It stood where Ludwig had been only seconds ago.
Not rising.
Not breathing.
Simply existing.
And that was threat enough.
The creature's presence alone felt like a crack in reality. The Reavers—those ravenous monsters who tore through flesh without a flicker of remorse—parted around it like curtains of damp meat. They didn't scatter. They didn't flee. They cleared a path.
Like worshippers making way for something divine.
Or damned.
Every step it took cracked the swamp mud beneath its feet—not from mass, but from pressure. Not physical—but existential. The weight of a curse given shape. The air bent around it, rippling like heat over stone, distorting the outline of its already alien shape.
Then Ludwig saw its eyes.
Like twin orbs of molten blood, glowing through the mist, through the dark, through everything—locked onto him with an expression that didn't change. Didn't blink. Didn't care.
It didn't howl.
It didn't roar.
It exhaled.
