Mark of Cain

The night seemed to tighten its grip on the world as he melted into the shadows, his movements silent, lethal, like a predator stalking unseen prey. The storm lashed harder now, as if the heavens were eager to cleanse the streets of the sins they bore witness to. But no torrent could wash away the curse etched into his being.

Behind him, the trembling messenger leaned against the battered vehicle, exhaling shakily as if they had just escaped the maw of some ravenous beast. But as they dared to glance into the dark where he had vanished, a flicker of unease sparked in their chest. It wasn’t over. The Order demanded results, and their patience was as thin as the veil between life and death.

For him, the streets twisted like a labyrinth, yet he strode with purpose. Each step carried the weight of centuries, each breath a reminder of his torment. The Mark of Cain, branded into his very soul, throbbed faintly—a cold, pulsing reminder of the sin that began it all.

A sound shattered his thoughts—a faint metallic click, almost swallowed by the storm. Instinct ignited. He spun sharply, his senses razor-sharp, but the streets appeared empty. Another click—this time closer. The hunter's poise returned to his body as his muscles coiled tight, ready for the strike.

“Show yourself,” he hissed into the void, his voice barely rising above the rain. The storm answered with a rumble of thunder, but then, through the curtain of water, a figure emerged. This one was unlike the trembling messenger—a hulking silhouette cloaked in armor that shimmered dully in the flickering light.

“You’ve been a thorn in our side for too long,” the figure growled, voice distorted through some mechanical device. “The Order grows tired of your defiance.”

His lips curled into a savage grin, fangs gleaming in the dim light. “Tired enough to send one dog,” he mocked, “but not smart enough to bring a leash.”

The armored figure took a step forward, the ground trembling beneath their weight. Their hand twitched, and a blade of blackened steel slid from a sheath across their back. It hummed faintly, a sound that felt like death itself whispering in the night.

“You’ll find,” the hunter continued, his voice a venomous purr, “that I don’t die. But I do kill.”

And then, like a lightning strike, he moved—faster than sight, faster than thought. The storm screamed, the shadows erupted, and the war that had waited centuries to begin finally unfolded on the narrow streets of Barry.

The clash was instantaneous—a thunderous collision of raw power and primal fury. The armored figure swung the blackened blade in a deadly arc, slicing through the rain-soaked air with a hiss. But the hunter was faster. He ducked and lunged, his movements fluid, predatory, as though he had been born of the storm itself.

The blade missed by mere inches, striking the pavement with a deafening crack that sent shards of stone flying. The hunter snarled, leaping onto the wall of a nearby building with inhuman agility. From his vantage point, he surveyed his opponent. This was no ordinary pawn of the Order. The armor radiated a dark energy, pulsing like a heartbeat, as if it were alive.

The hulking figure turned its head upward, the rain streaking down its metallic facade. “You can’t run from this,” it growled, raising the blade once more. The weapon began to hum, an ominous vibration that resonated in the hunter’s bones.

“I never run,” the hunter spat back, his voice dripping with venom. He launched himself from the wall, twisting mid-air, claws outstretched. The impact was ferocious. They collided once again, the force of it shattering the glass of nearby windows.

The armored figure staggered, but its footing held. With a roar, it swung its blade upward, narrowly missing the hunter as he vaulted backward, landing gracefully on the slick pavement. Blood smeared his clawed hand, but it wasn’t his own. His grin was feral, teeth bared like a wolf savoring its prey.

“Is that all the Order’s finest has to offer?” he mocked, circling the figure like a shark tasting blood in the water.

But the figure didn’t respond. Instead, it raised its free hand, and the air around them seemed to thicken. A low, guttural chant emanated from within the armor, the words ancient, indecipherable. The shadows around them quivered and stretched unnaturally, as though something unholy was awakening.

The hunter’s grin faltered for a split second, his instincts screaming a warning. “Oh,” he murmured, his tone still laced with defiance, “this might actually get interesting.”

The ground trembled beneath their feet, cracks splintering through the wet asphalt as a dark fissure began to open. From its depths came an otherworldly glow, a sickly, crimson light that seemed to leech the color from the world around it.

The armored figure’s chant grew louder, its voice distorted and inhuman. The hunter crouched low, every muscle taut, his senses on fire. He had faced the Order’s tricks before, but this... this was different. This was ancient. Primal.

And yet, the fire within him burned brighter. The Mark on his skin flared to life, glowing faintly beneath his drenched clothing. Whatever darkness the Order sought to unleash, he would meet it head-on. He always had. He always would.

“Bring your monsters,” he growled, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of eternity. “I’ve been killing them since before your kind knew how to fear.”

The storm raged on, the heavens bearing witness to the unfolding chaos, as the hunter prepared to face whatever hell the Order had dared to summon.