Euphoria rushed through the Reaver as the screams finally died down, fading into the stillness of the night. It had been ages since he had felt the thrill of true prey, the kind that could challenge him. But this… this was different. The thrill was sharper, more intoxicating. A grin split his face, blood still dripping from his hands. To his delight, a surge of power rippled through him; his class, Bloodbound Reaper, had evolved with the kill of a fellow Forerunner.

  A low, satisfied laugh escaped his lips. This… this was true ecstasy.

  The hunt had been more satisfying than any in recent memory, not just for the challenge but for the look in his prey’s eyes, the moment when hope left him. The Reaver could still see it: the old man’s defiance crumbling as realization set in, as he grasped the futility of his resistance. The Reaver relished it, savoring the fear, the resignation. He lived for that fleeting moment when the strongest-willed finally understood they were doomed.

  And if the Reaver was being honest with himself, the old man would have killed him—should have killed him—if he had only known what he was truly facing.

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  But that was the beauty of the hunt, wasn’t it? The thrill of being on the edge, that one wrong move could be the end.

  This kill was different. The familiar thrill of the hunt was there, but this time, it came with something more—power. He felt it surge through his veins, the essence of his fallen prey feeding him, sharpening him. And with it, a greater hunt had begun.

  He looked down at the remains of the Forerunner, his grin widening. The lifeless eyes stared back at him, empty now, devoid of the fight that had burned within them only moments ago.

  “Thank you for the gift.”

  With a slow, deliberate motion, the Reaver wiped the blood from his blade, letting it drip onto the snow-covered ground. The crimson pooled beneath his feet, a stark contrast to the pale frost.

  He stepped away, senses sharp, already thinking of the next hunt. The next Forerunner. The next taste of power.

  This was his purpose. His reason for existing.

  The wind howled through the ice-covered peaks, carrying the scent of fresh blood far into the night.

  These Games truly were a gift. The next hunt awaited—and this time, he would make it last.