The moment Ashren tore the cloth away, I forgot how to breathe.
It was monstrous. Not just in form. In presence.
Tall. Far too tall. Its limbs were thin and long, built to reach, to grab, to tear. Arms and legs that moved in sharp, jerky motions, like something not meant to walk upright. The joints twitched with every small movement, like it was never meant to stop moving at all. Its skin stretched tight over bone, dry and cracked like old wood left in the sun too long. Every rib stuck out. Its whole body looked starved, but not weak. Like hunger had replaced muscle.
Like that was enough.
It reeked of rot. The stench clung to it, thick and oily, clinging to the air with every twitch of its claws.
Then there was the mouth.
Torn wide. Mismatched teeth jutted at angles like broken stones jammed into a split jaw. Crusted blood ringed its lips, some black, some red, all old.
But none of that held me like its eyes.
Two black pits. No anger. No thought. Just hunger. Endless and empty.
I stared. And it stared back.
Something primal in me wanted to run. Another part, deeper, darker, leaned forward.
A clap snapped the air.
We flinched.
Ashren stood beside the cage, one hand still raised from the clap.
"This creature is a Wendigo" he said. "One of many things that may one day try to kill you."
He paced slowly around it, never breaking eye contact with the beast.
"Born from man. Twisted by hunger."
"When humans eat their own again and again, something in them breaks. Their soul decays. Their spiritual energy warps. Corruption spreads—first through the spirit, then the flesh."
"Until all that's left is instinct."
"And hunger."
He nodded at the claws.
"Fast. Strong. Agile. It tracks by scent, blood, and sound. The toxin on its claws rots flesh slowly. It won't kill you outright—but it will make sure you don't fight again."
"And if it's wounded?"
"It heals by feeding—on human flesh."
The Wendigo moved. A shoulder twitched with a sharp jolt, followed by the sickening crack of shifting bone. Its entire frame jerked forward in a single, violent motion. Then it leaned in, pressing one clawed hand against the cage bars with force that made the bars tremble.
The iron groaned.
We all took a step back.
Just slightly.
Except Kisaya—she held her ground, eyes locked on the creature.
Ashren didn't move either.
"At night, it becomes worse. Its senses sharpen. Cold strengthens it."
"But it has limits. Fire disrupts its healing. Its hunger makes it reckless. You can bait it. You can trap it. Go for the legs, the spine—break its movement, and you break its threat. Don't give it open ground. Use walls. Corners. Anything to cut off its reach."
He stopped, turning to face us.
"Creatures like this are usually killed on sight. But not this one. We need it alive—for now. You will gain something from it: real experience."
He looked around, voice unwavering.
"From this moment on, any of you may request to face it."
Murmurs spread.
Someone cursed under their breath. I recognized the voice—Tarin.
Ashren didn't react. Instead, he raised a hand.
"I won't stop you. But I won't lie to you either. This is a low-tier threat. Low."
He let the word hang.
"For an experienced chosen—one who's deepened their pact—it's barely a challenge."
"But for you?"
"It's dangerous."
"Most who fight it don't die on the spot. They die later—from wounds, from infection, from rot."
That silenced us.
Then he smiled.
"Don't worry. If you're injured, you'll be healed without issue. A chosen with healing blessings will be waiting. You'll be restored—after you face it."
A breath of relief—thin, uncertain.
But Ashren wasn't finished.
"Kill it" he said, "and you'll be rewarded."
"A divine artifact. Appropriate for your stage of growth. Earned. Not given."
The group stirred.
Divine Artifacts.
I had read about them.
I knew of them.
Tools shaped by divine power—wielded only by the chosen, and only by those strong enough to be trusted.
I had never seen one with my own eyes.
Or at least... I didn't think I had.
To the unchosen, they appeared ordinary—silent, dormant, indistinguishable from relics or tools.
Forged by divine will.
Awakened through spiritual energy.
Weapons. Trinkets. Symbols.
Power made real.
And I couldn't use them.
Still, I looked at the Wendigo.
Looked long. Looked deep.
It wasn't just a beast.
It was a challenge.
An invitation.
If I brought it down—
no rune, no god, no tricks—
just me, my hands, my will—
Wouldn't that make me equal to them?
Wouldn't that prove it?
I took a step forward.