A few budding leaves I had growing were flying up in the air. Their owner? Still in the goddamn ground! Vila…I veered my stem towards her. “You got guts for a two hundred-year-old fairy. And here I was thinking you’d learn a thing or two.”

  “Oh wow, uh, uh, so…I guess different things with different weights work differently. Shoulda known casting the same spell without fine-tuning it would cause something like that,” she said, her voice was as tepid as a mouse.

  I furled a leaf into a small baton.

  “Oh well, would you look at the sun! I have to fly home Sallix!” Vila shouted as she flew away from my sense and impending revenge. I could still feel bright light beaming down on me at full force, it was barely noon. We just started our magic lesson too…One of my leaves drifted on top of me. What an amazing company I have.

  ……….

  Bestiary Entry: Nighthaunters

  An arachnid that reigns over the lightless and paths less travelled. Luckily, its distribution has been capped to the temperate forests of Northern Krailas. The species exudes an acute sexual dimorphism, females tower over their male counterparts. Females can reach upwards of ten meters tall versus their five-meter companions. Lifespan is undetermined. Most common cause of death is inter-species competition. The second most common is starvation after exhausting the local wildlife.

  It is a keystone species of these unforgiving ecosystems, serving as apex predators and fodder. Prey includes drakes, furgal bears, and any animal it considers delicious. The young, which number in the thousands during the yearly spawning, are nutrient bombs for plants and animals. Their closest biological counterpart is the humble jumping spider. How this species evolved legs strong enough to jump after dragons is unknown.

  All adventurers are instructed to kill any young below the size of one meter. Individuals above said size class are to be reported to the nearest guild for organized extermination.

  -Monster Encyclopedia Vol. 6

  ……….

  Hunger. Consume. Reproduce. These words are branded into each Nighthaunter’s biological memory. Over hundreds of generations, every DNA strand has undergone brutal preening. Capacity for empathy? Unnecessary. Intelligence? Wasted calories. Kinship? Killed at birth. In mating, the female will eat her mate without a second thought. If you’re lucky enough, you can be mentally scarred by witnessing the decapitated abdomen of a male still ‘doing the deed.’

  But occasionally, a recessive gene claws its way out.

  Thousands of eggs, the size of your fingernail, have been carried on this female Nighthaunter’s back for the last two months. She is now finally releasing her cargo. As the first cracking is heard, she finds an open field in the woods to sequester herself. This way, it is easier to reclaim her spent nutrients.

  A symphony of bursts erupts in the air. Nighthaunter eggs have evolved to emerge as a collective in hopes of overwhelming the mother. Laughable.

  As the ground and air are overlayed with baby shadows, the mother scoops up hundreds with the barbed hooks running along her leg. As the young fan out, she leaps after them. The vibrations from her impact alone rupture dozens of internal organs. The lucky few die immediately from the weight of her abdomen.

  Instead of following his sisters and brothers north. One Nighthaunt has chosen to go west. The sounds of soft exoskeletons crushed beneath fangs the size of a human are the local ambience during its scurry. His janky leg hops are all he can muster. His exoskeleton has not hardened yet. Lucky pickings for any nearby wildlife. If he is lucky, the web spinner on his thorax will mature in a week.

  Whether it is a crack, thud, or cry of an animal, the Nighthaunt dives into nearby detritus. A single leaf is double his size. His eyes dart through the forest floor for any signs of his mother.

  Little did he know, the move west was the luckiest decision he had ever made. Young Furgal Bears gobbled siblings who fled south. Roaming Pitcher Plants ingested those in the east. In the north, the mother is finishing her snack. If she is desperate, she will begin gnawing the surrounding trees for sustenance.

  After a few more mad dashes, he encounters a fallen log. The first syllables of his species have emerged: “In-con-ven-ient,” he chatters. Each leg slams into the log, burying its hooks into the rotten bark. With the struggling energy of a divorcée making their child support payments, he crawls over the log. It’s a win for the tiny terror.

  As the night clocks in for its shift, he finds a small hovel to rest in. A field mouse tries to defend its home with miserable shrieks and bared incisor teeth. His first hunt. If the rodent snags his leg, those teeth will pierce through the chitin. It is a battle of speed.

  The Nighthaunt raises his forelegs and bares his fangs. His hindlegs are primed. The field mouse lets out a small breath. A blur and a squeal echo from the dirt hole.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  After a minute, half a millimetre of concentrated acid has dissolved the mouse’s insides. Ambitious researchers will often keep Nighthaunters as pets for this alchemical brew. Adventurer guilds almost always clean up the mess after the fool’s errand escapes the lab.

  After devouring the meat smoothie, all that remains is the deflated sack of fur once known as a common field mouse. His eight ebony eyes gaze at the emerging stars. “Eat?” he asks.

  Not yet.

  For a week, he continues to travel west. When his legs tire, his web spinner will spin silk into the wind, flying him to new locations. If he survives, his webs will fell giants. Penal legions are oftentimes sentenced to clearing old Nighthaunter webs. Poor scouting from underfunded adventurer groups has led to prisoners clearing occupied bases. Poor scum never had a chance.

  Occasionally, the darting image of a miniature person with wings flies by. Too fast to catch. The foliage grows thin as he travels, there must be a small enough plant to set up base. Another flying food brushes past. He leaps for it.

  “WHAT THE F-” screams the ‘office’ manager. The Nighthaunter goes through her and catches himself on a nearby tree branch.

  “Oh, by Nyla’s mercy, don’t scare me like that you damn spider. Were it not for my responsibilities as protector of this place I would have blown you to smithereens,” said the purple-haired woman.

  He shoots a band of silk at her. The strand veers off to the side and lands in a bush. Strange, his webs have never missed. There was no wind either. His biological instincts were accurate.

  “Good try, you can’t. I haven’t broken any rules, you can’t hurt me, you unlovable goblin,” she says, her deep tone raising the hairs along the Nighthaunt’s legs. Her minuscule frame carries the same weight as his parent. Eating her will make him stronger.

  He bares his fangs and raises his forelegs in a defensive posture. “Goblin,” he echoes.

  “Who do you think you are talking to me like that? I will ground you into a fine paste and use you as compost,” she yells. The Nighthaunt stares up at her, none of those words registered as thoughts in his hypothetical brain.

  “I am an adult fairy, I make rational decisions,” she says, gripping the orchid petals dangling from her waist. “When did you guys evolve speech? Wait, why am I entertaining this conversation? Vila snuck off to Sallix again, didn’t she? Well, good luck, you invalid. Go find some food somewhere else,” the fairy replies.

  He arches his leg towards her. “Food?” he asked.

  “NO,” she says, smacking her head, “You need to be put down. Find something else. Count yourself lucky you found me…Vila would have accidentally blasted you already. Now shoo, you’re ruining the scenery with the ink mess you call a body,” she said. Mana signatures manifested in the air, hexagons embraced by a circle. Under the sunlight, the fairy disappeared.

  The Nighthaunt scratched his head. This was his first taste of failure. Stupid creature, she should have eaten him. How dare she insult him and leave? He was the first Nighthaunt in history to experience spite. When he grows, he must consume this disfigured butterfly.

  “Have I gotten soft? I normally fly fast enough to avoid any animals,” mumbled Vehyr. The last few days had been filled with Vila’s antics. Perhaps she was the cause of this lapse in ability. “Heh, time to make her do laps around Veledub,” she grinned. Another torrent of wind was left in her wake.

  Despite being distracted by this mental vendetta, the spider continues his journey across the forest canopy. Whether in a fit of frustration or a pang of hunger, he lunges for a flying robin. His silk wraps around its tail feathers, pulling it to the forest floor. The bird dances madly, the silk cage strangling it further. Serrated teeth introduce themselves to its neck. The greetings are not mutual. The venom infects every vein and artery in the bird, boiling and coagulating it into a fine paste. Delectable. It dies quickly and painfully.

  As he consumes his first meal of the day, the Nighthaunt surveys the surrounding air. In front of him, the treeline hits a pause. Compacted dirt has rendered a thin strip of the area into an ecological dead zone. A disfigured log is moving on the strip. Two beasts pull at it. How are they cooperating without eating each other? This is why the Nighthaunt will survive.

  Sitting inside the log are four oversized meals. Two offspring are cradled in the arms of a female. Another strange scene, the mother should be tearing apart the juveniles. The nourishment will aid her in future engagements. Her mate is at the front, controlling the beasts. Has the mother terrified him into subservience?

  The log was drawing away from him. Will they also insult him if he fails to eat them? Haunting. Perhaps he’ll stick with eating what he knows until he grows bigger. There will always be more calories. The log continues its journey into the woods, its inhabitants unaware of the wildlife attention they awarded themselves.

  The forests finally begin to thin. The emerging moonlight paints the sparsely littered trees in silver dust. Will he ever find a permanent home?

  Beyond, in a small outcropping, he sees it. A feeble stick in the ground. Was it recently infested with caterpillars? Only a few healthy leaves remain on the starved figure.

  Regardless, it’s a good beginning. He will accompany this plant until he outgrows it. Its underarms are the perfect size to hide under. The lack of apex predators will be the optimal nursery this far out in the western edges.

  As long as this plant is not like the butterfly or the dysfunctional mother, the Nighthaunt can finally relax. He scurries down from his vantage point and daintily weaves through the grass. His eyes glance at the surrounding lion’s mane. They are in full bloom tonight, their gold wreathes under the moonlight give birth to amber hues.

  He looks down at his legs. They have never deviated from the obsidian paint. His eyes stare at his fangs, his beady reflection leers back at him. “Not unlove goblin,” he mumbles. A leg dips into the pollen. He can do so much with this! He can paint his body, and create new art for his species. A Nighthaunt shall venture beyond the shackles of biologically determined pigmentation!

  It is unnecessary.

  The amber colour is smeared on a nearby blade of grass. The scurry continues. The last silk reserves are shot on top of the plant. A nimble tie of two leaves together creates a makeshift burrow for him.

  The Nighthaunter hops in. The autumn breeze converts his home into a convertible hammock. He peers into the night sky one last time before he retires for bed. “Eat, sleep, grow,” he says, repeating the mantra that had kept his species from extinction for centuries. “Eat purple one. Be love. Catch white ball on sky,” he continues.

  These are not in a Nighthaunter’s dictionary.