Beastbound: Awakening the Hunter

A sharp hiss echoed through the dimly lit tavern, a sound like red-hot iron being plunged into cold water, sending a shiver through those who dared to listen.

Oliver’s longsword struck with deadly precision, the blade sinking deep into the grotesque form of the dark spirit, Kramar. Wisps of white smoke spiraled upward from the wound, curling in the damp air as the creature let out an eerie screech. The sound sent a ripple of panic through the onlookers, but some of the braver townsfolk, driven by a mixture of courage and desperation, grabbed whatever makeshift weapons they could—broomsticks, broken chairs—and charged at the monster, their movements frantic but determined.

But Kramar reacted with terrifying speed. Its hollow gaze flickered with malicious intent, and a wave of psychic energy rippled outward like a shockwave. One drunken villager, who had been stumbling toward the creature, dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, clutching his head in agony. His screams were filled with raw, primal pain, and as he writhed on the floor, the remaining townsfolk gasped in horrified disbelief.

“Run! Get out of here!” someone shouted, their voice strained with panic.

"Fetch the lord’s knights!" another cried, as people scrambled toward the tavern's exit.

“Or the Academy mages!” someone else added, voice thick with fear.

The streets outside erupted into chaos as most of the townsfolk fled, scattering into the night, desperate to distance themselves from the nightmare within. But a few remained, their morbid curiosity anchoring them in place, unable to tear their eyes away from the unfolding battle.

They could scarcely believe what they were seeing. The drunken villager, known for his strength, had been reduced to a trembling wreck by a single glance from the creature. What hope did anyone have against such a being?

Yet, despite the odds, Oliver stood firm. His grip on his sword tightened as a surge of divine light and fire wreathed the blade. With every swing, he struck again and again at Kramar’s shadowy form, the blade cutting through the air with a high-pitched whistle. Each strike was followed by a blood-curdling shriek from the creature, each sound more terrifying than the last, sending chills deep into the bones of those who were still watching.

Kramar retaliated with savage fury. Its claws raked down Oliver’s arm, drawing blood, and its fangs sank deep into his shoulder, tearing through flesh and muscle. The pain was immediate and brutal, blood seeping through his torn garments to reveal jagged gashes, exposing even the bone beneath. Yet Oliver didn’t falter. His jaw clenched, and his resolve only hardened.

He knew that reinforcements wouldn’t make it in time. This battle was his alone to win—or die trying.

Oliver's Super Adrenaline skill, already activated, allowed him to ignore the pain coursing through his body.He let out a fierce battle cry, a primal roar that seemed to shake the very air around him. His strikes came faster, heavier, each blow slicing through Kramar’s defenses with renewed force.

Then, with a brutal, decisive swing, Oliver severed one of the creature’s arms. The dismembered limb fell to the floor, disintegrating into a plume of swirling black smoke. Kramar’s scream was deafening, a shrill, ear-piercing cry that forced everyone nearby to cover their ears. The tavern trembled under the weight of the spirit’s fury as tables and chairs shattered, splintering like brittle twigs in the creature’s wake.

For a moment, Oliver hesitated. The creature’s rampage was unlike anything he had faced before, its raw, unhinged power threatening to overwhelm him. But he knew he couldn’t afford to falter. Summoning the last of his magical energy, he unleashed a barrage of fireballs. Each burst of flame illuminated the ruined tavern, casting flickering shadows that danced like demons across the walls.

The fireballs found their mark, and Kramar’s form wavered, its once-intact figure now flickering like a flame in the wind. Its cries grew weaker, more desperate, until finally, with one last, deafening scream, it crumpled to the floor. The dark aura surrounding it dissipated into thin air, leaving behind nothing but a grotesque, shriveled husk. Its skin clung tightly to brittle bones, and its long, matted hair hung like a veil over a face too horrific to behold.

"Is it dead?" a villager asked, his voice trembling with uncertainty.

Oliver, still panting heavily, didn’t answer immediately. His chest rose and fell with each breath, the weight of the battle still pressing down on him. "Not taking any chances," he muttered. His sword, still glowing with holy fire, was raised once more, and without hesitation, he drove it through Kramar’s chest.

The creature’s body convulsed violently, its limbs spasming in one final, desperate act of defiance. Its claws scraped uselessly at the floor, but with an earsplitting shriek, the creature’s body went limp. Silence fell over the tavern like a shroud, and the townsfolk, who had been frozen in shock, slowly began to stir.

For a long moment, no one moved. The tavern, once a place of warmth and light, was now a wreck of broken furniture and shattered glass. The air was thick with the lingering stench of sulfur and burnt wood.

The townsfolk could only stare in awe. This was no ordinary foe—it was a dark spirit, a nightmare made flesh. Rumors had swirled that it had slain a mage not long ago, but Oliver had defeated it alone.

As the reality of what had transpired began to sink in, the fear that had once gripped the townsfolk began to shift into something else—admiration. They swarmed around Oliver, eager to ask questions, to know what this creature was, and whether more of them existed. But Oliver was too exhausted to answer.

Was this truly the Kramar that had killed Senior Griffin? Or merely its spawn? He remembered the reports he had read—Kramar had the ability to harness stolen magic, creating offspring or servants in its own twisted image. If this had been a mere offspring, then the true Kramar might still be out there, lurking somewhere, waiting.

But for now, those questions would have to wait.

"Someone get the doctor," Oliver groaned, clutching his bloodied shoulder. The pain, which had been dulled by the fight, now surged with a vengeance.

“I’ll get Edward!” a villager volunteered, his voice shaking with both fear and relief.

As the chaos subsided, the tavern owner, Gavin, emerged from the shadows. He surveyed the wreckage of his once-pristine establishment, tears streaming down his face.

Edward, the town’s renowned old doctor, hurried over not long after the commotion. Adjusting his thick spectacles, he examined Oliver's wound closely, his expression quickly shifting to one of astonishment.

"Young man," Edward remarked, his voice tinged with disbelief, "years ago, I treated someone injured by a wraith like this, but your injury is far less severe. These creatures typically have the strength to crush bones like twigs, yet your shoulder only bears some superficial claw marks."

Edward gestured toward the wreckage in the tavern—the splintered furniture and shattered glass speaking volumes about the monster's sheer power.

Oliver chuckled, shrugging off the concern. "Maybe I’ve just got a naturally strong constitution."

Of course, he wasn’t about to explain the benefits of consuming countless magical herbs over the days.

"Ah, no wonder you’re a core apprentice!" someone in the crowd exclaimed.

"Oliver, you’re incredible!" others chimed in with admiration.

Even Edward couldn't hold back his praise.

"It’s rare for someone from humble beginnings to become a mage. You’ve proven yourself exceptional."

"Your injury isn’t too bad," Edward continued after applying disinfectant and carefully bandaging Oliver’s wound. "With proper care, it’ll heal quickly."

Hearing this, Oliver breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

But the drunken man who had earlier attempted to help wasn’t so lucky. Though the wraith had merely glared and roared at him, its soul attack had left him comatose. Edward’s face grew grim as he examined the man.

"This is a soul injury," the doctor explained. "It requires rare and expensive magical plants to treat."

Oliver glanced at the unconscious man, shaking his head at the misfortune. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out thirty silver coins and handed them to Edward.

"Will this cover the cost?" he asked.

Edward’s eyes widened before he nodded vigorously.

"More than enough!"

The townsfolk, witnessing Oliver's generosity, erupted into murmurs of approval, many giving him grateful thumbs-ups.

Meanwhile, as the tavern was hastily tidied, no one dared to leave. The villagers crowded around Oliver, clearly feeling safer in his presence. After all, he had hinted that there might be another creature lurking in the town.

With the candlelight flickering and tension thick in the air, every creak and rustle sent a shiver through the crowd. The atmosphere was stifling.

Eventually, a group of the lord's guards crept into the tavern, their faces pale and hands trembling. They had clearly been terrified on the way here. Upon hearing that the monster had already been slain, they collapsed to the ground, visibly relieved, some even on the verge of tears.

It seemed they had fully expected to meet their end.

The villagers were equally disheartened when they noticed that no mage had come—only a handful of ordinary guards. Their confidence in their local lord took a severe blow.

Oliver silenced the crowd, gesturing for quiet. He wanted to question the guards about the state of the manor, but before he could, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from outside.

Everyone tensed, holding their breath.

A moment later, a figure emerged, holding a torch. The uniform of the mage academy gleamed in the dim light—it was Hector, a fully-fledged mage.

Despite his brisk steps and focused demeanor, Hector exuded calm authority. Unlike the guards, he was unshaken by the events. As soon as he spotted Oliver, his expression softened.

"Well, well, Oliver," Hector said, clapping him on the shoulder with a grin. "You’re stronger than I expected! No serious injuries, I hope?"

"Just a few scratches," Oliver replied with a wry smile.

"Good. I knew you had potential, but this… even I wasn’t this capable at your age. If the professor hear about this, he’ll never let us older students live it down!" Hector teased before turning his attention to the wraith’s corpse.

As he examined the remains, Hector’s expression grew grave. "This isn’t the one that killed Griffin," he muttered. "This is just one of its offspring—barely a few days old."

Oliver’s suspicions were confirmed, and his heart sank. If this juvenile wraith had been so formidable, how terrifying would the adult be?

The villagers, overhearing Hector’s words, looked visibly shaken.

Sensing their fear, Hector offered a measure of reassurance. "Relax. Fully-grown Kramars rarely target ordinary people. This one was immature and needed to feed on human flesh to grow. It probably attacked because the tavern’s noise drew it in."

He shot Oliver a grin. "Too bad for it—it picked the wrong place."

Despite Hector’s attempt to calm them, some villagers remained uneasy, unsure if they could trust his words.

But Hector had no time to soothe their nerves. With a deep frown, he muttered to Oliver, "If this young Kramar was this strong, the adult is far more dangerous than we anticipated. I doubt I could take it down alone. We’ll need the professor’s help."

Without another word, Hector grabbed Oliver by the arm, urgency evident in his actions.

The villagers, realizing the pair intended to leave, panicked and tried to follow. But Hector raised his wand, casting a swift wind spell that enveloped him and Oliver, propelling them out of the tavern at a speed the townsfolk could never match.

Left behind, the villagers could only watch as their protector vanished into the night.