than overjoyed to reciprocate.

It was like the fading voice got a second wind, and what was once a voice became a shout, and then a roar, which roared, and roared.

Blood. Death. Murder. Kill. Kill. KILL.

Miles almost cried out in pain, his eardrums feeling as if they had exploded at the sound of metaphysical screams.

His eyes shut of their own volition.

He could tell now. It was a familiar entity within him that had responded. But not one, it was two. One was in it for the chaos. The other was desperate, betrayed and seeking to survive.

Somehow, just barely, at the very fringes of the edges, their intentions had overlapped.

Ding!

[Warning: Title (Un)Balanced has been influenced by the effects of the Vinasha rite.

Vessel of the Beast ̸L̷u̵p̴i̴n̷e̵ ̶S̴o̴u̶l̷ Within (Sealed) -> Vessel of the Beast ̸L̷u̵p̴i̴n̷e̵ ̶S̴o̴u̶l̷ Within (Partially U̵n̷̬͂s̶͑̃͝͝e̴a̷̧͑l̵̍e̸d)]

That was the same moment that Miles’s eyes snapped open. They were pitch black and blinding white each, from the sclera to the pupil. These were the eyes of not one, not two but three beasts, and they would let loose their anger wherever they could.