Chapter: The Taken
Luke pushed through the fog with cautious grace, each bootfall steady and deliberate. The flickering pulse from his investigation app guided him through the underbrush like a compass made from pure intuition. His instincts told him a land beast was near. But instincts were only half the game—truth came from data.
Then he saw it. Not a beast.
Not even a threat.
Instead, nestled between moss-covered cliffs and carved into the sloping rock was a small dwarven village, previously hidden from all maps and most eyes. Dozens of stone homes were built into the walls, glowing softly with lantern-light, their warm hues fighting off the silver of the mist. Rope bridges and pulley lifts connected the cliffs and structures like a living maze in the clouds.
Luke lowered his blade slightly. The app's signal had led him here. Not a monster... but something was wrong.
Shouts echoed across the narrow ravines. Dwarves ran in clustered groups, eyes wide with panic. Smoke drifted from a toppled brazier. Crates and baskets of food were abandoned mid-meal. The entire village buzzed with disarray, chaos barely contained within its stone walls.
A dwarf woman—gray braided hair, face streaked with soot—rushed up to Luke as he approached the main gathering square. Her eyes were wild with fear.
"You!" she cried. "You're not from here—you're the hunter, aren't you?! Please, our children—our children are gone!"
Luke's brows furrowed. He knelt slightly to meet her gaze. "Gone?"
"Taken," she whispered hoarsely. "Last night... a demon came from the hills. With eyes like coal and hands like black fire. It stole into our homes... and took seven of our children. Just vanished into the mist."
The dwarves gathered around her nodded gravely, murmuring confirmation. One elderly dwarf cursed and slammed a fist into a barrel. A younger one sobbed softly behind a wall. The village wasn't just scared—they were broken.
From Luke's party, the youngest of the Seven—a sharp-eyed dwarf named Rindle—stepped forward.
"Then we'll find 'em," Rindle said, gripping his axe. "Ain't no demon gonna make off with dwarven kin on our watch."
Luke glanced at him briefly, then looked back at the app. His finger slid across the glowing interface.
RECALIBRATING TARGET.
Adjusting to Demonic Residue and Ethereal Footprints…
Ping.
A trail appeared—faint, winding, but very real. Glowing faintly in red like ember-ash footsteps drifting into the distant hills, just beyond the edge of the misty village.
Luke stood.
He didn't say a word—he never needed to.
Instead, he tapped his app once to share the visual trail to the dwarves' shared lenses, nodded once to Rindle, and started walking.
Because monsters could wait.
But stolen children could not.
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Chapter: Demon of Terror
The woods stretched wide and dense, cloaked in ancient silence broken only by the rustle of leaves underfoot.
Luke and the Seven moved in unison, like hunters born of the forest. Each step took them deeper—past smooth, mossy stones carved with runes long forgotten, past a cold, glassy lake where no fish stirred, its surface untouched even by the wind.
The mist had thinned, but the tension thickened.
Luke kept his eyes fixed on the pulsing line on his app, guiding them through twisted trees and root-choked paths.
Rindle glanced around nervously. Marnick, the oldest of the dwarves, held a warhammer low. No words passed between them now—only breath and resolve.
Then they reached it.
Beyond a ring of warped pine trees and dead ground, the forest opened into a clearing of black soil and burned roots. Smoke rose in thin trails from jagged stone spires like a shattered crown.
And in the center of it all—stood the Demon of Great Terror.
Twice the height of a man, with skin like limestone streaked with lava cracks, horns curled backward from its skull, and eyes glowing a cruel, ember-red. Its clawed hand held a twisted ledger etched with unholy sigils.
In front of it: seven dwarven children, bound at the wrists and ankles, their eyes wide, their cheeks stained with tears and dirt. None dared cry out—they had seen what stood before them.
Opposite the demon stood a band of Silver Dwarves—the ancient rivals of the village clans. Tall for dwarves, armored in polished silver-plate, their faces hidden beneath wolf-like helms. One of them stepped forward and tossed a heavy sack to the demon. It hit the ground with a dull clink.
Topaz. Dozens of them. Gleaming, uncut stones of immense value.
A trade.
Thornton, the Wrath Dwarf, growled low behind Luke, his beard twitching with rage. "They're sellin' our kin like sacks of grain…"
"Quiet," Luke whispered sharply, raising his hand. His other hand gripped the hilt of his silver longsword—Beastender, forged from fallen starlight and etched with hunter runes.
Behind him, the dwarves exchanged whispers.
"They're gonna go through with it—"
"Cowards, all of 'em—"
"Shouldn't we strike now—?"
But Luke was still.
Watching.
Calculating.
His sword glinted in the shadows. The wind shifted. The demon turned, sensing something. Its gaze swept the woods. The children whimpered.
Luke exhaled. A soundless breath.
Then, he stepped forward, just out of the treeline—eyes fixed on the demon.
"No more trades," Luke said, voice calm as thunder.
All heads turned. The Silver Dwarves reached for their weapons. The Demon of Terror tilted its head and smiled with cracked, obsidian teeth.
The clearing tensed like a drawn bow.
The hunter had entered the game.
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Chapter: The Hunter's Mercy
As Luke stepped into the clearing, the forest seemed to hold its breath. The mist behind him curled like a cloak, and even the Demon of Terror paused mid-gesture, its flame-cracked eyes narrowing at the lone figure standing bold and unshaken.
The Silver Dwarves reacted instantly. Bows rose with military precision, strings pulled tight, tips of sharpened obsidian arrows aimed directly at Luke's heart. In a matter of seconds, over a dozen projectiles quivered in the air, tension thick with the promise of violence.
But Luke didn't flinch.
He calmly lifted one hand, palm open, fingers spread—a universal gesture of parley. His other hand rested gently on the hilt of Beastender, though it did not draw.
"I'm not here to spill blood," Luke said, his voice steady, cutting through the tension like a blade through fog. "I'll buy back the children. Name your price—I have Topaz."
For a brief second, silence held.
Then came the sneer.
The Leader of the Silver Dwarves stepped forward, a green leafy hat perched absurdly on his gleaming helm—an old badge of rank among their warbands. His lip curled. "You think this is a market? We don't trade with village dogs. These children are leverage. Not livestock."
He snapped his fingers.
TWANG!
Fifteen arrows flew—dark streaks in the pale morning light, screaming toward Luke.
In a blur of silver, Beastender was drawn.
One swing.
A radiant arc carved through the air.
CLANG—THWIP—CRACK!
All fifteen arrows split mid-flight, fragments scattering like sparks before they could ever reach his coat. The children gasped. Even the demon blinked.
Luke let his blade rest casually by his side. "Last chance."
The leafy-hat leader snarled. "All units—kill the hunter!"
The militant Silver Dwarves charged, axes raised, hammers drawn, armored boots thundering over the black soil. Dozens of trained warriors came at Luke in a coordinated strike.
Luke moved like wind incarnate.
With each step, he dodged, turned, flowed—redirecting momentum with fluid grace. A spear came for his chest—he sidestepped and flipped the dwarf into a tree. A hammer swung for his skull—he caught it with his blade's flat, twisted the wielder's arms, and dropped him with a sweep.
Elbow, heel, hilt, palm—Luke fought like a tide. Not one strike was lethal. Not one blow aimed to kill. Yet within moments, the entire Silver Dwarf battalion lay groaning in the dirt, weapons disarmed, armor dented—but breathing.
The leafy-hat leader crawled backwards, dazed. Luke stopped over him, blade lowered.
"You're lucky I don't kill," Luke muttered.
Then he looked up—at the Demon of Terror, who had said nothing, done nothing, only watched.
The silver longsword gleamed in the hunter's hand.
Despite the fight, Luke barely looked winded. The mist curled at his feet like it feared him.
He looked too young to wield such strength. Too quiet to be feared.
And yet—every creature in that clearing knew:
Luke Astoria was no mere man.
He was the monster that hunted monsters.