Chapter 484: Let’s Hunt

The moment Damien stepped out of the coastal forest and onto the great northern plains, he felt it. The subtle but notable shift.

The air was different here. It was colder, sharper, and hungrier.

The plains stretched endlessly in every direction, covered in pale yellow grass that swayed with the wind like an ocean carved from blades.

Scattered boulders jutted out like the bones of ancient beasts, and the distant horizon trembled under mirages of heat and magic.

Fenrir kept its walk at Damien’s side silent, nose low, ears twitching. Luton sat curled against Damien’s shoulder, occasionally leaning forward to feel the wind. Or perhaps sniff it. Damien didn’t know which.

They both sensed it too.

This place was alive, and starving.

Damien adjusted the map in his hand, tracing the route toward the northern coast, hundreds of miles ahead.

He could fly the entire way, but he chose not to because he felt like needed this.

He needed the walk and the hunt that came with it.

The fights that sharpened instinct and bone. And the cores that he was sure to respond from the killings. If for no reason, he needed them to make his summons stronger.

“Summon Aquila,” Damien said quietly.

A blue portal shimmered to life and from within it, a ripple of silver feathers and wind burst beside him. The griffin emerged, majestic and lethal, eyes glowing faintly.

Damien crouched and placed a hand on its beak. “In these plains, hunt whatever you find. Beasts. Mutants. Anything with enough essence to feed your growth.”

Aquila chirped once in acknowledgment.

“And don’t die,” Damien added. He would feel it if the summon was close to death though. Unless it was instantaneous.

With a powerful flap of its wings, the griffin soared into the sky, vanishing into the rolling horizon, leaving a trail of swirling wind behind.

Fenrir watched it go with a huff of envy.

“You’ll get your fill,” Damien assured him. “Trust me.”

And he walked.

The plains were deceptively quiet.

There were no birds nor insects.

Just grass, wind, and the distant rumble of something heavy.

Damien looked up, hand drifting toward Fenrir’s fur.

“Boars,” he murmured.

Fenrir’s ears perked.

Luton vibrated in excitement.

And then they emerged over a ridge. But they were not boars, not anymore.

Mutated demon boars.

The herd was massive, at least fifty strong. Their bodies had swollen grotesquely, skin cracking to reveal burning crimson flesh beneath.

Two tusks had become four. Some had bone plates growing out of their backs. Others had trails of black smoke hissing from their mouths with every breath.

Demonic variants.

Damien felt a savage satisfaction stir in his chest as he muttered the word, “Perfect.”

The largest boar, nearly the size of a small house, roared and charged.

Gbim! Gbim! Gbim!

The ground trembled under its weight. The entire herd followed.

Fenrir howled once, white fur bristling, and lunged forward like a streak of lightning.

Damien didn’t even draw a weapon. He moved like wind cutting through grass.

Fenrir slammed into the first boar, jaws clamping down on its throat. The beast thrashed wildly, until Fenrir snapped its neck like dry twigs.

Damien leapt onto the back of another. Its hide cracked beneath him. He drilled a fist into its skull, essence surging through his arm, and the beast collapsed instantly.

More charged.

More fell.

Fenrir ripped through the herd with predatory glee, devouring cores mid-fight, letting the energy fuel his strength, his speed, his hunger.

Luton, meanwhile, expanded to twice its size and launched itself into three smaller boars, swallowing them whole in a single gelatinous gulp.

The herd broke, panicked, and tried to flee.

Damien didn’t allow it.

“Fenrir,” he commanded, voice cold. “None escape.”

The wolf answered with a growl that shook the plains.

A minute later, the herd was gone.

“Devour,” Damien ordered.

Luton burbled in joy and began digesting the larger scraps.

Fenrir devoured the remaining essence cores with the precision of a hunter who knew exactly what he needed to grow.

As they fed, Damien stood among the carnage, breathing in the burning scent of demon smoke and blood. The wind brushed his face, carrying hints of mana — good, clean mana, freed from corruption now that the beasts were dead.

He closed his eyes.

His body absorbed the ambient essence around him slowly and steadily.

He could still feel it. The shift, the strengthening, the sharpening.

Power came from killing. From fighting.

From surviving harder lands and worse monsters.

He opened his eyes, calm again.

“Let’s move.”

Fenrir licked blood from his muzzle.

Luton hopped onto Damien’s shoulder again, trembling with energy.

The hunt continued.

The next threat came two hours later, when the plains dipped into a valley filled with long, waving grass.

At first, Damien thought it was wind.

But the grass was moving wrong. It was moving too fast. Too rhythmically.

Too… alive.

Fenrir growled while Luton pressed into Damien’s collar.

Then the first creature crawled out.

A pale limb, spiderlike, jointed at impossible angles, covered in thin membrane.

Another limb. Then another.

Eight in total.

Then the body emerged. It was long, flat, with no eyes. Only a gaping mouth running from one end of its face to the other, filled with crooked teeth that dripped black ooze.

Damien whispered, “Skin-Crawler.”

He didn’t know what their real name was. Didn’t care.

The creature let out a shrill, air-shuddering screech.

Five more burst out of the grass.

Fenrir leapt first. Damien followed.

But the Skin-Crawlers were fast — terribly fast. Their limbs scuttled like bone shards scraping stone. They moved unpredictably, weaving through grass with silent precision.

One lunged at Damien’s back.

“Luton.”

The slime shot out like a whip, wrapped around its head, and dissolved it instantly.

Two others lunged toward Fenrir. The wolf dodged one, bit the other’s limb off, then ripped its torso open with a brutal swing of his claws.

Another Skin-Crawler tried to flee underground.

Damien stomped once.

The ground cracked, and the creature’s spine snapped beneath the dirt.

Their screams faded.

Fenrir devoured the cores.

Luton sucked up the leftover flesh.

Damien exhaled, wiping a smear of black ichor off his hand.

“Disgusting creatures. But useful.”

He kept walking.

By late afternoon, the sky had shifted. Clouds hung low and heavy, casting long shadows over the plains.

That was when Damien heard it.

A whistle.

A rising screech that pierced the air like a blade.

Fenrir stopped mid-step and Damien raised his head to look up.

Silhouettes stood upon a distant ridge — dozens of tall, skeletal figures, their spines jutting out of their backs like spears angled toward the sky. Each movement made the spines rattle.

And then they howled.

A sound like metal grinding against bone, echoing across the hills.

Damien muttered, “Howling Spines.”

Of course he named them. He’d named the skin crawlers and now he’d done same thing to these creatures.

The demons charged downhill in perfect formation, their spines vibrating with a deadly hum.

Damien cracked his knuckles.

“Let’s see what you’re worth.”

The first demon leapt.

Damien caught its spine mid-air, twisted, and used its momentum to blast two others aside.

Boooom!

Fenrir slammed into the formation like a battering ram, ripping bodies apart.

Luton expanded into a shield, blocking a volley of bone projectiles before firing them back with twice the force.

The Howling Spines adapted.

Their howls intensified, disrupting balance, disorienting the air, shaking Fenrir’s fur.

Damien grit his teeth as the sound clawed at his skull.

Enough.

He summoned force through his legs and dashed directly into the center of the horde. His hand crackled with condensed essence, and he slammed it into the ground.

Boooooom!!

A shockwave erupted.

Demons flew and bones shattered.

The howling died while Fenrir finished the survivors.

Luton devoured the broken pieces greedily.

Damien stood alone in the aftermath.

The plains grew silent again.

He looked at his summons — both panting, energized, almost vibrating with growth.

“More,” Damien whispered to himself. “I need more.”

The hunger to grow stronger was no longer a quiet whisper.

It was a roar.

The sun dipped lower, casting fiery hues across the horizon.

Damien felt a pulse overhead. Aquila returned briefly, wings shimmering with new strength from whatever beasts it had hunted.

“You’re doing well,” Damien said.

Aquila chirped proudly.

“Keep going. Hunt until your core feels heavy.”

Another flap, and Aquila vanished back into the vast plains.

By sunset, the plains were a graveyard of demon corpses and mutated bodies. Damien did not slow his stride. He continued until the sky turned indigo and the stars blinked into existence.

His steps were steady, his breathing calm, his mind clearer than it had been in months.

This was what he needed. This brutality. This endless cycle of kill, feed, grow.

Every demon that fell made him stronger.

Every beast consumed made his summons evolve.

Every fight sharpened the blade he carried inside him.

He wasn’t becoming a murderer.

He wasn’t becoming a monster.

He was becoming prepared.

If the world demanded a weapon to face the demons… Damien would become the sharpest one it had ever seen.

He paused atop a hill, overlooking the endless expanse of grass.

“Come,” Damien said calmly.

Fenrir rose.

Luton hopped.

Aquila cried from somewhere in the sky.

Darkness settled in and the plains whispered while Demons crawled beneath the surface, back to where they’d come from.

And Damien? Damien just smiled. “Let’s hunt.”

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