A month had passed since Nightborne first stepped into this world of perpetual darkness. Thirty days of terror, adaptation, and transformation. What had once been alien and horrifying was now familiar—the endless night sky, the impossibly large moon that cast its silver glow across the barren landscape, the skeletal trees that clawed at the heavens like desperate supplicants.
He stood at the mouth of his cave dwelling, surveying the realm that had become his home. The wind carried the distant cries of unknown creatures, their voices echoing across the void like lost souls. Once, those sounds had filled him with dread. Now they were simply part of the nocturnal symphony that marked the passage of time in a world without dawn.
The boy who had arrived here—frightened, malnourished, and woefully unprepared—was gone. In his place stood someone else entirely. Nightborne's hollow cheeks had filled out, his formerly gaunt frame now corded with lean muscle earned through desperate survival. The perpetual shadows beneath his eyes had faded, replaced by a gaze of quiet, calculated intensity. His movements were economical and precise, the result of a brutal education that had no room for error.
This world had tried to break him. Instead, it had forged him.
He inhaled deeply, tasting the metallic tang of the air. Occasionally, his mind would wander back to his former life, to trivial comforts that now seemed like dreams from another existence.
*God, I'd kill for a slice of pizza...* he thought, almost smiling. *Pepperoni, extra cheese.*
But the craving faded as quickly as it had appeared. Survival left little room for nostalgia.
Turning back into the cave, Nightborne approached a flat stone slab that served as his workbench. Laid out upon it was his current weapon: a crude spear with a wooden shaft, splintered and warped at the tip from relentless use. It had served him adequately during training and minor hunts—for skewering the rabbit-like creatures that darted through the underbrush, or fending off the occasional scavenger that thought him easy prey.
But for what came next, it was nothing more than a liability.
He needed something better. Sharper. Stronger. He wasn't about to risk death armed with little more than a half-broken stick and hubris.
Nightborne's fingers traced the length of the spear, mind already calculating improvements. He had been planning this hunt since his second week in this realm, meticulously observing, preparing, waiting for the right moment. The time for patience was over.
He was going to kill the white Direwolf.
The beast had haunted his nightmares since his first day in this world, when it had tracked him relentlessly through the forest, toying with him as a cat might with a mouse. He had escaped by pure luck, tumbling down a ravine too narrow for the massive creature to follow. Its howls had pursued him even in dreams, echoing through his consciousness as his body grew stronger and his mind more focused.
Now, he wasn't just seeking survival. He was hunting.
Methodical in his preparations, Nightborne had established an emergency escape route from the planned battlefield—a winding path through jagged cliffs and twisted trees, marked by symbols carved into bark and stone, a lifeline only he could follow. But even with contingencies in place, certainty was a luxury this world never offered. Death wore a thousand masks here, each more cunning than the last.
What he lacked now was a weapon worthy of challenging death itself.
His thoughts drifted to the Origin—that mysterious force whispered about among survivors. The entity that controlled the warps, the architect—or perhaps the tormentor—of these fractured realities. No one truly understood what the Origin was, only that its presence was undeniable. It set the rules that governed existence across the multiverse, rules that could not be broken, only navigated.
Everyone received something after their first warp: an ability, a transformation, a gift. After that initial boon, power had to be earned through combat, through challenge, through spilled blood—whether your own or that of the creatures that stalked these lands.
Nightborne examined his spear once more before setting to work, reinforcing the shaft with strips of hardened sinew, replacing the tip with a jagged shard of bone taken from a creature he'd hunted weeks earlier. Not ideal, but significantly better than before.
He was ready to earn his next piece of power.
---
The Direwolf stood exactly where Nightborne had calculated it would be—at the edge of the moonlit lake, its massive head lowered to drink from waters that gleamed with an unnatural phosphorescence. The beast was magnificent in its terrible beauty, its white fur shimmering with an almost celestial quality beneath the oversized moon. Four times Nightborne's size, with muscles like corded steel rippling beneath its coat and claws that gouged the earth with each step.
But it was the creature's eyes that truly betrayed its nature—pools of feral intelligence that reflected something ancient and unknowable. This was no ordinary predator. This was something the Origin had crafted with particular care, a perfect killing machine.
The wolf raised its head as Nightborne approached, sensing him not through sight or sound, but through some deeper awareness—as if it could feel the disturbance his very existence created in this world.
Nightborne tightened his grip on his newly fashioned weapon, the bone-tipped spear steady in his hands. He had pictured this moment countless times, rehearsed every movement, anticipated every possible reaction from his adversary.
He didn't wait for the wolf to make the first move. This time, *he* was the predator.
Charging forward with explosive speed, Nightborne aimed low, targeting the tendons behind the creature's massive paws, seeking to hamstring it before the real fight began. The Direwolf reacted with terrifying quickness, spinning its bulk with impossible grace. Claws raked through the air where Nightborne's head had been a heartbeat earlier, missing by mere inches.
The spear jabbed into the wolf's hind leg—but barely penetrated its thick fur. The creature howled, not in pain but in irritation, as if insulted by the audacity of the attack. Then it lunged, jaws snapping at Nightborne's throat.
He dove sideways, executing a tight roll across the rocky ground. The wolf's momentum carried it past him, crashing into an ancient tree that splintered on impact like brittle kindling. Nightborne was already moving, instincts honed by countless hours visualizing this fight guiding his body. He pivoted, targeting the wolf's exposed neck—missed—and was rewarded with a punishing blow from its thick tail that sent him flying through the air.
He landed hard, gasping as pain radiated through his ribs. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, but rather than despair, he felt his lips curve into a grim smile.
*This is the one,* he thought, pushing himself back to his feet. *This is the kill that gives me power.*
What followed was not a battle but a brutal dance of violence and desperation. Every second stretched into eternity as they circled, lunged, retreated, and clashed again. The wolf was raw power embodied—relentless, savage, tireless. But Nightborne had become something that even this apex predator couldn't anticipate—a human with nothing left to lose.
His spear shattered halfway through the fight, snapped clean after one final thrust into the creature's chest. Undeterred, Nightborne fought with rocks, fists, and eventually the broken halves of his weapon, wielding one jagged end like a primitive dagger. Blood and sweat blinded him, but he refused to yield.
In a moment of reckless determination, he launched himself onto the beast's back, fingers clawing desperately for purchase in its thick fur as it bucked and thrashed beneath him. His final strike came in a burst of pure survival instinct—the broken spear driven into the base of the wolf's skull, again and again, until the haunting howls faded into silence.
The massive creature collapsed with a final, shuddering breath, its luminous eyes dimming into vacant stillness.
Nightborne fell beside it, his body a catalog of agony. Blood covered him from head to toe—some his own, some the wolf's, some seemingly drawn from the earth itself. His flesh was torn open in at least three places, and his leg bent at an angle that suggested a fracture. But he was alive.
And where the wolf had fallen, left behind like a trophy awarded by the Origin itself, was something new.
[Item Obtained: Direwolf's Claws]
Two obsidian metallic gauntlets, each embedded with five long, wickedly sharp blades extending like fingers. The interior was lined with soft white fur that seemed to pulse with warmth, almost sentient in its comfort.
With trembling hands, Nightborne slid them on. The fit was perfect, as if they had been crafted specifically for him. The claws caught the moonlight, their edges gleaming with lethal promise while the air around them vibrated with a subtle, hungry energy.
[Innate Ability: Direwolf's Scream]
The Direwolf's Claws emit a piercing scream with each impact, echoing the pain of the beast that forged them. Every scream amplifies your strength... but simultaneously intensifies your bloodlust. Your thoughts will grow clouded with primal fury. Your control will diminish with each strike.
An unfamiliar sensation flooded through Nightborne's battered body—raw power unlike anything he had experienced before. The gauntlets tightened around his forearms, contracting like living entities responding to his accelerating heartbeat. He flexed his fingers experimentally, and the blades sang softly through the air, their movement leaving faint trails of darkness.
He didn't smile in triumph. He simply nodded in grim satisfaction.
The hunt was complete. The price, paid in blood and pain. The reward, now his to master.
---
Recovery demanded patience.
For days, Nightborne remained in his cave, allowing his body the time it desperately needed. Healing was an agonizingly slow process, but with a diet of carefully rationed meat, wild berries, and constant hydration, the worst of his injuries gradually mended. During this period of convalescence, he kept the claws at a distance, storing them in a natural alcove at the far side of his shelter. Even separated by several feet of solid stone, their presence affected his dreams—filling his nights with disturbing visions of running on all fours through moonlit forests, of tearing into warm flesh with fang and claw, of howling triumphantly into the endless void.
When the pain finally dulled to a manageable ache and the worst of his bruises faded to yellowed shadows on his skin, he knew it was time.
The claws needed testing.
Wisdom cautioned against seeking another Direwolf immediately. His body, though healing, was far from its full strength. Instead, he sought something simpler—one of the rabid, rabbit-like creatures that occasionally became ensnared in his traps. They were fast, unpredictable, and vicious despite their small size. A perfect test subject.
Nightborne crouched in the underbrush, the claws fitted snugly over his hands, watching as one such creature hopped erratically through a small clearing. Its eyes were wild, foam gathering at the corners of its mouth. Diseased. Dangerous. Disposable.
He burst from his hiding place, crossing the distance in three rapid strides. The claws connected with his target, and the effect was immediate and horrifying—a sharp, human-like wail erupted from the weapons, piercing the silence of the forest.
Nightborne froze, momentarily stunned by the otherworldly sound. It resonated not just in his ears but through his entire body, setting his nerves alight with unfamiliar energy. Strength surged through his limbs, accompanied by a hot, pulsing rage that clouded the edges of his vision.
He lunged again. Another scream tore through the air, louder than before, more agonized. The rabbit creature didn't stand a chance. In seconds, what had been a living being was reduced to scattered remnants across the forest floor, blood spraying in abstract patterns across the ground and surrounding vegetation.
Nightborne stood in the center of the carnage, chest heaving, mind buzzing with a strange emptiness. His heart thundered against his ribs, each beat sending fresh waves of power and bloodlust coursing through his veins.
The claws didn't just enhance strength—they fed on violence itself.
Before he could regain his composure, the dense trees behind him rustled with movement. The sound of soft paws on soil. The familiar, dreaded chorus of howls broke the silence—not a solitary voice, but many.
Not one. Not two.
Three distinct howls.
No—a fourth joined the deadly chorus.
They emerged into the clearing one by one, white fur luminescent under the eternal moon. Each stood taller than the one he had slain, their eyes gleaming with cold intelligence and unmistakable purpose.
More Direwolves.
And they hadn't stumbled upon him by chance. They had come with deliberate intent—to avenge their fallen packmate.
Nightborne dropped into a fighting stance, claws extended before him, heart pounding not with fear but with a terrible, exhilarating anticipation. He could feel the weapons responding to the imminent conflict, their power singing through his blood, whispering dark promises of glorious carnage.
The largest wolf lunged forward, a mountain of muscle and fury bearing down on him with impossible speed.
Nightborne didn't retreat.
He charged directly toward it, the Direwolf's Claws already beginning their maddening scream.
[To Be Continued]