Forsaken Hunter-Chapter 20: The Breeding Grounds

Read lat𝙚st chapters at fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓ Only.

The air was thick—a rancid stew of bleach and rot. A single bulb flickered overhead, its weak light clawing at the shadows of the lab. Cold steel gleamed under the glow, reflecting the trembling form of a woman, twenty winters old, strapped to a table. Her wrists bled where iron cuffs gnawed her skin. Her chest heaved, each breath a jagged knife in her lungs.

She woke to pain. A skull-splitting ache, like thorns twisting inside her brain. Her eyes fluttered open—then snapped shut as a blinding beam stabbed down from above. Shapes loomed through the haze: white coats, masked faces, eyes like dead stars.

Two hovered close, their hands gloved in latex. Others watched from the edges, silent as vultures.

"She's awake,"

one muttered, his voice flat, devoid of warmth, a gravestone etched with indifference.

"Stop it?"

another asked, his head tilting toward the observation window—a dark rectangle high above, where a shadowy figure stood motionless, a god overlooking his altar.

The intercom crackled, spitting a voice heavy with authority, sharp as a blade.

"No. Begin."

Her heart lurched, a wild thing caged in her ribs. She yanked at the chains—metal screamed against metal, a desperate hymn echoing in the sterile void.

"Where am I?" she rasped, her throat raw, her voice trembling with the terror of a child lost in the dark. "Who are you people?

LET ME GO!"

The words broke, splintering into a sob that clawed its way out of her chest.

A scientist stepped closer, his mask tilting as he studied her. In his hand, a syringe gleamed, filled with a dark, viscous liquid that swirled like liquid night.

"Her womb's perfect," he said, his tone clinical, detached.

"Time for the Orc Gene."

Her breath froze, a shard of ice lodged in her lungs.

"W-what... what gene?" Her voice rose, shrill with panic.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME?!"

She thrashed, her body a storm against the restraints. The chains rattled like the bones of some ancient beast, unyielding, cruel. A gloved hand flashed out—crack—striking her cheek with a force that snapped her head aside.

Pain bloomed, hot and sharp, a red flower unfurling across her face. Tears burned her eyes, spilling over, tracing paths down her dirt-streaked skin. She tasted salt and blood, her lip split where the blow had landed.

"Hold still," the scientist hissed, his voice a serpent's whisper.

The needle came next. It plunged into her belly, a cold steel fang piercing her flesh. Ice flooded her veins, then fire—a searing heat that spread like wildfire, consuming her from the inside. Her back arched, her spine bowing as if it might snap. A scream tore free—

"AAAAHHHH!"—

raw and primal, bouncing off the walls, a sound no human throat should make. Her body wasn't hers anymore. Something foreign writhed within, clawing at her core, sinking roots into her soul. She felt it—alive, hungry, wrong.

Monitors shrieked, their beeps a frantic chorus. "Implantation complete,

Chief," a voice called, steady despite the chaos.

The shadow above shifted, a silhouette of judgment.

"Good," the intercom growled.

"The Dark Potion—now."

Her eyes widened, pupils shrinking to pinpricks as terror clawed up her spine.

"No..." she whimpered, her voice a fragile thread.

"Please... my son... he's alone... LET ME OUT!" She pictured him—his small hands, his wide eyes, waiting for her in their tiny home. The thought was a knife, twisting deeper.

A laugh slithered from beneath one of the masks, low and cruel. The scientist leaned close, his breath hot against her ear.

"That kid? We gutted him already. Left him in the dirt."

The world shattered. Her scream turned feral—

"NO! YOU'RE LYING! WHY?!"—a howl of grief and rage that shook her frail frame. Her son—her light, her reason—was gone?

She saw him in her mind, his body broken, his laughter silenced. The pain was a tidal wave, drowning her, pulling her under. She thrashed again, weaker now, her strength bleeding out with her tears.

They ignored her. A vial tipped over her stomach, and black liquid poured forth, thick and warm, pooling on her skin like spilled ink. It sank in, seeping through her flesh, a sickening heat spreading inside.

Her belly swelled, stretching tight, unnatural, grotesque. She gasped, choking on horror, her hands clawing at the air.

"No... no... NO—!" The thing inside grew, feeding on her, a parasite devouring her life. Her ribs creaked, her skin split at the edges, blood trickling down her sides. She felt it—her body hollowing out, her essence stolen by the monster they'd planted.

Her nails dug into her palms, drawing blood, but it was nothing compared to the hunger eating her alive. She screamed until her throat burned, until her voice was a rasp, a ghost of itself. The monitors wailed, a death knell ringing in her ears.

"Chief, it's failing," a scientist said, his voice tight, edged with unease.

"The spawn's mindless. No brain activity—just a husk."

The intercom crackled, cold and final.

"Dispose of her. Find a new vessel. The Great Plan demands perfection."

The cuffs clicked open with a hollow sound. She crumpled, a broken doll, her body too weak to fight. Two guards seized her arms, their grips bruising, and dragged her across the floor.

Her legs trailed behind, lifeless, scraping the tiles. Her head lolled, tears streaking her face, mixing with the blood and sweat.

A steel hatch loomed ahead—the Underground Disposal Chamber. It yawned wide, a maw of darkness, and they hurled her in. She hit the ground with a wet thud, the impact jarring her bones, and the hatch slammed shut, sealing her in shadow.

The Wolf in the Pit

The pit was a grave of stone and rot. Damp walls glistened with slime, reflecting the faint glow of the boy's golden eyes. He crouched in the filth,

sixteen summers young, his silver hair matted with dirt and dried blood. His body was lean, wiry, marked with scars—claws and teeth etched into his skin by years of torment. Hunger gnawed at his gut, a relentless beast, but his spirit burned hotter, a fire stoked by rage.

The air was heavy, thick with the stench of death—rotting flesh, spilled blood, the ghosts of those who'd come before. He'd stopped counting the bodies long ago.

His claws flexed, trembling, as footsteps echoed above. The hatch groaned open, a sliver of light cutting through the dark.

"Eat, puppy," a scientist sneered, his voice dripping with mockery.

The woman's body fell, landing at his feet with a sickening crunch. Her lifeless gaze locked on his, wide and empty, her belly torn open, a hollow shell where life had been stolen.

Her skin was pale, almost translucent, streaked with blood and the black residue of their poison. His breath hitched, a pang of sorrow piercing his chest. She was like him—another victim, another soul crushed beneath their boots.

His claws trembled, digging into the dirt.

"I'll kill them," he whispered, his voice a blade honed by years of pain.

"Every. Last. One."

The words were a vow, carved into his bones, a promise to the dead and the dying. Tears welled in his eyes, carving trails through the grime on his face, but he blinked them away. Weakness had no place here.

He sank his teeth into her flesh—cold, bitter, the taste of despair.

"Sorry..." he choked out, his voice breaking as he bit again.

Each swallow was a wound, a scar on his soul, but it fueled him. The rage grew, a storm brewing in his chest, lightning crackling in his veins. He ate because he had to—because survival was the first step to vengeance.

The hatch slammed shut, plunging him back into darkness. His golden eyes glowed, twin beacons in the void, unyielding, unbroken.

Noak Guild: The Calm Before

The guild hall was a crypt of silence, its wooden beams creaking under the weight of stillness. Beno slouched in a chair, boots kicked up on the table, his axe resting against his thigh, its blade catching the dim light. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and he blew it away with a huff.

"This is boring," he groaned, his voice bouncing off the walls, a restless drumbeat in the quiet.

Luna sat across, her slender frame hunched over a leather-bound tome, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders like moonlight.

"No quests today," she said, her tone even, her eyes never leaving the page.

"That's not it!"

Beno snapped, slamming his fist on the table.

"Our first gig should've been a dungeon—blood, guts, glory! Not this garbage."

He gestured at the empty hall, his frustration a living thing.

Luna's gaze flicked to him, sharp as a dagger.

"We're new. They won't toss us to the wolves yet."

"I am a wolf," Beno grinned, flexing his arms, muscles rippling under his tunic.

Charles, hunched over a stack of papers at the far end, growled low in his throat.

"Shut up, both of you." His quill scratched furiously, ink staining his fingers, his brow furrowed in irritation.

Beno smirked, leaning forward.

"Angry little scribe, huh?"

Charles shot to his feet, fists balled, his red hair blazing like fire in the lantern light.

"Say that again, you ape!"

"Fight me, hothead!"

Before fists could fly, Luna's book slammed down—thwack—and she glared, her green eyes flashing.

"Quiet. I'm reading."

They froze, rubbing their heads where her glare seemed to strike.

"Fine... sorry," Beno muttered, slumping back.

He leaned back, then perked up, a spark igniting in his dark eyes.

The Blind Woman's Cry

The guild doors creaked open, a slow, mournful sound. A frail figure shuffled in—an old woman, her eyes milky and blind, her hands clutching a cane that tapped the floor like a heartbeat. Her gray hair hung in thin strands, her face etched with lines of sorrow. A hunter shoved past, knocking her aside with a rough shoulder. "Lost, hag?" he sneered, his voice a blade.

She smiled, unsteady but unbroken. "Are you a hunter?"

"Yeah. What's it to you?"

"My granddaughter... she's gone. Help me."

He laughed, a harsh bark. "Not my mess."

Undeterred, she moved on, her cane guiding her from table to table.

"Please... someone..." Her voice trembled, a fragile plea carried on the wind.

No one cared. Laughter and clinking mugs drowned her out.

Beno's fists clenched, knuckles whitening. He stood, boots thudding as he crossed the room, his shadow stretching long and dark.

"Hey, old lady," he called, his voice softer than usual.

"Tell us everything. We'll find her."

Her blind eyes shimmered with hope, tears welling at the edges.

"Thank you... oh, thank you..." Her hands shook as she gripped her cane, gratitude spilling from her like water from a cracked cup.

Charles leaned in, his quill poised. "What happened?"

Her voice quavered, each word heavy with pain.

"Midnight. I was sick—fever burning me up, my bones aching. She saw me suffering, my little star. Said she'd get medicine. I begged her to stay, but she left, her footsteps fading into the night. She never came back. I waited—hours, maybe days—then the rain fell, cold and cruel. I went outside, felt tire marks in the mud with my hands."

Beno blinked, brow furrowing. "How'd you see tire marks?"

Luna smacked him, a quick slap to the back of his head. "She felt them, idiot."

"Oh. Right."

Charles scribbled fast, his quill a blur.

"We'll take it. Go home, ma'am. We've got this."

She bowed, tears falling to the floor.

"Bless you, children. Bless you."

As she shuffled out, Beno cracked his knuckles, a storm brewing in his chest.

"Someone's gonna pay," he growled, his voice low, a promise of violence.

The Wolf's Oath

Back in the pit, the boy—Fenris—gnawed through sinew, blood staining his lips, dripping down his chin.

"Sorry..." he whispered, his voice breaking, a prayer to the woman's silent corpse. Her empty eyes stared up, accusing yet forgiving, a mirror to his own torment. The metallic tang of her blood filled his mouth, a bitter reminder of what he'd become.

His claws scraped the stone, carving shallow grooves.

"I'll make them scream,"

he vowed, his golden eyes burning through the dark.

"I swear it." The words were a chant, a ritual, binding him to his fate.

The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, but his rage burned brighter—a wildfire, a beacon, a god of wrath awakening in his soul. He ate, he endured, and he waited. A storm was coming—one they'd never survive.