Pain.
That was the first thing he felt as the darkness receded. A pain so deep it burned through bone and soul, tearing apart every strand of what he once was.
He fell to his knees amid the ruin of his cabin, clawed fingers digging into the blood-soaked floorboards. His entire body shook as the shadows of Vengeance coiled tighter around him, twisting into his flesh, binding him to something vast and ancient.
He tried to scream, but there was no breath, no voice, no mouth to shape the sound. Only the silent roar of a dying man reborn in torment.
Above him, the swirling spirit of Vengeance loomed, its crimson eyes blazing like twin dying suns.
"This is the price," it whispered, its voice vibrating through the ruins. "Your head. Your face. Your name. Stripped from you, so only purpose remains."
The pain rose to a blinding peak as the shadows at his neck burned with dark flame. He felt his flesh melt away from the collarbone upward, felt his skull dissolve into black mist, every nerve shredded in cold fire.
Where his head should have been, there was only swirling darkness now, coiling in a twisting vortex. Within that void, faint crimson runes appeared – symbols of broken judgment, shattered scales, and chains reforged into scythes, glowing softly as if inked in molten blood.
They seared themselves into the edge of his neck stump, branding him with Vengeance's mark. Each rune etched a command deep into his being:
Hunt.
Kill.
Feast upon their fear.
The shadows coiled tighter, fusing with muscle and bone. He felt his shoulders broaden under the weight of dark power, felt his arms swell with strength beyond mortal flesh. The ragged wounds on his chest knitted shut, replaced by blackened scars etched with faint red sigils.
The swirling spirit lowered itself until its vast eyes filled his vision. Though he could no longer see with human sight, he felt it with a clarity sharper than any blade – a perception that cut through darkness and matter alike.
"Rise, Huntsman," it whispered, each word sinking into his soul like iron nails. "Rise as my blade upon this earth. The age of mercy is gone. The age of retribution begins."
He felt its power surge through him, flooding his veins with a cold, thrumming darkness that pulsed in time with his silent fury. His mind, fractured by grief, welded itself around one unbreakable shard of purpose:
Kill them all.
His trembling hands closed into fists. He pressed his palms against the blood-slick floor and rose to his feet.
The ruined cabin stretched out before him, painted in dawn's pale light. Smoke drifted lazily through the broken beams, curling around his towering silhouette. Where his face should have been was only swirling darkness glowing with crimson runes, mist rising from the void like ghostly flame.
He looked down at his massive hands, flexing the clawed fingers clad in blackened leather and iron plates. Strength flowed through him, cold and unyielding. He felt no pain now. No weakness. Only power, coursing through every fibre of his being.
At his feet lay the corpses of the assassins he had slain before falling. Their eyes, wide and glassy with death, reflected the flickering glow of the runes upon his neck. Their mouths were frozen open in silent screams, as if their souls still lingered, trapped by the unnatural darkness coiling around his form.
He turned toward the hearth, where his family lay.
Lira's severed head rested upon her blood-soaked chest. Aryn's small body curled beside her, throat torn open. Sila lay farther back, arms still clutching her stuffed hare.
He fell to his knees before them, bowing his shadowed headless form low. Though he had no eyes, tears poured from his spirit – silent, invisible streams of sorrow that washed over the broken remnants of his life.
"I will avenge you," he whispered into the silence. Though no sound emerged from his neck stump, his vow echoed through the shadows themselves, carrying into the spirit realm beyond mortal hearing.
"I will tear them down… every last one who raised a hand against you. This I swear… by my blood… by my soul… by the darkness that binds me."
The swirling shadows of Vengeance pulsed brighter in satisfaction, drinking in his fury and grief.
"Good," the spirit purred, its vast eyes narrowing with dark pleasure. "Go forth, Huntsman. Spill their blood. Let vengeance spread through the hearts of men until the world itself drowns in it. Each life you take will feed me. Each soul you reap will strengthen my dominion."
He rose once more, his massive frame towering beneath the broken roof. Dawn's pale light shone through the gaps in the beams, casting his silhouette across the ruined cabin walls. The swirling void where his head once sat gleamed with faint crimson mist, runes drifting upward like embers on an unseen wind.
His axe lay nearby, half-buried beneath fallen timbers. He reached out and grasped it in his clawed hand, lifting it effortlessly despite its massive blackened blade. Shadows curled along its edge, drifting like cold smoke in the silent morning air.
He looked down at the weapon, feeling its cold dark resonance hum through his arm. Its weight felt right in his grip – an extension of his will, his hatred, his unbreakable purpose.
The swirling spirit hovered beside him, coiling its massive shadowed form around the cabin's shattered beams.
"Their blood awaits you, Huntsman," it whispered. "The king. The chancellor. The traitor knights. Ride forth and reap them all. Let their screams echo across the ages."
He said nothing. There was nothing left to say.
With a final glance at his family's corpses, he turned and stepped through the ruined doorway into the dawn.
The forest stretched before him, silent and grey in the early light. Mist curled between the twisted trunks like pale ghosts fleeing his presence. Birds did not sing. Even the wind held its breath as the headless figure stepped onto the frostbitten grass, his massive axe resting against his broad shoulder.
He stood there for a long moment, feeling the shadows coil around him, tasting the morning air through senses beyond mortal flesh. Cold dark power thrummed through his veins, whispering promises of death and retribution.
Within him, grief burned like a dying star. Rage coiled around it, fusing into something colder, harder – a hatred so pure it no longer felt human.
He took a single step forward, the earth trembling beneath his heavy boots. Then another. And another.
The shadows followed him, drifting across the frost-covered ground like black mist. The runes glowing from his neck stump pulsed softly with each step, illuminating the twisted trunks around him with faint crimson light.
Behind him, the cabin burned silently, sending thin trails of smoke into the dawn sky. The scent of ash and blood drifted across the forest, mingling with the cold mist.
Where he passed, silence reigned. Even the spirits of the forest turned their gaze away, unwilling to meet the headless gaze of Vengeance's chosen blade.
And so he walked into the rising light of dawn, a headless shadow born from grief, wrath, and ancient darkness.
The bargain was sealed.
And the world would come to fear the name it could no longer speak – the name of the man who no longer existed.
Only the Headless Huntsman remained.