Luke had been there for at least an hour, hidden among the trees, silently watching. Ever since he spotted that flicker of torchlight, he'd approached with extreme caution, analyzing every step, every shadow.

After sweeping the perimeter, he finally found it: a small campsite set up deep within the forest. The fire was lit, but the area was surrounded by large pieces of cloth tied between trees, forming a crude circle of visual cover. A simple trick, but effective. Barely any light leaked out, even to eyes as sharp as his.

Luke remained in the shadows, his breathing slow and controlled, eyes scanning every movement.

Soldiers of Bartholomew. Just my luck. Not Marshall's men.

By their numbers and the way they were set up, it was just an advanced patrol, not anything resembling a Renegade base. Still, he kept watching. Sometimes, valuable information came in the form of a loose comment or a glance not meant to be seen.

"Who would've thought we'd be camping in the damn woods because of those bastards? I swear, I'm gonna kill every last Renegade," one of the soldiers grumbled, flopping down by the fire.

"It's freezing out here… Just shut up and serve the soup," another replied.

The first one clicked his tongue and poured the thick stew into a makeshift bowl.

Luke sighed inwardly, one hand resting against the tree trunk.

This will lead to nothing.

But he didn't move. Still cloaked in the dark, still watching. In this world, luck didn't always come loud and screaming. Sometimes it came quiet, disguised as carelessness.

He wasn't going to miss it.

***

An hour later, something changed. From deep within the forest, a man emerged, his steps steady and deliberate. His armor gleamed under the faint firelight, polished, immaculate, the crest of Bastion engraved on the chest: a crown. The kind of armor only Bartholomew's smiths could produce.

The soldiers around the fire jumped to their feet the moment they saw him, standing at rigid attention.

"Good evening, Commander Derek!" they called out in unison.

But the reply was anything but cordial.

"Evening?" Derek scoffed. "And what if I were a damn Renegade in stolen armor? Would you idiots still stand there like targets, waiting to die?"

Silence fell. No one answered.

"Give me the report. What did the day shift pass on to you?" he snapped.

The exchange was quick and blunt. They discussed rebuilding the wooden barricades, the ones torn down in a coordinated Renegade attack. Nothing unexpected. No useful intel.

But when the commander turned and started walking alone back into the forest, Luke narrowed his eyes.

Someone like him doesn't walk alone at night unless there's a camp nearby.

That's when instinct became resolve. Moving branch to branch like a shadow, Luke followed, no rush, no direct pursuit. He didn't need to get closer.

With a quiet breath, he activated his skill:

[Assassin's Mark – Active]

The moment he focused on the commander, the magic took hold. No matter where Derek went, whether it was behind walls, through trees, or beneath stone, Luke would see him, even with his eyes closed. A glowing outline. A marked prey.

You're not escaping my sight.

And with that, the silent hunt resumed.

***

Over thirty minutes of silent pursuit. The knight moved through the forest like a man at war with the woods themselves, alert to the slightest twitch of a branch, the faintest whisper between the leaves. At the end of the trail, Luke found what appeared to be the destination: a ruined stone mansion, swallowed by the forest. Though the place wore the mask of abandonment, it was anything but deserted.

Bartholomew's soldiers patrolled the grounds, weapons drawn, alert. Archers and crossbowmen stood at strategic posts, eyes sharp, aim sharper.

"Who's approaching?" asked one of the sentries, bow already drawn.

Others raised their weapons, aiming toward the path.

"It's Commander Derek," came the reply from the shadows. The figure raised a single hand, flashing a subtle gesture, a silent code.

"It's him," confirmed the archer, lowering his bow. "Apologies, Commander."

Luke watched from a distance, hidden in the treeline. Every movement, every exchange, was meticulously observed. He circled the perimeter in silence, assessing the layout. The defenses were tight. Breaking in? Nearly impossible. Attacking? Suicidal.

But then, he saw it. Near the base of the mansion wall, almost invisible under layers of moss, was a small, barred opening. Not a real window. Just a vent. Likely for cellar ventilation.

Luke crept toward it, crouched low. He pressed his face to the grate.

Darkness.

But then... the faint red glow of his marked target. Through the stone and shadow, he could see Derek, a crimson silhouette moving slowly down a set of stairs into the basement. The commander paused at the bottom, then walked forward again, approaching someone.

"Looks like I'm back to finish our little chat," Derek said, his voice coated in cruel satisfaction.

Luke narrowed his eyes.

In the darkest corner of the cellar, he saw a man chained to the wall. Heavy iron shackles. Drenched in blood. His face was so swollen and broken it barely resembled anything human. The signs were clear: prolonged torture.

"Ever since we caught you wandering yesterday... I've started to feel like all the headaches your people gave me might finally be worth it," Derek continued, grabbing an iron rod from a nearby table.

Without hesitation, he struck.

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Crack.

"You'll tell me everything, you damn Renegade!" the commander growled.

"I-I swear, I already told you everything! I don't know anything else!" the man cried, voice shaking with despair. "I only knew where our last camp was! Only the top leaders know where Marshall is!"

That didn't stop the next blow. Luke watched, crouched outside, his eyes fixed on the scene with cold precision. He didn't blink. He didn't pity.

Instead... a slow smile crept across his face.

Looks like I finally found my source of information.

***

"Damn, this place just keeps getting colder every damn night," grumbled one of the crossbowmen, huddled close to the fire.

"It's almost winter, dumbass. You've been stuck in this place for over a year, you should know how this crap works by now," muttered the archer beside him, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

The dead of night wrapped around them like a noose. Only the wind stirred, whispering through the trees. Every now and then, it carried faint echoes—low, muffled screams. Torture, bleeding through the floorboards of the ruined mansion behind them.

Then something broke the rhythm of that monotony.

"Help!" a male voice shouted.

A figure came stumbling out of the underbrush, panic written all over his face. He tripped, nearly fell flat, and flailed toward the guards like a man fleeing death itself.

"Who the hell are you?!"

"Kill it! Kill it! It's coming for me!" he screamed, his voice raw with terror.

"Lloyd?" one of the archers squinted, recognizing him.

"A demon!" he panted. "I—I went to take a piss and saw something… something floating! A black thing, like living smoke!"

The others exchanged wary glances. Some laughed nervously.

"You're seeing shit, man."

"I swear, dammit! It was real, it looked like a shadow that breathed!"

"Oh yeah? Then where is this so-called 'demon' of yours?"

"RIGHT HERE."

That voice didn't come from Lloyd.

It came from above.

All heads snapped upward and froze.

Hovering above them was a creature made entirely of shadow. A mass of black mist wrapped in a floating cloak, its hood empty, its face a void. There was no body, no eyes—just darkness. And it was watching.

"AHHH! It's him!" Lloyd shrieked, diving to the ground.

"Fire!" the archer shouted.

Arrows whistled through the air and passed harmlessly through the figure. It moved like smoke, gliding between bolts, untouchable. One guard rushed in with his sword drawn, lunging straight through the haze.

Nothing.

Then came the fog.

Thick, black mist erupted outward, swallowing the five soldiers in an instant. Sight vanished. No sky. No ground. No firelight. Just emptiness.

"Help me!" someone screamed, the voice bouncing off unseen walls.

One of the guards swung his blade blindly, spinning in circles, wide-eyed.

And then… the darkness smiled.

Two narrow slits opened within the mist, glowing faintly like eyes. A mouth formed—not of flesh, but of pure shadow.

"AHHH!"

A scream ripped through the night, cut off by a thud.

From behind, an arm wrapped around a guard's neck in a tight chokehold. One precise strike to the side of the throat. The body dropped, limp. No time to resist.

One by one, the guards fell. Silently.

The fog faded.

"Nice work, Princess Charlie," Luke said, stepping out of the mist with a calm grin.

Charlie gave a small nod, cracking the knuckles of the arm she'd just used. The [Iron Fist] skill had done its job—clean, quiet, efficient.

All five were out cold. Not dead. But out of the fight.

Footsteps echoed from the mansion. Shouts rose, closing in.

"Looks like we've got more company," Luke muttered, before his body dissolved once again into a swirl of black mist.

He drifted toward the approaching soldiers like a ghost.

And the screams began anew.

***

Derek was sweating. His breath came short, eyes locked on the darkness that swallowed the corridor ahead. He had called for his men; no one answered. Not even the guard at the door. The torches at the far end of the hall had all gone out.

"Shit. What the hell is happening?" he muttered, drawing his sword.

Behind him, still chained to the wall, the prisoner gave a weak groan. His face was a swollen mess of bruises and blood, barely human. Each breath sounded like agony.

"If this is your people's doing," Derek growled without looking back, "I'll tear another damn finger off."

He slammed the door as he left. The sound echoed through the basement like a warning bell.

Joseph barely registered it. His mind was fraying, shattered by pain. He'd been caught en route to a rendezvous with a Messenger. He was supposed to receive coordinates for the Renegades' new camp. Somehow, they must have intercepted one of the scouts. Maybe even broken him.

Now, Joseph was paying the price. Screams broke out in the hallway.

Then silence. Heavy. Total.

He didn't want Derek to return, but the absence of noise was worse. Much worse. Something was coming. He could feel it. But it wasn't human. And then he saw it.

"…Holy shit…"

Black mist poured through the tiny, barred window like ink spilling through cracks in reality. It crept across the stone floor, dense, alive, and within seconds, the room drowned in shadow. But then it started to gather. It took form.

A floating shape, cloaked in writhing darkness. No face. No edges. Just void. Pure emptiness inside the hood. Like death itself had stepped into the basement. Joseph tried to scream, but his throat was too dry. His voice caught somewhere between terror and disbelief.

The creature drifted closer.

"Where is Marshall?" The voice was deep. Inhuman. Heavy as stone and colder than steel.

Joseph froze.

The pressure in the air was unbearable. It felt like the darkness itself was screaming—a low, guttural roar that clawed at his spine.

"I don't know!" he cried, panic tearing through what little will he had left. "I swear, I don't know where he is!"

"Do not lie to me!"

"I-I-I swear! The info's fragmented! Only the leaders know! The commanders above them! I'm just a fucking grunt."

"Tell. Me. Everything." The voice sliced into him like blades.

And he broke.

Joseph spilled everything. The chain of command. Contact points. Patrol routes. Even the passcodes used during Renegade meetings. Not once did he think of lying—there was no bluffing against that kind of monster.

"Tell Marshall," the creature said, voice like cracking stone, "death is coming."

The mist coiled around him, wrapping the room in smothering black. One by one, the chains rattled and fell free, clattering to the floor like broken shackles.

And then, as if it had never existed, the shadow was gone. The mist slipped back through the barred window and vanished into the night.

Joseph collapsed onto his knees.

He looked down at himself.

He had pissed his pants.

***

From the treetops, Luke watched in silence.

He had to admit he was overdoing it, but if his power made him scary, then he'd use that as a weapon. The truth was, the wraith form didn't actually make him stronger. In fact, it was weak and limited. But his enemies didn't know that. And that was exactly where his advantage lay. He could use fear, mess with their minds. Deep down, he wondered if this was exactly how a demon would think. Maybe it was.

His eyes followed the man as he stumbled out of the ruined mansion, barely able to walk. Joseph paused just long enough to glance at the unconscious guards, lying like corpses on the cold ground.

Then he ran.

Ran like a man being chased by the reaper. Luke could've ended things clean. Could've broken in, slit Derek's throat, and torn the info straight from the prisoner's mouth. It would've been fast. Precise. Surgical.

But this? This was better.

Joseph ran, heart pounding, fear eating him alive. And Luke followed. Patient. Invisible.

The [Assassin's Mark] pulsed softly through his vision, casting the fleeing man in a faint red glow—an outline only he could see.

Joseph had no idea.

But he was leading Luke straight to Marshall.

Or someone who would.

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