Turlesh’s tongue slithered through the air, tasting the traces of magic.

‘So, so, weak,’ he thought. It was in reference both to the general ambient magic and the boss he was currently facing. The Voraroot, the monster awaiting anyone who made it to the end of the Summer’s Rest dungeon, was a monster between a carnivorous plant, octopus and a spider. It had squeezed out of its spawning pod in the ceiling and was now hooking the tips of its tentacles into the wooden walls. Its head dangled from the centre, swinging like a pendulum. The shape was dominated by a large jaw and four pincers. Bad as its senses were, it had to rely on its prey moving into proximity of its head.

Turlesh lowered his own and followed the track of his prey. He had arrived on the leaf a couple of days ago and had steadily followed the track. It was a bit difficult at times to resist the urge to tear down the villages he passed by, but Turlesh was a good servant of the Empress’ master. ‘Have to find Spark Eater,’ he thought, moving up to the wall opposite of the entrance.

The boss still failed to notice him and would never get to suicidally try and bite the Deathhound, as Turlesh rammed his four clawed hands into the wood and pried it open. What should have only opened when the boss was defeated, the Tharnatos class demon opened with ease. Behind, he revealed a number of chests and a tunnel. While he could have forced open those chests as well, he would have found them empty. The Deathhound was more interested in the tunnel anyway and followed it back outside.

The Deathhound hadn’t ran past that boss for the first time today, but it was finally the last. Because of the way he tracked his prey, Turlesh had to follow the path of the slime exactly. That did include any back and forth commuting between locations. Consequently, Turlesh preferred it when his target either rested somewhere for a stretch of time, or kept moving somewhere. Even a demon felt silly going from A to B, back, and back again, about thirty times.

The crowd that had gathered, watching the Deathhound come back out of the dungeon from a safe distance, did not feel like laughing. They were all far too terrified of what they were looking at. The two and a half metre long monstrosity, with a tail that added over another one, of polished, leathery skin and muscle was far too alien to make fun of.

Turlesh considered tearing the crowd apart and to feast on their skulls. Aside from the back and forth, the look of the Summer Rest island annoyed him. Everything was bright, summerly and green. He hated the overburdening colours and how they burned themselves into his retinas. He had devoured among the Hellroots most of his life so this Leaf was safe and he hated it. He hated the chaotic ways of nature. The only chaos he desired was that of a battlefield and a crowd feverishly worshipping the Empress – often one and the same thing.

The magical track directed him westwards, and he growled quietly with contentment at this fact. ‘Bright place, blessed place, makes me annoyed,’ he thought and started running. Running into the forest. Out of principle, he tore down the shack between which and the dungeon he had repeatedly travelled. ‘Home of prey is just another target,’ he justified to himself, before targeting the hills.

On the western stretch of them, far away from the onlookers, the Deathhound stopped and raised his head. His tongue, once more, tasted the air. The track bent into the air there. Turlesh was aware that his prey could fly. As ugly as he found the slime’s wings to be, just as obscenely vibrant as the summer around him, he did acknowledge that they had to work.

As a Deathhound, he had no need of such limbs to get off the ground.

Turlesh’s four eyes independently moved around, looking for his path. Every world was a Leaf of the Omniverse, every Leaf was filled with veins, every vein was a path through which the divinely created aspects of the Leaf were given the energy to sustain their operations. Their density and size also caused the ambient mana in the air to be more or less. Arcanists and similarly self-sufficient casters named these veins Leylines. Druids and Shamans and similarly naturalistic casters preferred the title of Leaf Veins. Priests and similarly divinely attuned casters called them Divine Paths. To Turlesh, they were a way to move over the ocean.

Much like some insects could move on top of water, powerful demons could interact with the Omniverse’s energy with such harmony that they could grasp these veins. Angels and demons, protectors of the Branches and Roots, they could pull off this miracle. Certain specialized mortals could as well, but that was a vast exception from the rule. Only gods and Parasytes, however, could hope to withdraw power from those veins.

Moving was good enough for Turlesh and he spotted a vein that would bring him where he wanted to go. He grasped it with the same certainty a monkey would grab a tree branch and pulled himself up. Quickly, he pulled himself along the vein. There were others nearby, not a whole lot of them, but enough to correct his course whenever he moved too far away from the tracks.

Once past the ocean, he ran again. He ran faster, much faster, than a horse in full sprint. His stamina was boundless and he continued on and on. The trail may have continued in the sky, but he could still sense it as long as he moved directly under it. That was enough.

His steps broke roads. An unlucky cabbage merchant drove his cart in the path of the Deathhound. The unrelenting force shattered the wooden vehicle, broke his legs and sent his donkeys into a panic. Later on, he would report to only have seen a horrifying streak pass him by, vanishing in the jungle.

Turlesh moved onto Verdany, taking a few days where the group needed several weeks. The insides of the dungeons, he barely cared about. When a monster was in the way or offensively bright, he killed it. The boss went ignored again. All the Deathhound cared for was the track. As long as he could follow it, killing was only something he did when something was offensively bright and conveniently in reach.

“How farrrrrrr?” Turlesh growled, while charging back north. Useful as it was, the Fate Tracking did not give any indication of how much further he had to go to reach his target. Turlesh could only keep going on, certain that, eventually, he would reach his target.

The bridge came into view, the massive stone construct that spanned this particular strait. It was somewhat more convenient than using the veins, so Turlesh would have been eager to see it, had it not been for the big, dark blue humanoid that stood right next to it. His skin was leathery, like Turlesh’s, but less smooth and polished in its appearance. There were patches that looked like stone scales, covering shoulders and limbs mostly. A grey mane stretched up his neck, over his head, and left only an ugly face with a giant nose and thick lips behind. Tusks jutted out of the humanoids mouth.

He wore only a loincloth, leaving the rest of his body naked. Far taller than a human and even a good bit taller than Turlesh, the being was an impressive figure. His dull green eyes narrowed at the approaching demon. His hand reached for a massive stone club, standing nearby, the three thick fingers grabbing the leather wrapped handle.

“PAY TROLL TOLL!” the bridge-warden shouted at the sprinting demon and swung his club.

Turlesh had to stop and jump back to avoid the hit. Hissing past his uniformly sized canines, the Deathhound prowled back and forth in front of the troll. One eye looked the semi-monstrous being up and down, the other three looked at their surroundings. “Troll… troll…” he mumbled. “Annoying creature.”

“You pay troll toll to Turl,” the troll declared.

The Deathhound’s maw parted properly, the teeth parting halfway down its elongated, flexible head. Saliva dripped onto the dirt road, black and gooey. “Your name – similar to mine.”

“Don’t care, just remember Turl. Turl take toll, you don’t have to pay toll in year.”

“Turlesh is in Empress’ book.”

“Turl shorter. Shorter better.”

The Deathhound rushed forwards and slashed open the troll’s chest down to the ribs. The blue-skinned, and blooded, humanoid shrugged it off without issue and swung his club. Flying several metres, Turlesh stopped himself by holding onto one of the veins, before dropping down on Turl.

Dull as he may have been, the troll possesses excellent combat instincts and dodged back. He dodged backwards, several claws missing him, and then pulled his club up in an upward swing. Turlesh caught the strike with his two left arms. “You – bother – me,” he hissed.

“Pay toll!” Turl insisted, the two of them holding their position with stubborn intent. The wounds on the troll’s chest were already healing again, the regeneration factor of the bridge-warding species was renowned for a reason.

“What do you want?” Turlesh asked. ‘Have places to be, many places, can’t waste time tearing apart a troll, would take too long.’

“Will know when shown,” Turl responded.

Growling with frustration, the Deathhound was reminded that, no matter when he was summoned, trolls were always dull and unknowing. “I hate you,” Turlesh hissed.

“Can’t pay toll with that, not funny or beautiful,” the troll let go of his club and instead hurled his fist at the Deathhound. Catching it, the demon threw Turl over his head and slammed him down on the ground. The two giant creatures engaged in a series of quick strikes, Turlesh steadily on the offensive, Turl never able to do more than drive the Tharnatos class demon back for a couple of moments.

Raising both hands, the troll tried to smash Turlesh’s head between his palms. Instead, his arms got caught by one each of the demon’s four. Their limbs trembled, competing for dominance. No matter how hard he tried, Turl couldn’t overcome the resistance. Reaching upwards, Turlesh’s sharp talons reached for the trolls’ eyes. Laughing victoriously, he had already sunk his way into one socket, when Turl screamed and kicked the Deathhound with all he had.

Turlesh was driven back, tearing trenches into the skin of the troll in the process. His upper right arm pulled with it the eye of the troll and snapped it out in the process. The troll screamed, enraged. While the demon dangled the ocular by its nerve cord. He raised it up high, curved his flexible head as if he was going to eat it, then stopped and turned it so it ended up laying in his palm.

“My toooolllllll,” he said, drawn out, offering the eye with urgent motions.

Turl looked down on the eye. It would heal much faster if he popped it back in, even the dull being knew that, but that wasn’t the offering here. Although the troll was too strong to be completely ignored, the Deathhound was still a league above. Combat between them would be lengthy and ultimately end in Turlesh’s victory. The demon just didn’t care to spend the time.

“Troll toll… paid…” Turl grumbled, essentially giving a surrender. He received his eye back and Turlesh resumed on his path.

Nothing else on the Leaf had any chance to stand up to him. It was only a matter of time before he caught up. A couple of weeks at most. The Deathhound was coming for Aclysia, Apexus and Reysha.

And they knew nothing about it.