The Hunter's Method

A shiver coursed through Noah as the blade descended.

The most potent power of a demon was its influence on the mind; each demon embodied a distinct concept. Should one's will waver, it would invade the psyche, eventually transforming its victim into something akin to itself—a servant.

In other words, "corruption."

As was happening now, the very sight of the demonic weapon flooded Noah's mind with imageries of blades, masked his thoughts with visions of slaughter and blood. His eyes bloodshot as the line between reality and illusion blurred, and if left unchecked, this could lead to his own downfall into demonhood.

Out of desperation, he recited a hunter's incantation: "Aether Flame!"

This was no attack spell, but one to sear the soul, heightening alertness through agony.

Noah felt an unprecedented pain erupt within, an invisible flame scorching his spirit. When necessary, he could direct the Aether Flame outward from his very being.

With his inner fire ignited, the flickering blades vanishing from sight, his focus returned to the twilight woods.

Instinctively raising his hand to block, Noah's sword clashed with the corrupted cleaver, the impact knocking him to the ground. The blade whirled up, readying for a killing strike.

Gasping for air, his grip tightened on his sword.

It's too heavy; I can't match it head-on. Noah's mind raced.

As the demonic blade, a mix of red and black, swooped down again, he stumbled to his feet.

"End the incantation! Don't burn out your soul!" Logan rushed to Noah's side, sword ready. He struck precisely as the cleaver circled back, diverting its path with a skilled thrust.

The cleaver skimmed the earth, now seeking its next opportunity in the air.

The Aether Flame could consume a hunter's spirit, leaving them emotionless husks. Noah knew the stakes, hastily extinguishing the inner fire and rising with his sword in hand.

Logan had warned that the longer the incantation, the more soul it consumed, potentially burning out a mortal spirit in mere seconds—it was not to be abused.

Noting the damage where the demonic blade had struck, a jagged break in the metal, Noah's sword was now deformed.

Are our forged weapons so fragile, so easily shattered by demonic craft? Noah was incredulous.

How can mere mortals battle such monsters? As the cursed weapon launched its second assault, Noah steadied his spirit to prevent further demonic influence. Logan, battle-hardened, faced the blade unflinchingly.

Whoosh—the cleaver sliced toward Noah, sensing his weakness. He defended with his sword, but the blade shifted direction mid-air, plunging toward his feet with a menacing hum.

I'm done for. Noah instinctively retreated, but his speed was no match; his legs would be severed.

Gritting his teeth, he swung his sword in a desperate arc, meeting the cleaver. The impact was massive, and he clutched the sword with both hands, locked in a struggle he was bound to lose.

The sword in Noah's hands screeched under strain, ready to snap.

Logan did not assist immediately but muttered something. He threw out a length of rope with a swift motion.

The rope flew, ensnaring the cleaver's handle, wrapping around it with the intention of binding it completely. Noah felt the pressure on his sword ease as the cleaver slumped to the ground, caught by the rope.

Noah was familiar with this rope, known to Logan as the "Witch Rope."

In truth, each demon hunter secretly wielded their own magical artifacts, incantations, and potions, rarely sharing insights to avoid their techniques leaking beyond their lineage, passed only from master to apprentice.

"One day, you'll wield this yourself. Watch its workings closely," Logan said, yanking the rope, drawing the blade toward him.

I will do that too... Noah watched, expectant of handling such a mystical tool.

But something was off. The rope's movement seemed unnatural, as if not hauling the cleaver, but being pulled by it.

"The blade is still alive!" Noah called out.

Frowning, Logan cast aside the Witch Rope and took up his sword again. The cleaver, freed from the rope's hold, darted toward Logan.

The old hunter watched its trajectory intently, then lunged with a piercing strike.

Ting—The blade was jolted off course, sparing Logan's heart but slicing across his body with a resonant tear.

"Come, use the rope to catch it," Logan stood firm despite his slashed armor, blood oozing steadily.

Noah clenched his jaw, his back slick with anxious sweat.

He lunged for the rope at Logan's feet, aiming for the twitching demonic blade.

"Old man, how much blood have you left to spill?" The demon's whisper lingered as the blade began to spin away.

"You're hurt," Noah blurted out, watching the cleaver retreat.

Severely so, by the looks of the gaping wound and the armor soaked crimson.

"Catch it!" Logan cursed, still in a defensive stance. "Forget about me! Subdue it!"

Noah targeted the fleeing blade, following Logan's teachings, swinging the Witch Rope with precision.

The moment the rope left his hand, it sliced through the air, binding the blade tightly. It struggled to break free, the rope writhing in Noah's grip, which he clenched, the magical fibers melding with his palm to prevent being dragged along.

With each pull, he fought against the mighty evil force.

His feet braced against the ground, he hauled back, while the blade sought escape. The Witch Rope sizzled under the opposing forces, on the brink of snapping.

The force was waning—Noah could feel it.

At the peak of their struggle, the cleaver's strength suddenly ebbed, plummeting to the ground. Noah staggered back, arms sore, breath heavy, slowly reeling in the defeated blade.

"Each demon represents a concept, and whatever they corrupt eventually morphs into lesser servants resembling them," Logan observed as the blade was drawn closer. "A Minotaur Demon creates horned beasts, a Blood Demon grinds humans into pools of gore, and the Blade Demon summons demonic instruments to fulfill its mission of slicing. Living beings, animals, skeletons, and metal—all are their materials…"

"You've been cut," Noah fretted.

"…It's my body. Of course, I know," Logan's lips were pale, sweat beading on his brow. "I'm covered in scars; what's one more? Besides, I'm old and weakening—death is always at hand. Remember my words. Inherit all I know. You must take up my duty when I'm gone."

You're not going to die, Noah wanted to say, but an ominous feeling lingered in his heart. If Logan died, the mantle of demon hunting would fall squarely on his shoulders.

Noah dragged the rope back to his feet, the cleaver now inert, a simple blade of black and red. The thought of it once being a living being, perhaps even a human, sent shivers down his spine.

"Give me the blade, and burn that tree," Logan pointed to a towering tree.

"Burn it?" Noah passed the cleaver to Logan, who slid it into his belt.

"We won't make it to the Camp Stone Ruins before dark. Better to rest here than travel in darkness. A burning tree will signal our location. Hopefully, others will come to us." Logan sat by the tree, unpacking bandages, ointment, and a dagger to tend to his wound.

Noah carried fire steel and flint in his pocket; he crouched at the tree base, setting to work. The suspended Julius looked on with hollow eyes.

"Aren't we going to bring Mr. Julius down?"

"Burn him too. To turn to ash in obscurity is the most dignified death for a demon hunter. If we perish in these woods, burn us as well. What better end could there be? To be breached by demons and become their minions, hanged by the city's ignorant populace, or dead from soul-drain... You flirted with danger using the Aether Flame. Had you not quelled it, your soul would have burned out," Logan removed his robes, unfastening the clasps of his leather armor.

Not just the Aether Flame; nearly all a hunter's incantations came at the cost of their soul. Overuse could strip them of emotion, memory, and self-awareness, with many unbearable side effects emerging.

Noah knew Logan suffered from soul-drain; the old hunter often woke in the night, mistaking reality for battle, always on edge, only finding solace in copious drinking and carousing. Over the months, Noah had accompanied Logan to every tavern and brothel they encountered, picking up a trick or two about running a tab.

"Mr. Julius died horribly..."

"He died with significance."

Significance? Noah puzzled. What meaning could there be in such a death, strung up, turned into a trap by Blade Demon? And to die unknown, the fatal blow obscuring the time and place of his demise.

He sparked a flame on a dry twig, igniting it then setting the tree ablaze. The bark caught easily, fire spreading over the outer layers, crackling as the flames joined, growing into a pyre. The hiss of the burn became clear, the fire now a beacon in the dark.

Such is the demon hunter's plight, Noah thought. Clinging to life in the most perilous of places, contending with all manner of grotesque beings, never knowing when death might come.

Turning back, Logan had shed his upper gear, his skin a tapestry of runes, tattoos, and scars. The fresh cut lay between two massive, ugly scars, now seemingly less prominent.

"Learn to treat wounds," Logan said, his body a patchwork of scars. "First, drink to dull the mind, lessening the pain. It's part of living in the moment, don't restrain yourself. Remember, drink when there's good liquor, eat when there's good food, and chase after pretty women, lest you regret it later."

Logan drank deeply from a bottle of strong spirits, then turned to Noah with a bottle of saltwater to cleanse the wound. The sting was evident.

After cleansing, the bleeding seemed to slow.

"...Witch's ointment, apply it, wrap it with a bandage, then leave it to fate," Logan pressed his forehead. "Most die from infection. Those who survive are blessed by the otter witches, more enduring than others, hard to kill. Come, help me."

Opening a tin of purple salve, Logan smeared it across his wound, Noah wrapping it with bandages. The first round soaked quickly with blood; by the second, the wound was still visible. On the third, only a dark red stain spread slowly through the fabric.

Logan drained the rest of the bottle, fixating on the fire.

"I hear someone behind us, coming this way. I can't handle them in this state. Noah, check it out. Be careful—it's either a demon's puppet or another hunter. If you die, I'm done for," Logan whispered, weakened by alcohol and injury.

Noah swallowed nervously, peering back into the shadows.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. As darkness set in, a vague silhouette approached, its movements bizarre and unsettling.