Forsaken Hunter-Chapter 16: The Night Beno Was Forsaken

It was autumn. The nights had grown longer, stretching into an endless abyss, and the winds sharper, slicing through the air like invisible blades. The world outside my window was a tapestry of rustling leaves and creeping shadows, the kind that made you question every sound. I still remember it—the faint groan of my window creaking open, a sound that clawed at the silence, followed by a ragged breath that sent a shiver racing down my spine.

I turned over in bed and froze.

Beno was standing there.

His silhouette loomed in the dim moonlight, a broken figure carved from darkness. His clothes hung in tatters, streaked with dirt and grime, clinging to his frail frame like a shroud. His cheeks were sunken, hollowed out by sleepless nights, and his hands trembled violently, as if the weight of his own existence was too much to bear. But what struck me deepest—more than the labored rasp of his breathing, more than the bruises blooming like dark flowers along his arms—was his eyes.

They were hollow. Completely void of life. Two empty pits staring out from a face that should have held warmth, now drained of all humanity, as if something had reached inside and torn his soul away.

"Luna..." His voice was barely a whisper, raw and broken, scraping against the stillness like a plea from the grave.

I bolted upright, my heart slamming against my ribs.

"Beno? What the hell—?"

"They don't love me," he interrupted. His lips quivered, his body swaying as if he might collapse at any moment.

"My family... they hate me. They're going to sell me."

My blood ran cold. The words sank into me like ice, freezing my thoughts, my breath. The room seemed to shrink, the shadows stretching toward him as if drawn to his despair.

"What?" I managed, my voice a fragile thread.

"A man in a coat," Beno whispered. He wrapped his arms around himself, his nails digging into his skin, leaving red welts as he clung to what little remained of his sanity.

"He was hiding behind the tree in my backyard.

He said... if I waited for him, he'd save me.

He told me to leave my family, to run. That if I stayed, my parents would sell me off."

I sat there in stunned silence, the weight of his words pressing down like a suffocating fog. My mind raced, grasping for something—anything—to make sense of it.

"Did you tell anyone?"

I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, trembling in the dark.

"I didn't trust him,"

Beno admitted. He sniffled, his shoulders shaking as tears glistened in those lifeless eyes.

"But I didn't trust them either. So I came here. I... I knew you'd believe me."

My sixteen-year-old self was a storm of confusion and fear, utterly unprepared for the abyss staring back at me through Beno's gaze.

The air grew heavy, oppressive, as if the room itself recoiled from his presence. I did the only thing I could think of—I stumbled out of bed, my bare feet cold against the floor, and went to my father.

The Man in the Coat & the Shadows

My father, Marco Ruth, wasn't just a government officer. He specialized in paranormal activity, a man who'd seen things that would break most minds. When I spilled Beno's story to him—voice shaking, hands clutching the edge of his desk—he didn't scoff or call it childish fear. His face hardened, eyes narrowing as if peering into a darkness I couldn't yet see.

"Watch the Mark household. Tell me everything you see," he said, his voice low and steady, a command that carried the weight of unspoken dread.

And so I did.

For weeks, I watched.

And what I saw terrified me to my core.

Every night, shadowy creatures hovered above Beno's home. They weren't human—not even close. Dark, twisted figures, their forms writhing like smoke given life, with glowing red eyes that pierced the blackness. They floated silently around the rooftop, spectral hunters in a world that shouldn't exist, searching for something. Waiting. Their presence was a violation, a stain on reality, and the air around the house seemed to hum with a low, malevolent energy that made my skin crawl.

And Beno's family?

They acted as if he had never existed.

No search parties scoured the streets. No grief stained their faces. No missing person's report ever reached the authorities. At dinner, they laughed, their voices echoing through the windows like a mockery of normalcy.

They played board games, pieces clicking against the table as if erasing Beno from their lives was a game itself. They went on as if their eldest son had never been born, their smiles too wide, their eyes too empty.

One night, Beno stood beside me at my window, his frail form trembling as we peered across the street. His hands shook, his breath hitching in shallow, uneven gasps.

"Maybe... I was never supposed to be born," he whispered, his voice a fragile thread unraveling in the dark.

I grabbed his hand, my fingers tightening around his cold, clammy skin. It was all I could do to anchor him, to keep him from slipping into the void that seemed to call his name.

The shadows outside pulsed, their red eyes flickering like distant stars, and I felt a chill settle deep in my bones.

But then—one fateful night—everything changed.

The Night Elena Mark Showed Her True Form

It was late. The streets were empty, swallowed by a silence so profound it felt alive. The moon hung heavy in the sky, a bloated, pale witness to the horror about to unfold.

Then—a scream shattered the silence.

Not a human scream. No.

This was inhuman. A sound that clawed at the edges of sanity, a wail from some otherworldly abyss that made the walls tremble and the air thicken with dread.

I rushed to the window, my heart pounding so hard it threatened to burst. And I saw Elena Mark—Beno's mother—hovering above the house, her body twisted into something monstrous. Her once-delicate frame was a nightmare of blackened, rotting flesh, peeling away in strips to reveal sinew and bone beneath. Horns curled from her skull, jagged and glistening with a sickly sheen. Her eyes burned a deep, glowing red, twin infernos that seared into the night.

And beneath her?

Lucas Mark—her husband—was floating helplessly in the air. His body dangled like a marionette with cut strings, his face frozen in a silent scream. A massive armored hand pierced through his chest, its dark metal glinting as blood dripped in slow, deliberate rivulets to the ground below.

A low, guttural laugh echoed through the air, a sound that burrowed into my skull and gnawed at my nerves. Then, with a sickening rip, the hand yanked his soul from his body—a shimmering, translucent wisp torn free, writhing in agony before dissolving into the night.

I slapped a hand over my mouth, biting back a scream as tears blurred my vision. My knees buckled, the world tilting as nausea clawed at my throat.

And Elena?

She just smiled. A grotesque, toothy grin that split her decayed face, radiating a perverse satisfaction.

Then—a black portal split open behind her, a gaping maw of swirling darkness that pulsed with an unholy hunger.

Her grotesque wings stretched out, leathery and tattered, as she turned toward the sky. With one last, blood-curdling screech, she vanished into the abyss, the portal snapping shut with a sound like breaking bones.

Lucas Mark's lifeless body collapsed onto the front steps, a crumpled heap of flesh and blood, his vacant eyes staring up at the indifferent moon.

I couldn't breathe. My chest heaved, but no air came. The room spun, shadows dancing at the edges of my vision.

I was sixteen. I wasn't ready to know that monsters human were real.

I crawled under my bed, the wooden floor cold against my skin, and prayed, my whispers lost in the suffocating silence.

When the world grew still, I crept to the next room where Beno slept, his frail form curled beneath a thin blanket.

His eyes, still heavy with sleep, flickered open as I whispered his name, my voice trembling with the weight of what I'd seen. I told him everything—each horrific detail spilling out as my hands shook, my breath hitching. There was no time to soften it, no time to shield him from the truth.

Without hesitation, I grabbed my phone, the screen's glow stark against the darkness, and called my dad. He needed to know—before it was too late.

The Truth About Renzo Mark

The hallway stretched endlessly before him, a tunnel of shadows that seemed to swallow the light. Beno's heartbeat thundered against his ribs, his breath came in short, sharp gasps, each one a struggle against the panic clawing at his chest. His legs burned, muscles screaming, but he forced himself forward, shoving past the suffocating weight that pressed down on him.

He had to see Renzo.

He had to know.

The door to Renzo's room loomed ahead, slightly ajar, a sliver of dim light bleeding through the crack like a wound. Beno's trembling fingers reached out, brushing the wood, and pushed it open. A soft creak echoed through the silence, a sound that reverberated in the hollow space.

Renzo stood by the open window.

His back was turned, his silhouette framed against the night, a dark statue against the swirling wind. The cold wind stirred his dark hair, making it sway like tendrils of shadow. The room was pristine—books stacked neatly on shelves, a chair tucked under the desk, the bed made perfectly. Nothing was out of place.

And yet—

Something was wrong.

Beno's breath hitched. A cold shiver slithered down his spine, coiling around his lungs like an iron grip. The air felt thick, tainted, as if the room itself held its breath.

"Renzo," he called, his voice barely above a whisper, fragile and lost in the dark.

Renzo didn't move.

Beno swallowed hard, his throat dry as ash, and took a step forward. Then another.

"You saw it, right?" His voice cracked, splintering under the strain. "You saw everything."

Still, nothing.

Renzo stood motionless, gazing out into the night, as if he hadn't heard.

As if Beno wasn't even there.

A sharp unease twisted in Beno's stomach, a gnawing dread that grew with every silent second. He lunged forward, grabbing Renzo's shoulders, shaking him slightly.

"Renzo—look at me!"

Finally, his brother turned.

But his eyes—

They weren't the same.

The warmth, the spark, the flicker of life that had always defined Renzo—gone. Replaced by a hollow emptiness, cold and detached, like staring into the void of a corpse masquerading as the living. They were mirrors reflecting nothing, windows to a soul that no longer existed.

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A lump formed in Beno's throat. His grip tightened, fingers digging into Renzo's shoulders as if he could force the brother he knew back into being.

"Tell me you saw it!" His voice trembled, teetering on the edge of collapse. "Tell me you remember!"

For a long moment, there was silence, a chasm stretching between them, vast and unbridgeable.

Then, Renzo's lips parted slightly.

"You weren't here," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it sliced through Beno like a jagged blade.

Beno froze.

His chest caved in, the air ripped from his lungs as if the words had punched through him. His hands, still gripping Renzo's shoulders, slowly loosened, falling limp to his sides.

"What...?" The word barely escaped, a ghost of sound.

"You weren't here," Renzo repeated.

There was no anger. No blame.

Just an eerie, quiet certainty, a statement of fact that carried the weight of a death knell.

Beno staggered back, his mind a whirlwind of fractured thoughts. His vision blurred at the edges, the walls closing in, the air growing thick and suffocating. The room tilted, shadows writhing like living things.

"I—" He tried to speak, but his throat constricted. "Renzo, I—"

His brother didn't respond.

Didn't blink.

Didn't move.

Just stood there.

As if Beno was a stranger.

As if they had never shared memories.

As if they had never been family.

Something heavy and ice-cold settled deep in Beno's gut. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his skin until blood welled beneath them. Renzo was right there—so close—and yet, Beno had never felt farther away.

His legs gave out. He sank onto the wooden floor, his hands digging into his hair, pulling at the strands as his chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths. The room spun, the silence roaring in his ears.

Renzo was here.

But at the same time—

He wasn't.

Something had taken him.

And Beno...

Beno had been too late.

The Man in the Coat Returns

Beno vanished after that night. No trace, no word. No one saw him again.

Days bled into weeks, each one heavier than the last, the silence a constant reminder of his absence. Then—one evening—the air grew still, the world holding its breath as a shadow fell across my doorstep.

A man in a long coat arrived.

He was tall, unnaturally so, his frame stretching into the dim porch light, casting an elongated shadow that seemed to writhe against the ground. He smiled—not warm, not polite, but the kind of smile you'd see on a hunter watching its prey, predatory and cold, teeth glinting faintly in the dark.

"Excuse me," he said smoothly, his voice deep and velvety—too perfect, a sound that slithered into your ears and lingered like a curse. "I'm Beno Mark's relative."

My stomach dropped, a sickening lurch that left me dizzy.

"His mother sent me to retrieve him."

My father stepped forward instantly, placing himself between me and the man, his broad shoulders a wall of defiance. His expression was stone-cold, unyielding, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something raw.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said flatly, his voice a low growl.

The man chuckled softly, tilting his head, his dark eyes boring into us like twin voids. "Ah... I see," he murmured, his fingers tapping against his coat in a slow, deliberate rhythm that echoed in the stillness.

Then, leaning in slightly, he whispered:

"Very well. I trust you, Marco Ruth."

At the mention of his name, my father visibly tensed. His jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists, knuckles whitening as the air grew thick with unspoken menace.

And for the first time in my life—

I saw fear in my father's eyes.

The man in the coat didn't say anything else.

He simply smiled, tipped his hat—a gesture too casual, too wrong—and turned away.

But before disappearing into the night, he turned his head slightly.

"Oh," he added casually. "Miss Luna?"

My breath hitched, my heart seizing in my chest.

"If you ever see me again..." His voice softened—almost playful, a promise wrapped in dread. "Run."

Then—he was gone, swallowed by the darkness as if he'd never been there, leaving only the echo of his words and a chill that sank into my bones.

When my father shut the door, his hands were shaking. The lock clicked with a sound that reverberated through the house, a futile barrier against the unknown.

I had never seen him afraid before.

But now, as he turned to me, his voice barely above a whisper, I knew—

Whatever that man was...

It was beyond anything we had ever faced.

The Hospital Room – The Weight of the Past

Charles sat in silence, his mind reeling from the torrent of horror Luna had unleashed. The story clawed at him—monsters lurking in human skin, shadows with red eyes, a brother lost to an incomprehensible void. It sounded like a nightmare spun from a horror movie, but he knew Luna wasn't lying.

And that was what made it worse.

Beno Mark—the man he'd dismissed as a stubborn, weak-willed hunter—had been living through hell since childhood. Every mocking word Charles had thrown, every sneer, every time he'd treated Beno like a failure—it all crashed back, a wave of guilt that drowned him.

He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening as his nails bit into his palms.

"Now you see, don't you?" Luna said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder, her touch firm yet laced with understanding. "Beno isn't just some reckless hunter. He isn't just weak. He's carrying more than anyone should ever bear alone."

Charles swallowed the lump in his throat, his voice cracking. "I should have asked about my sister," he muttered bitterly. "Instead of fighting him... instead of pushing him away..."

His chest felt tight, a crushing weight of regret pressing down until he could barely breathe.

"He's not just some coward running from a fight," Luna continued, her voice steady but heavy. "He's been running from something none of us can even comprehend. His entire life has been one long battle against nightmares none of us can see."

Charles wiped at his eyes, swallowing hard as tears threatened to spill. "And yet... he still keeps going."

That was what hit him the most. Beno hadn't surrendered—not to the betrayal, not to the loss, not to the shadows that hunted him. He stood up every day, fought, survived, despite a past that would've broken anyone else.

Charles let out a deep breath, his shoulders trembling.

"What do we do now?" he finally asked, his voice raw.

Luna's expression darkened, her eyes narrowing with resolve. "We prepare."

She crossed her arms, her voice filled with quiet determination. "Beno may not say it, but something is coming. Something far worse than the creatures we've fought. We need to get stronger, Charles."

She met his gaze, unflinching.

"Because the next time that man in the coat comes looking for Beno..."

A shiver ran down Charles' spine, cold and unrelenting.

"We'll be ready."

Later That Night – Charles' Realization

The hospital lights buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the quiet ward as Charles approached his room. He paused at the door, staring inside, the sight before him stilling his breath.

Beno lay on the hospital bed, asleep, his face turned slightly toward the window. For the first time since Charles had known him, he looked peaceful. No tension knotted his shoulders. No exhaustion shadowed his eyes. Just... rest, a fragile calm that seemed alien on his battered features.

Charles stepped inside silently, settling onto his own bed across from Beno. But he didn't sleep. His mind churned, replaying Luna's words, each one a dagger twisting deeper.

Everything Beno had suffered.

Everything he had survived.

And despite it all—he never asked for help.

Charles ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "You really are a fool, Beno Mark," he muttered under his breath, the words laced with a bitter edge.

He glanced at Beno one last time, then lay back, staring at the ceiling. His own wounds throbbed, a dull ache, but it felt distant now, overshadowed by a new weight.

Because for the first time in his life, Charles wasn't just thinking about himself.

Beno wasn't the arrogant weakling he'd assumed. He was something far rarer.

A broken hero, carrying sins that weren't even his own.

And for the first time—Charles felt ashamed of the way he had treated him.

Tomorrow, things would be different.

He'd make sure of it.

Somewhere on the Vast Earth—Within the Shadow Realm

A majestic yet nightmarish castle loomed beneath a sky devoured by eternal darkness, its spires jagged and twisted like the bones of some ancient beast. The air was thick with an unnatural silence, broken only by the monstrous growls of unseen horrors lurking in the abyss, their presence a constant, gnawing threat.

At the heart of this dread-filled domain, atop a throne sculpted from the bones of fallen warriors, Shadow King Nyzharoth sat—his towering frame shrouded in flowing obsidian robes, tendrils of shadow curling around him like living serpents. His piercing void-like eyes fixed upon the trembling figure before him, unblinking, unrelenting.

A man, clad in a long, tattered coat, kneeled before the king. His face, hidden beneath a shadowed hood, twisted in fear, his body quaking as if the ground might swallow him whole. "Hail my king. Hail, King of the World!" he spoke, his voice quivering, a desperate plea for mercy.

Nyzharoth's voice was like a whisper from the abyss. "Tell me... Have you found him?"

The kneeling man hesitated. A bead of sweat trailed down his cheek, glistening in the faint, sickly light. "We... We have failed, my lord."

A suffocating silence followed. The very walls of the castle seemed to shudder, the air growing dense with an unspoken threat. Nyzharoth's fingers twitched—shadows writhing like living serpents, coiling tighter around the throne.

"Failed?" His voice was calm—too calm, a stillness that promised violence. "Are you telling me that you cannot find a mere insect?"

The man's breath hitched, his body stiffening as terror seized him. "I—It's the Isolated Land, my king... The hunters there have grown strong enough to slay my creatures. Worse, they have begun studying paranormal activity. It makes it... difficult to reach him unnoticed."

The temperature in the throne room dropped, a bone-chilling cold that seeped into the stone. The shadows around Nyzharoth pulsed like a living entity, stretching toward the trembling servant, their edges sharp and hungry.

"Difficult?" the king echoed, his voice now carrying the weight of untold horrors, a sound that reverberated through the chamber like a death knell.

The man in the coat stiffened, his words tumbling out in a rush. "But do not worry, my king. I have shattered his emotional balance—his mind is fractured beyond repair. He is nothing but a hollow shell, a fool wandering toward his own death. It is only a matter of time before he perishes in the dungeon."

A long silence stretched between them, the air crackling with tension.

Then, Nyzharoth let out a slow, cold chuckle, a sound that slithered through the room like a venomous promise.

"I hope you are right."

The shadows recoiled, slithering back into his throne, but deep within those abyssal eyes, a storm of malevolence brewed. Because if the prophecy was true...

That "insect" would return. And when he did—he would come for the throne.

The Shadow King's Warning

Nyzharoth leaned back into his throne, his expression unreadable, his abyssal eyes sinking deeper into the darkness. The air in the chamber grew heavier, oppressive, as shadows slithered across the floor, coiling around the kneeling man's feet like starving beasts awaiting a command.

Then, in a voice colder than death itself, Nyzharoth whispered:

"If you are wrong... you will suffer a fate worse than him."

The man in the coat flinched, his breath catching in his throat, a choked gasp swallowed by the silence.

Somewhere, far beyond the Shadow Realm, beneath a fractured sky, the so-called "insect" was still alive.

And deep within the endless corridors of a forgotten dungeon...

Something stirred.

Something ancient.

Something that should have never awakened.

The hunt had begun.

[To Be Continued...]

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