Chapter 33: The Threaded Hunt
The Rift-Veiled Labyrinth twisted north from the ravaged plaza, a jagged path veiled in shadows and pulsing, unnatural light. Black stone spires jutted from the fractured earth like broken fangs, sharp and splintered, as if some great beast had once been buried here and its teeth now marked the way. Violet rifts pulsed brighter now, veins of radiant madness threading through the ground and air alike. Shadowy filaments crept through the cracks like spider-silk imbued with malice, their resonant hum pounding like a war drum inside Kael's skull.
He pressed forward alone.
The remains of the Ashen Cleric smoldered behind him, a mound of twitching ash where divine corruption and rift-born savagery had met their end. Its rift-core—once a beacon of insidious power—now dimmed to a dull crystal shard embedded in blackened stone. A scar, a warning. Kael's cloak dragged low behind him, tattered by battle and claw, blood crusted darkly over his left shoulder and side. His runes still glowed faintly, symbols etched into flesh and soul, flickering with the residual energy of Fate's Requiem—his most demanding technique.
Yet there was no time to rest. No time to bind his wounds, no time to mourn.
The Tyrant's whisper came again, cutting through thought like a garrote:
"Now…"
Not a command. A promise. A pull.
The Labyrinth did not let go.
Kael's hand curled around the worn hilt of his dagger—his only constant. No Gavyn's spear, no Lysa's coin to catch the sun and make him laugh, no Maraen's locket whispering warmth at his chest. Just the dagger. Just the hunter. A blade forged in blood, sharpened in ash, and tempered by the silence of loss.
Each step deeper into the Rift-Veiled Labyrinth was heavier than the last.
The air thickened with rift-ash, a choking dust that dimmed even the sourceless violet light. The sky above had no stars—only streaks of amethyst lightning flashing across endless gloom. The ground trembled now and then beneath his boots, each quake reminding him that this place was alive—a dungeon that watched, listened, and hungered.
Ahead, a ravine yawned—a wound carved through stone and shadow. Its jagged walls glistened with cracked ruins, ancient symbols half-erased by time and rift-burn. Threads spiraled within its depths, chaotic and fast. A trap, no doubt—no visible core, no pulsing sigil to guide or draw him in. Just darkness. And the promise of death.
Kael paused at the edge, eyes narrowing. His runes surged in response—the violet light around him syncing to the rhythm of the Rift.
"It's stronger here," he murmured aloud, as if the Labyrinth required confirmation.
The words tasted like iron.
His pack was nearly empty now. Just a small waterskin, a few herbs, his dagger, and a weather-worn coin—Lysa's, given to him for luck on a forgotten morning before the sky fell.
"No rest," he muttered, jaw tight.
His fingers brushed the coin for half a second. A whisper of memory. Then he let it go.
Something stirred in the ravine.
Then—movement.
It was fast. Blinding.
Not human. Not fully beast.
The thing that leapt into the dimming light was twice Kael's height, lean and sinewy like a starved panther, but humanoid in silhouette. It lurched and twisted, each step a blur, its limbs impossibly elongated. Its arms had morphed into scythe-like claws, each humming with violet flame, threads of rift-essence trailing behind. Its face—or what should have been a face—was a gaping maw, filled with serrated, jagged teeth. Its eyes—no, its voids—glowed with focused hatred.
Kael's breath hitched.
His runes flared. Reflex.
"A Rift-Stalker," he whispered.
A hunter like him—but unbound by mercy or memory. Its threads shimmered thicker than the Ashen Cleric's, more refined, more malicious. The way its body moved—graceful and savage, silent yet thunderous—told Kael everything he needed to know.
Gifted-tier, peak. Initiate-tier shadow.
Stronger than the wolves. Stronger than Ashka's lieutenant. A predator in its prime.
The Stalker's hiss sliced through the tension like a blade:
"Kael… Hunt…"
Kael spat to the side and squared his stance. His dagger slid free, runes racing across the metal like lightning.
"Half-man," he growled, "half-nightmare."
His eyes narrowed.
"Stronger than the last. Good."
The Rift-Stalker struck without warning.
Rift-Scythe Slash!
A shriek of power tore through the ravine—its claws slashing in a wide 20-meter arc, a crescent of shadow-flame so hot it peeled the very stone from the walls. The air combusted. The shockwave knocked ash into the sky.
"Too fast!" Kael's instincts screamed.
He flickered—Phantom Thread: Rift Dash!
Threads burst from his soles, snapping taut, launching him twenty meters to the left. Mid-motion, his blade danced out—slashing at the incoming flame even as he skidded on ash. A burst of violet fury grazed his shoulder—searing pain. He hissed.
Landing rough, he called on the storm.
Thread Dance: Tempest Cascade!
Twelve glowing strands erupted from his fingers, each one a lashing serpent of rune-light. They whipped forward in a calculated storm, carving through the Stalker's flank in a crosshatch of violent light. Shadow bled, hissing like oil set aflame.
But it wasn't enough.
The Stalker pivoted without pause, a fluid spin that belied its size.
Shadow-Thread Frenzy!
Dozens of violet threads burst from its back like tendrils of hate, slashing wildly, chaotically. They shattered nearby stone and ground, razors in the dark.
Kael reacted—Thread Wall: Reflecting Tempest!
A spinning barrier of condensed thread-light bloomed around him, absorbing half the barrage. Sparks flew. Light flared. Some threads rebounded, piercing the creature's chest—it howled. But others broke through.
Slash!
Kael gasped as pain lanced through his thigh.
His cloak darkened with fresh blood.
"Too wild…" he muttered, limping back.
Still, his eyes blazed with clarity.
"You bleed. That's enough."
The Rift-Stalker roared.
Rift-Ash Roar!
A cone of shadow-ash and fire, fifteen meters wide, blasted from its mouth—hotter than the wolves' breath, faster than any spell Kael had seen in Moonfall.
Kael's fingers twitched. He rewound.
Rune Reset: Blink Strike!
Five seconds reversed. In a heartbeat, he'd never taken the hit. He dashed forward this time—Rift Dash!—twenty meters of pure acceleration, threads guiding his strike.
His dagger bit deep into its arm.
"Need more…"
The roar's aftershock rocked the ravine—dust crumbling, stones tumbling.
Kael's lips curled into a grim smile.
"Break you."
His runes burned white-hot.
Nightmare Weave: Soul Shatter!
A twenty-meter sphere of dreamscape energy exploded outward, entrapping the Rift-Stalker in a mist of living fear. It writhed. Visions struck it like blades—Moonfall burning, Ashka's bloodied scythe, the Tyrant's gaze. Its strength faltered under the weight of memory and terror.
Kael didn't wait.
Thread Dance: Razor Weave!
He slashed through the mist, threads shaping into blades that carved across its chest. Shadow burst, splattering the walls.
The beast shrieked again—more furious now.
Shadow-Thread Frenzy!
Tendrils erupted again, more savage, more desperate.
"Too strong!" Kael spun. Rift Dash! He vanished, reappeared beneath its guard, slicing its leg. Blood—shadow-blood—leaked. But tendrils caught him mid-spin, tearing across his ribs.
Pain blurred the world.
"Damn it!"
He lashed out—Nightmare Lash!
Spectral strands struck deep, draining energy, forcing its essence into flux. The Rift-Stalker sagged.
"Hold it…" Kael pushed.
One last move.
Thread Step: Sky Fang!
He burst upward—threads catapulting him above the beast. In midair—Razor Weave!—blades rained down. They carved its back, left it howling, ash curling into the sky.
Then it retaliated.
Rift-Scythe Slash!
A fiercer arc, 25 meters this time.
Kael's runes surged.
Rune Pulse: Weaver's Wrath!
His threads doubled in strength.
Tempest Cascade!
The two attacks clashed—storm meeting storm, light versus void. The air exploded with sparks.
"Not enough!" Kael roared.
Rift Dash!
He vanished again—under its guard, through the chaos.
Thread Ascension: Fate's Requiem!
A final gambit.
A 20-meter whirlwind of light-blades exploded around him, a spiraling dome of destruction. It slashed through the Stalker's claws, its chest, its core.
The creature screamed—violently, desperately.
"Kael…"
And then—
Silence.
The ravine stilled.
Ash fell like snow.
The rift-threads retreated.
Kael staggered, dropping to one knee. His chest heaved. Runes dimmed.
His leg bled freely now. His ribs screamed with every breath.
Fate's Requiem had taken nearly all he had left.
He looked at the fading ash where the Rift-Stalker had stood.
"Strongest yet," he whispered.
He sheathed his dagger with a trembling hand.
His eyes lifted north. The Labyrinth pulsed—brighter, darker.
The Stalker had outclassed the Cleric. By far.
Stronger threads. Wider flame. Deeper hunger.
Gifted-tier, peak. Initiate-tier shadow.
"Initiate's closer…" he muttered.
He stood, limbs shaking, but firm. The storm within him had not died. Only grown.
The rifts beckoned. The shadows stirred.
"Next hunt," Kael said aloud. His voice echoed in the stillness.
He walked forward.
The Tyrant's whisper came again, colder this time.
"Now…"
Kael didn't flinch.
No team. No coin. No charm.
Just him.
A weaver of threads.
A hunter in the dark.
And the storm growing behind his eyes.