The name echoed in the hollowed-out chambers of his memory, a relic from a world of flickering screens and campfire stories. A wendigo. In the Algonquian lore of his past life, it was the embodiment of winter's despair, a cautionary specter born from the ultimate transgression: cannibalism. A creature of insatiable, gnawing hunger, forever cursed to stalk the frozen wastes, its humanity eroded by greed and the taste of its own kind. A gaunt, skeletal giant, a walking famine. And here it stood, not as a myth, but as a physical law of this nightmare realm.
The wendigo stood a hundred meters away, a monolith of grey flesh and malevolent intent. Its gaze, emanating from the deep, empty sockets of its deer-skull face, was a physical weight, a concentrated essence of hatred that seemed to poison the very air. The black, tar-like blood from the gash on its chest dripped onto the grey earth with soft, percussive plinks, each drop a promise of violence.
"Growl..."
The sound was less a growl and more the grinding of stones in a subterranean cavern, a vibration that resonated in Bradley's teeth. It was pure, undiluted malice given voice.
In his mind, Noir's frantic caws were a storm of panic, a feathered alarm bell screaming at him to flee, flee, flee!
Hey, calm down! Bradley thought back, his mental voice strained but firm. Do you think I don't want to run? His entire being, every survival instinct, was shrieking the same thing. But his focus, channeled through Noir's unnervingly sharp vision, remained locked on the abomination. A wendigo. Seriously? And it's this fucking huge? There is definitely something deeply, fundamentally wrong with this trial. This isn't a test; it's an execution.
His eyes—Noir's eyes—darted to the weeping wound on the creature's chest. A sliver of cold, hard logic cut through the fear. Good. It can bleed. That means it can be killed. He ran a quick, brutal calculation. My chances of winning? Maybe ten percent. Tops. He knew the folklore. In the stories, they were nigh-invulnerable, only felled by shamans and weapons of pure silver. But this sword… Susurrus Mortis… it bit deep. It's not silver, but it works. That's the only card I have to play.
He knew a head-on confrontation was suicide. The wendigo was faster, stronger, and possessed a reach that made his katana feel like a toothpick. But running was a fantasy. In this open, fog-choked wasteland, it would run him down in seconds. The fleeting thought of retreating to the cliff's base was laughable; he was utterly, hopelessly lost.
Tsk. If I only had a fraction of my old spirit power, this overgrown stag would be a stain on the ground.
The wendigo moved, shattering his thoughts. It didn't run; it erupted into motion, closing the distance between them in a blur of grey limbs. It moved on all fours, its scythe-like claws tearing gouges in the earth, a terrifying hybrid of speed and raw power.
Bradley's body coiled, every muscle tensing. His grip on the katana's hilt was vice-like, his knuckles bone-white. He settled into a low, grounded stance, his weight centered, ready to meet the onslaught.
The wendigo's right arm swung in a horizontal arc, the claws cutting through the fog with a sinister hiss, aiming to cleave him in two at the torso.
Bradley didn't try to match its strength. He couldn't. At the last possible moment, he pivoted on his back foot, twisting his body aside while bringing the dark blade up in a desperate, diagonal parry.
CLANG!
The impact was monumental. A shower of white sparks, alien and brief, illuminated the fog as claw met enchanted metal. The force that traveled down the blade and into Bradley's body was like being struck by a speeding train. He was hurled backward, his boots skidding through the dirt for a dozen meters before he could arrest his momentum. His arms screamed in protest, the bones feeling like they had been rattled in their sockets.
This hurts… it's too strong.
The creature gave him no quarter. It pounced again, a grey hurricane of death, this time swinging both clawed arms in a complex, interweaving pattern, a blizzard of strikes aimed at his head, chest, and legs simultaneously.
Bradley gritted his teeth, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth from the impact. Instead of retreating, he did the unthinkable. He ran forward.
As the wendigo descended upon him, he dropped into a slide, his body almost parallel to the ground. He shot forward, directly between the beast's powerful limbs, the wind of its passing whipping at his clothes. As he passed beneath its torso, he thrust Susurrus Mortis upward, the black blade slicing a long, deep line into the creature's chest and abdomen.
The wendigo, sensing the grievous wound, let out a shriek of fury and pain, instinctively leaping backward and away from him.
Bradley scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving. "Tsk. Too shallow," he spat, disappointment sharp in his voice. He had aimed to spill its entrails onto the grey earth, but the beast's reflexes were preternatural.
The wendigo began to circle him now, its movements more deliberate, its head cocked. The mindless hunger in its gaze was now tempered by a spark of feral intelligence. It had assumed its prey was weak, but this small, blind thing fought with the cunning and resilience of a cornered wolf. And its scent… it reeked of the deep, ancient dark, a smell that spoke of the creatures of the dark.
Being cautious now, huh? Bradley's inner voice was a grim smirk. It thinks I'm stronger than I look. The realization was a tiny, cold flame in the darkness. That was a fluke, a desperate gamble. I won't get that clean a shot again. But if it hesitates, if it fears the bite of my blade even for a second, that gives me a chance. A slim, bloody chance.
But the reality was still a chasm of impossibility.
The wendigo surged forward again, but its approach had evolved. It no longer charged in a straight line. It moved in a series of blinding, zig-zag bursts, its form flickering in and out of the thick fog, a phantom of devastating speed. Through Noir's eyes, Bradley could just track the blur of grey, but it was pushing the limits of even the crow's enhanced perception. He knew with chilling certainty that with his own human eyes, he would already be dead.
I guess your eyes are really something special, Noir, he thought, a moment of gratitude amidst the storm. He swung the katana, not at where the beast was, but where it would be.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The sounds of collision were a rapid, discordant symphony of violence. Each block sent a fresh jolt of agony through Bradley's arms. He felt the muscle fibers tearing, the tendons straining to their breaking point. It was a miracle his bones hadn't shattered. He was a dormant, a spiritual cripple, yet he was holding his own against a creature of legend.
He didn't understand the reason. It was his physique, subtly altered and enhanced the moment he was branded a 'darkness creature' upon entering this trial. His body, now inherently attuned to the void, granted him a resilience and reaction speed that defied his rank. It was a passive boon, a birthright of the crow people he knew nothing about.
But it wouldn't last.
The wendigo feinted high, its claws sweeping toward Bradley's head in a blow that promised decapitation. Death was a cold wind on his neck. Instinct screamed, and Bradley's arms reacted, lifting the katana to intercept the blow aimed at his skull.
It was a trap.
The moment his guard went high, the wendigo's true attack manifested. With impossible fluidity, the sweeping claw changed trajectory, dropping down and inward, aimed directly at his now-unguarded chest.
A feint?! The realization was a bolt of lightning, arriving a fraction of a second too late.
He tried to twist away, to contort his body out of the path of the scything claws, but the wendigo's speed was absolute.
SPLURT!
The sound was sickeningly wet. Four lines of fire erupted across his chest as the claws tore through fabric, skin, and muscle with contemptuous ease. The impact lifted him off his feet and sent him flying backward like a discarded ragdoll.
He hit the ground hard, the air driven from his lungs in a pained grunt. He tumbled, a broken puppet, before finally coming to a stop in a heap. Agony, white-hot and all-consuming, bloomed from his chest.
Shit! His body convulsed, and he vomited a stream of crimson onto the grey dirt, the metallic taste filling his mouth.
"Caw! Caw!" Noir's mental cries were shrill with terror, the bond between them thrumming with the crow's panic.
Bradley's trembling hand went to his chest. His fingers came away slick and warm, drenched in his own vital fluid. Looking down through Noir's vision, he saw the devastation: four parallel gashes, deep and ugly, branding his flesh from collarbone to ribs. The pain was a living thing, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness.
"Fucking hell," he cursed, the words a ragged whisper as he glared at his attacker.
The wendigo slowly brought its blood-soaked claws to the lipless maw of its deer-skull face. A long, grey, serpentine tongue slithered out, lapping at the crimson stain with grotesque relish.
"Huagh! Huagh!"
The sound that escaped it was a dry, rattling exhalation, a horrific mockery of laughter that echoed through the dead air.
"Is it… laughing?" Bradley's frown deepened, his rage crystallizing into something cold and sharp, overriding the searing pain. This thing, this embodiment of gluttony and despair, was mocking him.
"You fucking treacherous bastard."