The transition from the Wailing Grove to the Red Lands was like stepping into a furnace. The ground wasn't bone-dust anymore; it was a crust of iron-rich clay, perpetually damp with a liquid that smelled of copper and old wars.
[LOCATION: THE RED LANDS (WAR-TIER ZONE)]
[HAZARD: BLOOD-FRENZY AURA — AGGRESSION +40%, SANITY -10%]
Kane's Ashen Scales shivered. The air here was thick with the essence of Rank-2 and Rank-3 beings. In the distance, massive pillars of smoke rose from the Blood-Pools—natural springs of raw mana that the local tribes fought to control.
A sound like a wet drumbeat echoed over the ridge.
[THREAT DETECTED: BLOOD-HOUND WAR-PARTY (RANK 2 - MIDDLE STAGE) x12]
They crested the hill—beasts that looked like flayed hyenas standing six feet tall, draped in crude iron scraps and wielding cleavers made of jagged flint.
"Fresh soul-meat!" the lead Blood-Hound barked, its voice a guttural snarl. "The King wants his tribute! Strip his scales!"
Kane didn't reach for his axes. He let his breath out in a long, grey plume of steam. His Primal Instinct (25%) was humming, syncing with the violent rhythm of the land.
"I'm not meat," Kane said, his voice dropping into a register that made the iron-clay vibrate. "I'm the Butcher."
He moved.
[SKILL ACTIVATED: VOID-STEP]
Kane disappeared in a puff of grey ash. A millisecond later, he appeared in the center of the war-party. The Twin Fangs flashed in a horizontal cyclone of obsidian light.
SHLICK.
Three Blood-Hounds were decapitated before they could raise their cleavers. Their essences didn't just float to Kane; they were ripped toward his spine by the vacuum of his Rank-2 hunger.
[CORE ABSORBED: 3x RANK 2 ESSENCE]
[VITALITY RESTORED: 6%]
"Kill him! Kill the Glitch!" the leader screamed, swinging a massive flint-mace.
Kane caught the mace with his bare, scaled left hand. The flint shattered against his obsidian palm. He drove the right Twin Fang upward, through the leader's jaw and into its brain-case.
[CRITICAL HIT: SOUL-SIPHON ACTIVE]
The remaining hounds hesitated. They had spent their lives in a world where "Prey" ran away. This thing in front of them—this silver-eyed shadow—wasn't running. It was harvesting.
"Next," Kane whispered, the silver runes on his axes glowing a lethal, brilliant violet.
The Massacre of the Ridge
Ten minutes later, the ridge was silent. Twelve carcasses lay dissolving into red mist. Kane stood in the center, his chest heaving, his Ashen Scales now stained a dark, permanent crimson.
[HARVEST COMPLETE: 12/12 RANK 2 CORES]
[RANK 2 (EARLY STAGE) \rightarrow RANK 2 (MIDDLE STAGE)]
[STATS UPDATED]
Strength: 70 (+20)
Agility: 85 (+20)
Primal Instinct: 32% (FEARLESS)
New Attribute: Blood-Lust (Passive) — Each consecutive kill increases damage by 2% for 60 seconds.
Kane looked at his hands. The obsidian scales had moved up his neck, tracing his jawline like a mask. He could feel his humanity slipping, replaced by the cold, efficient logic of the God-Feeder.
"Sarge...?"
A faint, crackling voice came through his ear-piece—the only piece of Ranger tech still functioning, powered by a tiny shard of mana he'd jammed into the battery port.
"Sully?" Kane croaked.
"Kane! We're at the Iron-Keep... east of the Blood-Pools... Vance is down... they're using him for the Sacrifice... Kane, help us!"
The transmission cut out in a burst of static.
Kane's eyes flared. The Blood-Lust attribute didn't just increase his damage; it set his soul on fire. He looked toward the East, where a massive fortress of jagged iron pierced the red sky.
"Hold on, Vance," Kane growled, his Twin Fangs locking into his belt with a metallic snick. "I'm coming. And I'm bringing the hunger with me."