The Forgotten Eidolon

Darkness clung to him like a second skin. A dense, suffocating silence filled the void, broken only by the distant echoes of something shifting—whispers scratching at the edge of existence.

Jan's eyes snapped open.

He was lying on cold, uneven stone, his breath shallow, his muscles coiled with tension. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic—though whether it was from the air or something nearby, he couldn't tell. His fingers twitched, and the moment they made contact with his own skin, he realized something was wrong.

His chest burned. No, not his chest—his Veilmark.

A symbol was seared into his flesh, inked in shifting shadows, pulsing with an energy he didn't understand. He should have understood. The knowledge sat just beyond reach, like a name he had forgotten, teasing the edges of his mind.

Footsteps.

Jan pushed himself up, pressing his back against the cavern wall, his breathing steady but shallow. The chamber was vast yet enclosed, lit only by the faint bioluminescent veins coursing through the cracked rock. Shadows stretched unnaturally, distorting as something approached.

Then he saw them. Veilborn Hunters.

Four figures in black sigil-etched armor, their movements silent, disciplined. Their masks bore no emotion, but the way they advanced—with methodical purpose—told him everything he needed to know.

They weren't here to capture him. They were here to erase him.

His mind calculated options with cold efficiency. No memory of who he was, no idea what the Veilmark on his chest meant, and no weapons. Outnumbered and outclassed.

Yet, an undeniable instinct gripped him. Run. Survive. Adapt.

The first hunter moved, and Jan reacted.

His body obeyed before his mind could process, twisting just as a blade cleaved through the air where his throat had been. A second strike followed—faster, precise. He dropped low, feeling the whisper of steel brush his ear.

Too fast. Too practiced. They're trained killers.

But something inside him stirred—not power, but instinct. A feeling, raw and unrefined, as if he'd fought battles like this before. He had no magic, no abilities—just reflexes and a mind that refused to die.

A hunter lunged. Jan sidestepped, barely avoiding the strike, and reached for the nearest object—a jagged rock. He struck the attacker's head, sending them stumbling back. But before he could react, a second hunter slammed into him, driving a knee into his ribs.

Pain exploded in his side. Jan gasped, doubling over. The moment of hesitation cost him—another hunter's fist crashed into his jaw, sending him sprawling onto the cavern floor. His vision blurred.

Too slow. Too weak.

He gritted his teeth. Pain meant he was still alive. He rolled to the side just as a dagger stabbed into the ground where he had been. He couldn't take them head-on—but he didn't need to. Precision over power. Control over chaos.

A feint. A sudden shift in weight. He let one of the hunters overextend, then countered with a sharp elbow to the throat. As they staggered, Jan seized their wrist, twisting the weapon free and driving it into their shoulder—not fatal, but enough to disable them.

Another came at him, but Jan was already moving. The fight turned into a blur of motion—desperate, raw, and painful. Each movement cost him, every success balanced by another bruise, another shallow cut. His breaths came hard, his body aching, but he refused to stop.

One by one, the remaining hunters fell, unable to match his unpredictability.

Jan exhaled slowly, standing amidst the silent chamber, his body trembling from exertion. The echoes of the battle faded, leaving only stillness—and the undeniable truth pressing against his mind.

He was dangerous.

He was hunted.

And he had no idea who he was.