Predator's First Hunt
I swallow. It wasn't water. The crushing weight that had pinned down my entire body moments ago vanishes, replaced by a far thinner, lighter flow brushing between my scales. It feels like air, but not quite. My wet body slides long across the floor. My scales scrape the concrete. It's rough and hard, but it doesn't hurt. If anything, I feel it too well. Where the force applies, where it slips, how flat I need to press to eliminate resistance. Sensations I'd never had as a human. And yet now, they feel more natural.
I stop. My body reacts before my mind. I hold my breath. No—suppress my very existence. I tamp down even the inner flow. In that instant, the outside rushes in first. Air. Heat. Humidity. Wind seeping through cracks. Somewhere above is open, and faint currents swirl through the collapsed structures. Not underwater. Not the surface. The ambiguous layer in between. A space trapped above the sewer, below the surface, wedged between ruined frameworks.
I scan the surroundings. Concrete, cracks, exposed rebar. Traces of rust. It's old. But not completely collapsed. Not deliberate demolition. An abandoned structure.
In one corner of my vision, symbols and numbers are etched on a shattered metal plate. 32.
I freeze. Another world. The script shouldn't match. Yet the meaning floods in unbidden. Not translated—just understood. Even back in my daoist days, I'd had moments like this. Ancient texts suddenly unraveling into meaning. I never knew why then, and I don't now. All I register is that the sensation carries over into this body.
Zone marking. That's all I note before moving on. Something else hit first. Heat. Flow. Movement.
I turn my gaze. Something crawls out from the darkness. A rat. Or something rat-like. Wolf-sized, patches of fur sloughed off exposing raw flesh, eyes gleaming unnaturally. Its gait is crooked. The way its joints mesh is all wrong.
That instant, my core twitches. I see the energy lingering inside it. Faint, but unmistakable. A dirty echo of the same kind as mine. The swallowed Yodan writhes, tugging toward it. Not hunger. An irresistible pull.
It spots me too. Muscles contract first. Visions overlap faintly. Heat shifts, air parts, its trajectory forward captured a split-second before launch. Not unfolding Dongshu like in my daoist days. No talismans, no incantations. But the senses fill the gap. I press the space. Imperfect. Still enough.
The thing hesitates an instant. Closer to sensing the snag than its foot. That's all I need. My body flows first. Not head-on. Low, twisting, sliding. A thin line scores first, the result follows.
Krunch.
My jaws sever its neck. Black fluids burst, soaking my scales. A foul stench. But not revolting. The faint heat inside spreads across my tongue tip. More than flesh and blood sliding down, the tangled energy scrapes my throat first. Mashed meat slips smoothly in my mouth. Neutral warmth—not hot, not cold—seeps inward. Chewing and absorption happen near-simultaneously.
I don't stop. Chew. Crush. Swallow. I scrape up every trace of the faint energy left in its body. In that moment, something inside opens. Not mere emptiness. A predatory impulse. Not filling a void. Even with something inside, I crave more. A filthy, burning greed to shove everything before me inward.
Breath hisses short. I have to stop. The thought is clear. But my body doesn't hesitate. It scrapes in the last scraps of meat and blood. Not reluctance to waste. Insufficient. I need more. This makes survival easier. The conclusion settles with unnatural speed.
A flicker of doubt. This isn't human instinct. No disgust, no aversion. Too natural. So what? That's all that matters now. It's absorbing. I survive first. The rest later.
Finished, I lower and slide into the darkness. I need distance until the residual scent fades from my scales and this spot empties.
Static hiss. Noise crackles. A wrecked drone is jammed against the wall. Its casing half-melted and warped—not metal anymore, something else. Internal circuits flicker red intermittently. The death throes of a machine not fully dead.
Burnt metal and lingering fluorescent gas cling thickly to the air. Above it, space warps. Slowly. An invisible membrane folds inward once, then unfolds. Air compresses. Not barometric—space itself buckles a layer.
Pop.
A person steps from the rift. Black robe. Long dangling sleeves. Fabric drags slowly across the floor. Worn but not new, textured by time. The moment his foot touches, air sinks. The damp fluorescent haze presses downward first. Even the drone's faint vibrations hush as if suppressed.
A middle-aged man. Slow steps. No rush. As if there's no need. His eyes glow red.
His gaze halts before the drone. He raises a hand; it floats up without resistance. Fingers twitch. The casing splits—like thin shell, not metal. Static. Internals expose.
His brow furrows faintly. Once. That's it. Air twists. Fluorescent gas shoves aside—not dispersing, pressed laterally. The flow itself orders.
His eyes linger inside the drone, then drop to the floor. Concrete cracks, exposed rebar, splatter marks. One rebar floats up. Rotates slowly. Surface scratches and warps peel layer by layer under his gaze.
Brief silence. Hand lowers. Rebar drops. Interest already lost.
That instant, space tears again. Rougher this time. Forced open. Light flashes, rift wobbles unstable. A person bursts out.
Silver hair. Short and light. It glints white under light, faint blue energy flowing beneath. Coat with metal accents—near-future design overlaid with magical flows. Discordant, yet oddly stable.
The woman's eyes sweep the surroundings sharply.
"Came alone after all."
Muttered like to herself. The man doesn't reply. She scans once around. Raises a hand, rolls it as if probing air flows, then pauses. Eyes narrow.
"Knew you'd move without reporting."
"Quiet."
Low voice, laced with annoyance. Her lip quirks faintly upward.
"I know you prefer solo. Still, this one's too good to pass up."
The man stays silent. She steps closer to the drone. Nudges a casing shard aside with her toe, peers, tilts her head.
"Not environmental damage."
"Saw it."
"And you're letting it slide?"
Brief silence.
"No value."
She turns to him now. Questioning eyes. His gaze still downward.
"Not the trace we seek."
Short, final. Her expression shifts faintly—understanding. Eyes drop again. Half-submerged sewer, dank humidity, rot stench, toxic gas echoes. All sinks below.
"Slipped downward."
Face wrinkles more. Fingertip sweeps air slowly.
"Mana lingers."
Fingertip pauses midair. Thin and shallow, but not severed flow. Not the muddy residue stuck to the floor—a line still linked somewhere.
The man looks at her for the first time.
"What."
"Not dead. Still connected."
Red eyes narrow faintly.
"...Faint."
"But not cut."
Short silence. Her voice lowers slightly.
"Not this incident's trace, right?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Silence once. Air presses a fraction more.
"Upper echelons don't know."
"..."
"No reason they should."
Her eyes widen slightly. Not full grasp, but she gets the sense. No more questions. Instead, staring down:
"It escaped."
No reply. She exhales shortly.
"One more slip and it's done."
"Already finished."
Air drops low and heavy. She weighs the words briefly, then averts her gaze. Toes already point sewer-ward.
"Smell's fucking vile."
Grumbling aside, her eyes sharpen. The man stands unmoving. Gaze drifts down slowly, loses interest quickly.
"Pointless."