On a moonless night, the small village was swallowed by oppressive darkness. Not even the stars dared pierce the black veil above. The only light came from the dim torches some villagers had mounted by their doors, their weak flames casting jittery shadows that danced eerily across the dirt paths like restless ghosts.
This was a godforsaken place—forgotten by the crown, abandoned by law, and avoided even by rumor. It was a dumping ground for the unwanted, home to the lowest rungs of society: criminals, outcasts, and those whose sins had blackened their names beyond redemption. The village's days were brief and gray, and its nights were long, cold, and choked with a dread that never quite went away.
Long ago, the lord of the land had abandoned it. No taxes were collected, no soldiers dispatched. The villagers had long since stopped praying for protection. In the absence of rule, anarchy took root, and the place became a sanctuary for fugitives and aging bandits. Some chose to retire here, knowing the law would never follow them into this abyss.
At this hour, no sane soul would willingly step outside. And yet, above the hush of night, the villagers heard the unmistakable sound of horse hooves clattering down the main path.
A lone knight rode into the village, clad head to toe in dark armor that glinted like obsidian under the wavering torchlight. His black steed moved with unnerving silence, its hooves muffled as if the beast itself belonged to the night. The knight's presence alone was enough to make even the hardiest rogue peek from behind curtains in fearful awe. He looked less like a man and more like a phantom—an executioner sent from the depths of hell.
Without hesitation, he rode through the crooked lanes until he reached a battered house on the village's edge. The roof sagged, the wood was weather-worn, and the window shutters clung loosely to their hinges. He halted, scanned the surroundings with predatory precision, then dismounted.
He held a basket in one hand—an ordinary, woven thing that looked out of place in his armored grip—and approached the door. He knocked once. A slow, deliberate thud that reverberated through the rotting timbers.
Inside, a middle-aged couple jolted awake. Stanley, the man of the house, was a grotesque sight. His belly bulged like a sack of wet flour, his bald scalp glistened with sweat, and a thick unibrow cast his face into a permanent scowl. His bulbous nose dominated his face, and his teeth—what few remained—were stained a sickly brown.
His wife, Wayla, was a stark contrast. Thin to the point of appearing malnourished, with black stringy hair and a crooked nose that gave her face a birdlike sharpness. Her bony frame barely dented the old mattress they slept on.
The knock sent a chill through both of them.
Stanley sat up, panting. The fat on his chest and belly jiggled with every breath. Wayla clutched their moth-eaten blanket, eyes wide with panic.
"Who could that be at this hour?" she whispered, her voice tight with fear. "Don't answer. Maybe they'll go away."
But the knock came again, louder this time. Each strike of the armored fist echoed through the house like a death knell. Stanley flinched, nearly falling off the bed.
Then came a voice—deep, commanding, and unmistakably familiar.
"OPEN THE DOOR, STANLEY. I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE."
Stanley froze, every drop of color draining from his face. That voice… it dragged memories from the grave. Horrible memories he had buried deep, hoping time would erase them.
"No… It can't be," he muttered, legs shaking beneath him.
Wayla clung to his arm. "Who is it, Stanley? Who's at the door?"
He didn't answer. Driven by a cocktail of fear and obligation, he stumbled to the door and yanked it open.
The knight stood tall and silent, his presence swallowing the entryway like a shadow come to life.
Stanley's knees buckled. He fell backward onto the floor with a pitiful thud, arms flailing, his eyes locked onto the visitor in horror.
The knight stepped inside without a word, his boots thudding heavily against the warped wooden floor. With one swift kick, he shoved Stanley aside and shut the door behind him.
The temperature seemed to drop. The very air in the room grew heavier.
The knight scanned the room with slow deliberation, then pulled out a creaky chair and sat. He set the basket down beside him, resting his gauntlets on the armrests.
After a moment of unbearable silence, he spoke.
"That day… when I left you pissing yourself in the dirt, I knew you'd crawl into a hole like this. A perfect nest for vermin."
With a slow, deliberate motion, he removed his helmet.
Stanley whimpered.
Wayla, speachless and shocked collapsed to the floor, trembling violently as a dark stain spread across the sheets beneath her.
The man was not a man at all.
He was a beastman—a panther of humanoid build. His jet-black fur absorbed the light, making him seem like a hole in reality. His eyes were slitted and glowing a sinister yellow, their gaze like twin daggers. His ears twitched subtly, taking in every sound.
Demi-humans were rare—perhaps even extinct in this kingdom. The human supremacists that ruled these lands saw them as animals, hunted them like sport, and sold the survivors as slaves. Only the strongest remained free, and most had vanished into legend.
This one, however, was no legend. He was real. And he was here.
Stanley's mouth flapped open, but no words came. His mind raced with terror and confusion.
Why him?
Why now?
The panther leaned forward slightly, a cruel smirk curling his lips to reveal a set of razor-sharp fangs.
"What's wrong, rat? Cat got your tongue?" he mocked, voice like gravel soaked in oil. "I told you I'd collect my debt. Did you think hiding in this dump would make me forget?"
Stanley let out a choked sob, nearly hyperventilating as tears mixed with sweat on his blotchy face.
The panther chuckled—a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through the floorboards.
"Relax," he said, leaning back. "I'm not here to kill you. You're beneath that. You're a rat, and I don't waste my claws on rats."
He let the words sink in before continuing, his tone sharpening like a blade.
"But even a rat has its uses. And you, Stanley, are going to be useful."
Stanley somehow found his voice—a squeaky, breathless whisper. "W-w-what do you want, sir?"
The beastman tapped the side of the basket with a claw. "I want you to take care of this."
Stanley blinked. "What is it?"
The panther's smile widened. "Look for yourself."
Stanley crawled forward, heart thudding in his chest. His fingers quivered as he reached for the basket and pulled away the black cloth covering it.
His breath caught in his throat.
Wayla, peering from behind the bed, saw it too—and gasped.