The rain tasted like rust, and the alley reeked of old blood and spoiled meat. At sixteen, Keegan learned early that the city did not care whether you lived or died—it only cared whether you bled quietly. He crouched behind a collapsed market stall, counting breaths while a malformed Hemarch prowled the street beyond. People called them devils out of habit, because the word was easier than understanding what they really were. This one dragged iron fused to its forearms, metal screeching against stone with every step. Keegan tightened his grip on a chipped spearhead lashed to a pipe and waited for it to pass. Hunger gnawed harder than fear, but fear kept him alive.
His parents had died when he was nine, torn apart during a panic surge that birthed something too large for the city wardens to contain. The orphanage lasted four years before funding dried up and the caretakers sold the strong kids to labor crews. Keegan was neither strong nor useful, so they dumped him into the street with a sack of moldy bread and a warning not to come back. Since then, survival meant scraps, stolen meals, and sleeping where screams were common enough to drown out his own nightmares. Every night, Hemarch sirens wailed somewhere, and every morning the gutters ran darker. Death was background noise, like rain or traffic. You stopped noticing it unless it was yours.
Becoming a hunter was not a choice so much as an inevitability. Corpses paid better than begging, and even low-tier bounties bought food that wasn't rotting. Keegan registered with the Guild under a false birthday, hands shaking as the clerk stamped his card without looking at his face. No Pact, no backing, no sponsor—just another F-rank disposable body. The Guild assigned him nuisance work: tracking weakened Hemarchs, cleaning up survivors, confirming kills made by someone else. Most F-ranks didn't last a year. Keegan planned to last longer.
The Hemarch stepped into the open, and Keegan saw its Fear Anchor clearly now. Shackles fused into its ribs, links pulsing like veins, its skull shaped around a rusted lock where a mouth should be. Execution fear, old and stubborn, still potent even after centuries. It smelled Keegan before it saw him, head jerking sharply as blood-slick hooves scraped the ground. He moved first, sprinting low, spear aimed for the joint where metal met flesh. The strike landed, but the impact rattled his arms and barely slowed it. Pain flared as a chain whipped across his shoulder, tearing skin and sending him rolling.
He hit the ground hard and tasted copper, but he didn't scream. Screaming fed them, and everyone knew that. The Hemarch lunged, lock-jaws snapping inches from his head as he stabbed again and again. One blow shattered the spearhead, another lodged uselessly in iron. Keegan grabbed a fallen brick and slammed it into the exposed eye-node, feeling something soft burst beneath his grip. The Hemarch shrieked, a sound like grinding metal, and flailed blindly. Blood sprayed the wall in a dark arc as Keegan scrambled back to his feet.
The fight ended the way most F-rank fights did—ugly and desperate. Keegan shoved the broken spear into the creature's throat cavity and twisted until the shrieking stopped. The body collapsed, iron limbs clanging uselessly as the Fear Anchor lost cohesion. He stood there for a long moment, chest heaving, rain washing blood off his hands but not off his memory. Another kill, another body to report, another night earned. His shoulder throbbed, and he knew infection would come if he didn't find antiseptic soon. Pain was tomorrow's problem.
He dragged the corpse into the open so the Guild scanners could find it. Around him, doors stayed shut and windows stayed dark, the city pretending nothing had happened. That was the unspoken contract—hunters died so civilians didn't have to look. Keegan wiped his hands on his pants and checked the bounty mark burned into the Hemarch's remains. Low yield, barely enough for a meal and a place to sleep. Still, it was better than starving.
The Guild terminal flickered to life when he scanned in, projecting his status in cold white text. Name: Keegan (Unverified). Rank: F. Pact Status: None. Confirmed Kills: 17. Injuries Logged: 42. Survival Rating: Marginal. He stared at the numbers, jaw tight, knowing they defined his worth more than his face ever would. No Pact meant no borrowed power, no regeneration, no safety net. It also meant no Hemarch could crawl inside his head and take the wheel.
Other hunters passed him on the way out, higher ranks with visible mutations and borrowed strength. Some had claws where hands should be, others eyes that glowed with stolen perception. They looked at Keegan the way you looked at a stray animal—briefly, without interest. A few laughed, betting quietly on how long he'd last. Keegan didn't care. Envy was a luxury for people who could afford to hesitate.
Night fell heavier as he limped toward the river, clutching his side. He bought a skewer of questionable meat with half his pay and ate it cold, not trusting his hands to stop shaking long enough for anything else. Around him, sirens wailed again, closer this time. Fear rippled through the streets, sharp and electric, the kind that birthed stronger things. Keegan felt it like pressure behind his eyes.
Somewhere deep beneath the city, something old and patient stirred. Keegan didn't know it yet, but the world was shifting toward him, not away. His F-rank card meant nothing to forces that didn't recognize the Guild. As he lay down under a bridge with blood still crusted on his skin, he wondered how many more nights he had left. The answer, waiting five centuries to matter, was already moving.