Chapter : 15 the hunter's scar
The sky had darkened to rust by the time Ariz returned to the cabin, blood dried stiff on his arm and collarbone. He didn't limp, though his side ached from where the serpent had struck him. His eyes—duller now, quieter—moved without focus as he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
He set his sword against the wall, the blade faintly humming as it left his grip. The fire had gone cold. Shadows hung heavy across the bare wooden room, pooled in the corners like watchful creatures.
He didn't light the hearth.
He didn't need the warmth.
In the corner, the basin still held a shallow pool of rainwater. Ariz knelt beside it and stripped off his ruined shirt. The motion made his ribs flare with pain.
The wound wasn't what caught his attention.
Low on the left side of his torso, curling beneath the bruises, a mark had formed on his skin.
It wasn't a scar. Not a bruise. It wasn't there before the serpent.
Black, clean, deliberate—etched into the flesh like ink that moved. It curled into an incomplete circle, broken at the top by a thorn-like gap. The edges shimmered faintly with his heartbeat.
He touched it.
The skin didn't burn.
It hummed.
And then came the system voice, cold and clinical.
[System Notification]Race Catalyst Progress: 1/2 Acquired.Stage: Incomplete. Further evolution pending.
He stared at the sigil for a long time.
No thoughts. No questions.
Just breath.
Just silence.
Then came the whisper again—not from the system. Not even from his own mind.
"Closer now…"
It didn't have sound.
Only weight.
Like something standing behind him, just beyond the mirror of the world.
He stood without finishing the wound care. Tied his cloak back over his bare chest. His movements were slower now—not from pain, but from the gravity of something changing.
He'd crossed a line, and the world had noticed.
By nightfall, the forest had grown silent.
Even the insects had stopped.
He sat beside the hearth with the fire unlit, the sword across his lap, watching the door. His body felt… wrong. Too light, like the shadows in the room were pulling inward instead of out.
The sigil still pulsed faintly, even through the cloth.
He tried to sleep.
Didn't.
He drifted somewhere beneath the waking world, where old memories swam: his grandfather's face in the firelight, the smell of burning flesh, the serpent's blank eyes.
Then—
growling.
His eyes snapped open.
Deep. Close.
Too deep for any normal wolf. Too low for a bear.
He rose silently.
The fire had long gone out. Moonlight barely cut through the fog that clung to the windows. But his ears caught it: footfalls outside. Soft. Heavy.
And then—movement under the doorframe.
A second shadow. Not his.
Ariz's fingers closed around the hilt.
He didn't speak.
He kicked the door open and stepped into the night.
The trees were empty.
But the air had changed.
It was too still. Too watchful.
Branches creaked without wind.
The hairs on his arms rose.
He turned slowly—
—just as the wall behind him exploded.