The Monster Hunter Must Die

Fiora steadied herself, gripping the back of River’s chair as she eyed the stranger before them. The dim firelight flickered across his coat, his posture still poised despite the chaos of flying teacups and crashing porcelain. He had the air of a performer on the verge of taking his final bow.

“…Who in the hell are you?” Despite her noble upbringing the words rolled out her mouth, and seemingly out of her heart.

The man swept into an elaborate bow, one hand resting dramatically over his chest. “Sylvain de Roussel, at your service.” His voice was smooth, elegant, but laced with an undeniable smirk. “Owner of this fine estate, orchestrator of tonight’s little entertainment, and—”

Before he could finish, River stomped forward, gripping him by the collar and slamming him against the wall so hard the old wood groaned. Sylvain let out a choked gasp, his previous bravado suddenly vanishing.

“—And completely oblivious to what a blade can do to a man?”

River’s voice was low, dangerous.

“Eh? P-Pardon?”

“Do you think all this is just a game, you idiot?”

His violet eyes burned with fury, his grip tightening on the fabric of Sylvain’s coat.

Sylvain sputtered, his hands scrambling uselessly at River’s wrist. “N-Now, now, no need for v-violence—”

River shoved him harder. “People die playing stupid tricks like this. Tell me why I shouldn't cut you down where you stand.” His voice held no humor, no patience. He was done.

For the first time, the trickster looked genuinely nervous. His gaze flickered to Fiora as if hoping she would intervene.

She crossed her arms, glaring at him. “You made us think this place was haunted for fun? What kind of deranged noble pulls something like that?”

Sylvain gulped. “I—I swear, I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone! I’m just—” He hesitated, then slumped slightly. “I’ve always been good with illusion magic, you see… little tricks, little flickers of light. I never cared for politics, never wanted to be some stiff-necked heir. I just wanted to put on a show. Something memorable.” He swallowed. “So I thought… why not give people a real scare? Just once.”

River’s grip remained iron-tight.

Sylvain’s nervous smile twitched. “Ahaha… and, well… in hindsight, perhaps not the best idea to try it on a sword-wielding mercenary with clear anger issues.”

Fiora sighed, rubbing her temple. As much as she wanted to stay mad, she could hear some sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t exactly the person she wished to see him meet River’s blade.

“River… Let him go.”

The mercenary didn’t budge.

Fiora frowned. “River.”

River exhaled sharply through his nose before releasing Sylvain with a shove. The noble staggered back, smoothing out his coat with shaky hands, his smirk returning—albeit weaker than before.

“Right,” Sylvain muttered. “Well. That was humbling.”

River didn’t respond, merely watching him like a hawk.

Sylvain cleared his throat. “If it’s any consolation, I was quite impressed by your reactions. That was genuine fear I saw in your eyes, you know—”

Fiora threw him a glare so sharp it could cut stone.

“…Right. Not the time.” Sylvain coughed into his fist. “Anyway, I saw you two from the upper window earlier. The storm, the way you rushed inside—I knew you’d be the perfect audience. So I set the stage! The footsteps, the whispers, the flickering lights—all me.” He placed a hand over his heart, as if proud.

River exhaled sharply. “You’re a damn lunatic.”

Sylvain beamed. “Thank you!”

Then Fiora spoke. “And what about the ghost in the washroom?”

Sylvain tilted his head. “The what?”

Fiora frowned. “The apparition in the mirror. The one that definitely wasn’t a floating teacup.”

Sylvain blinked. “I… didn’t do anything in the washroom.”

Silence fell between them.

Sylvain looked genuinely perplexed. “What I mean to say is that, I was here making the teacups float. I certainly didn’t conjure any ghosts.”

The three exchanged glances.

Then—

A deep, scraping sound echoed from across the hall.

The slow, deliberate screech of something heavy dragging against the wooden floor.

Fiora’s heart jumped.

Sylvain let out a small, nervous chuckle. “…Alright. I might have forgotten to mention something.”

River’s voice was ice. “What.”

Sylvain cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the floorboards. “Well… I wasn’t the only one in the mansion.”

Fiora’s stomach dropped.

River took a step toward him, voice low. “Not the time to be cryptic, trickster. What does that mean?”

A shadow flickered beyond the doorway. The firelight dimmed, like something unseen had breathed across the flames.

Then, a voice.

“The agreement has changed.”

The sound was wrong. It was neither a whisper nor a growl, but something between. It distorted as if layered over itself, slipping out in unnatural echoes.

A figure fazed through the doorway.

It was ghastly, shifting, never quite solid. A wretched, elongated form, cloaked in a black tattered robe, its face obscured by a swirling void of darkness. Its presence pressed against the air itself, suffocating and unnatural.

Sylvain lowered his head. “Ah… yes. That.”

The creature raised a hollowed hand and pointed directly at River.

Its voice slithered through the room.

“The monster hunter must die.”

Fiora’s breath caught in her throat, her gaze flicking to River, “Monster Hunter?”

Sylvain’s smirk was finally gone. He stepped forward quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Now, now, Lord Valaniel, let’s not be hasty—”

The entity did not move. Its focus remained fixed on River, its form pulsating with unnatural energy.

River, unfazed, rested his palm on his sword. “You gonna explain, or are we just skipping to the fight?”

Sylvain winced. “Okay, listen. A few weeks ago, this thing wandered into my mansion. It calls itself Valaniel.” He gestured toward the entity as though it were a house guest. “It told me he could help me—said he’d make my illusions more convincing, lend me his power in exchange for one thing: that I let him exist here. Unseen. Unbothered. Do you think I could have made the house I live in look so… haunted, on my own? The dust, the decay?”

Fiora’s stomach tightened. “You made a deal with a… what even is this?”

Sylvain gave her a sheepish look. “More of a… mutually beneficial arrangement.”

River snorted. “You’re an idiot.”

Sylvain rubbed his neck. “Well, hindsight is a wonderful thing.”

Then, Valaniel’s voice cut through the room once more.

“Your tricks have brought a hunter into my domain. The agreement is void.”

“Wait Valaniel! We succeeded! They were genuinely—“

The air shuddered—a distortion rippled outward. The temperature plummeted.

Then, without warning—

The specter plunged a hand into Sylvain’s chest.

“AAAA!”

Sylvain jerked violently, his eyes going wide as a wretched, blackened mist curled around his limbs, creeping into his skin. He gasped, clutching his chest as the entity melted into him.

His body convulsed.

Then, his form stilled.

A slow, unnatural grin stretched across Sylvain’s face.

Then—he lifted his head.

His eyes were no longer his own.

They were hollow, black as the abyss.

River sighed, drawing his sword. “Of course.”

Fiora stepped back, her pulse racing. “River—”

The possessed Sylvain tilted his head in an unnatural, jerking motion.

And then—

He lunged.