Runebound Reverse Tower of The Dead

Kael walked.

For a few seconds, that alone was enough to unsettle the werewolves.

The young man in front of the church watched him with a faint narrowing of the eyes. Around the churchyard, the red dots on Kael’s minimap shifted, subtle movements reflected by faint rustles in the bushes and low scraping sounds from claws against stone. The creatures hidden around the church had expected a scream, a stumble, a desperate sprint into the trees the moment the deal was made. They had offered him a hunt, and prey was supposed to run.

Kael did not.

He stepped past the young man and moved toward the treeline at an unhurried pace, as if he had been asked to walk out of a tavern rather than flee from a pack of monsters. That small act changed the atmosphere more than any threat would have. The werewolves did not attack, not yet, but their alertness sharpened. Annoyance mixed with caution in the way they held themselves. Those who walked when they were supposed to run were usually one of two things, and neither made for a clean hunt. Either they were fools too broken to understand the danger, which made the chase dull, or they were confident enough to make the hunters regret the game.

Kael felt their eyes on his back.

He smiled beneath the shadow of his helmet.

The first line of trees waited ahead, dark trunks standing like the teeth of the forest. Moonlight had not fully claimed the world yet, but the night was deepening quickly. The branches above formed a broken ceiling, and the path beyond them twisted into undergrowth, roots, moss, and patches of black soil. The forest smelled alive, damp leaves and animal musk, with something sharper beneath it. Wolf. Blood. Hunger.

Kael passed the first treeline.

The moment he did, the minimap shifted, confirming the edge of the hunt’s starting ground.

"Fine," he muttered. "I’ll give you what you need."

Then he began sprinting.

The forest blurred around him.

He did not push himself to the limit. Not even close. His boots struck the ground in controlled rhythm, heavy enough to leave marks in wet soil but light enough that he could change direction when needed. Branches whipped past his shoulders. Roots rose in uneven lines beneath him. The air grew colder as he moved deeper into the trees, and the church vanished behind him, swallowed by the dark.

The werewolves did not chase immediately.

Kael had expected that.

He opened the minimap while running and snorted.

Two reasons came to mind, and both could easily be true. The first was simple. Hunters liked distance. Not real distance, not enough to matter, but enough for prey to feel hope. Let the target run. Let the lungs burn. Let the mind begin counting trees and imagining escape. Hope made fear richer when it collapsed.

The second reason revealed itself a moment later.

The red dots around the church moved.

They converged.

Kael’s expression cooled as he ran.

One by one, the red dots slipped back toward the building the villagers had sealed behind him. They did not all follow the hunt. Not immediately. Some remained behind, circling closer to the church, then pressing against it, then entering. The green dots inside began disappearing.

One.

Then another.

Then three at once.

Kael could not hear the first scream clearly from that distance, but the forest carried enough of it to him that he knew when the villagers understood the bargain had never existed. The werewolves had not asked for him because they intended to spare the others. They asked for him because cruelty was better when hope was involved. The villagers had pushed out the only person in that church who could have protected them, and now the door they had closed behind him would not keep anything out.

Had they not chosen to give him up, Kael would have helped.

Had they not decided that their fear and survival were worth more than another life, some of them might have lived.

After all, Kael was not weak.

He was not just another climber.

But the villagers had not known that.

The werewolves did not know it either.

Kael kept running.

The forest opened and closed in uneven stretches. Sometimes the trees stood dense enough that he had to slip between trunks sideways, shoulders twisting just enough to avoid losing speed. Other times the path widened into patches of wild grass and low shrubs that crunched beneath his boots. He moved for a long time without anything in his sight stopping him, though the minimap made it clear that the forest was not empty. Small dots, neutral things, scattered and fled as he passed. Birds burst from branches. Something rabbit-sized shot through the underbrush. Insects sang louder in the dark, only to fall silent when a distant howl rose behind him.

Kael broke through a patch of trees and entered an open field.

He slowed just enough to look up.

The moon had risen.

A full pale moon hung above the forest, cold and enormous, turning every blade of grass silver and every shadow black. It did not look red yet, despite the floor’s name, but there was a thin halo around it that made Kael distrust the peace of its light. The moment it cleared the treetops, a long wolf howl rolled through the forest.

Then another answered it.

Then many more.

The hunt had begun.

"That’s their tactic, I suppose," Kael said.

His mouth curved again, more cynical than amused, and he resumed running across the open field. He could make it to the other side easily if he wanted to burn resources. Momentum would let him tear through the forest like a launched bolt. It was almost tempting. A single activation, enough speed, and the werewolves’ little game would become a joke.

But forests and Momentum did not get along.

Once committed, changing direction became difficult. The rune turned movement into a promise, and promises made at high speed had consequences. The obvious counter was Stone. If he made his body hard enough, dense enough, durable enough, he could simply bulldoze through trunks instead of dodging them. Trees would become obstacles in name only.

The problem was internal energy.

Momentum consumed it quickly. Stone would magnify that consumption further, especially if he used it to turn himself into a battering ram through half a forest. It would work, probably. It might even end the floor immediately if the edge of the forest was close enough.

But if he misjudged the distance, if the werewolves had tricks, if the One Eyed Red waited near the finish, then running himself dry would be stupid.

Not worth testing.

Not yet.

Kael kept moving at what others would have called a full sprint.

To him, it was merely a jog.

His breathing remained steady. His legs warmed into rhythm rather than strain. The weights of his gear, the gauntlets, the rings, the belt, all sat on him like familiar burden. The Fist King had made him run through mountain paths with worse footing, less sleep, more pain, and someone waiting to punish sloppy balance with a strike that could fold him in half. Compared to that, this forest chase had not earned panic yet.

More howls echoed.

Red dots appeared on the minimap behind him.

They were getting closer.

Fast.

Kael laughed under his breath. It was unfair, really. For other climbers, this would have been a nightmare. The wolves had given him distance, but the moment they chose to hunt, they devoured it at a speed that made the head start feel ceremonial. They did not move like ordinary animals through the woods. They crossed terrain with terrifying efficiency, splitting, circling, converging, cutting off angles before he even reached them.

But the minimap showed all of it.

Kael was not worried.

The brush to his right rattled as he passed.

A red dot lunged at the same time.

The werewolf burst out of the undergrowth in full monstrous form. Gone was the human skin. Gone was the polite face and civilized voice. This one stood over two meters in height, perhaps more if it straightened fully, its body built from lean muscle, dark fur, and violent hunger. Long arms ended in claws curved like butcher knives. Its fangs were sharper than daggers, glistening with saliva. Its snout wrinkled as it locked onto him, built to smell prey, track fear, and follow blood no matter how far it ran.

Kael could have struck back.

He did not.

Not yet.

Let them think he was prey a little longer.

The werewolf’s claws swept for his chest. Kael ducked beneath the lunge, rolled over one shoulder, and sprang back to his feet without losing much speed. The beast overcommitted, hit the ground, and skidded through wet grass with a snarling cough. By the time it twisted around, Kael was already past it.

Another came from ahead.

This one launched low, aiming for his legs. Kael steered left, letting its claws tear through empty air, then jumped a fallen log and landed on the other side with enough control to cut right before a third werewolf dropped from the branches above. The creature crashed where he should have been, splintering the log beneath its weight.

More came.

A fourth from the left, silent until the last second.

A fifth from behind, faster than the others, snapping for the back of his neck.

A sixth shadow moving parallel to him, trying to herd him toward a denser patch of trees where two more red dots waited.

Kael dodged.

He slipped, jumped, twisted, ducked, and steered around the attacks without striking back. His body moved with a precision learned from countless punishments. Too much movement wasted time. Too little movement lost skin. The art was in spending only what was needed. A shoulder turned by a finger’s width. A step shortened. A knee dipped. A head tilted just enough that claws passed where his face had been a blink before.

The werewolves grew louder.

Not angry.

Excited.

They liked this.

A hard prey. A fast one. Something that did not simply trip, cry, and bleed in the first few seconds. Their snarls deepened into something almost joyful, and Kael realized, with a strange little shock, that his own mouth was curved too.

He wiped the smile off his face the moment he noticed it.

That was not good.

He was almost having fun.

And worse, they were too.

The thrill of the hunt had taken hold on both sides, though for very different reasons. The wolves thought they had found a prey worthy of chasing. Kael had found moving targets fast enough to make his body remember training without making his life feel immediately threatened. It was obscene, really. People had died in that church. The floor wanted him hunted. The wolves wanted to eat him.

And here he was, enjoying the movement.

The forest tightened again, then opened suddenly.

Kael emerged into a clearing.

Moonlight pooled across the grass, bright and cold. At the far side stood the young man from the church, hands relaxed at his sides, coat untouched by mud or blood. His red eyes were brighter now, but he had not transformed. Not fully. He looked almost human beneath the moon, which somehow made him more irritating than the monsters that had at least stopped pretending.

He raised one hand.

The half dozen werewolves chasing Kael stopped immediately.

Not slowed. Stopped.

Claws dug into soil. Snouts lowered. Shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths. Their eyes remained fixed on Kael, bodies vibrating with the urge to continue, but none disobeyed.

Kael slowed as well, coming to a stop several paces in front of the young man.

"What is it?" Kael asked, breathing evenly. "Why did you stop the fun?"

The young man frowned.

The question had caught him wrong. He studied Kael’s stance, his steady breathing, the lack of panic, the lack of wounds, then glanced toward the werewolves around the clearing. They had attacked him from multiple angles and failed to draw blood. Worse, the prey had not struck back once.

"Why aren’t you fighting back?" the young man asked.