Exile means total erasure.

You have not been forgotten. Because you never existed at all. Every beat of your heart isn't worth counting. Even shackled slaves are valuable. Even the dead are silenced.

The flesh-toothed beast that gave birth to me thinks I'm worthless. The name Rengar was no longer recognized by them as a kindred, let alone the son of Chief Poengal. I can't get into their eyes, I can't get close to them.

This is the fate of going and never returning.

At least that's what they told me. But time and blood can change that fate.

My heart was still beating, so I went to them with the loot I had collected on the Hunter's Path. Without saying a word, they brought me to my father's eyes. He allowed me to return to the tribe and let my name and face be remembered and my heartbeat to be counted again.

Then he prescribed conditions.

I have to track down a dark shadow. Razor-blade crumbs on a dark moonlit night. Abomination.

As long as I return to the jungle with its head, I will no longer be a banishment.

I became one with the woods. I listen, I smell, I feel. I savor the traces left by thousands of animals, in all shapes and sizes. It was my intuition, sharpened by the cold teachings of a human who spotted an outcast and took it to the path of the hunter. To this day, the dagger that Malcon gave me is still with me.

I searched for the evil thing. It inhabits it, but it doesn't fit in.

I left the spoils of war in the camp and did not wear them on my body. All I had was the blade of pursuit, the oil, and the heart of a hunter who did not slow down.

In the bustling rainforest, there is no trace of it, and then it appears. It was faint, but distinct, and it drifted through my senses. The remaining strangeness was so turbid and sweet that I stopped to savor it. Utterly filthy. Disgusting. Its hostility to all life is beyond my ability to describe. Destroy all things in the world.

The real hunt began. I traced the trails.

I wandered around the trail and never touched it directly. I endured the smell of that evil creature until the sound of blood dropped.

Something is dying. Just behind a few trees ahead. It didn't die a happy death.

A flock of sharp-beaked birds. Although not at the top of the chain, they are still predators and rarely become prey. The things that attack them are neither cornered by hunger nor concerned about their danger.

I bared my teeth and smiled. It seems that there are still challenges.

The stench of evil was overflowing, wrapped in the bright feathers of blood in the fallen leaves. I leapt onto a thick, twisted tree, my claws dragging me silently into the canopy. I crouched in the shadows of the trees, savoring the humidity of the air and gathering my gaze in search of my prey.

It's fast, and that's what it's been honed for so long. I could only catch a glimpse of him as he shuttled back and forth, finishing the hunt and preparing for a feast.

The loot is not the target of its hunt. I felt a stronger hunger in its movements, something beyond the primal desire to survive.

The last beaked bird died, and the creature slowed down. But even then, it never stood still. It disappears like smoke on the ground. I can see it more clearly now. I felt an itch in my brain.

It's like an insect, but it's not really. Its body doesn't make sense. The limbs, flesh, carapace, and claws did not look like they could grow from a creature, and they were wrapped in a shiny exoskeleton, and the black and purple color was like rotten fruit. The air and sunlight distorted close to its body, not wanting to touch it.

Suffice it to know this. This evil creature also bears the mark of the Vault Dweller. I'm going to send it back to where the filth was born.

Grabbing Malcon's dagger, I fell from the trunk.

I fell silently behind it. It didn't notice me. I know how to move silently until moments of accomplishment and excitement come with the fatal blow. I've become a predator at the top, it's adaptation, it's instinct, and at this moment, my instinct screams that something is wrong.

Hesitation saved my life, otherwise I would be like those sharp-beaked birds. I could barely see the air-tearing claw, and I almost stood there. It had known about my coming. If I hadn't stopped all of a sudden, it would have killed me just now.

Everything went so smoothly. It's so simple. I should have realized earlier. Poengaf's promises left me blind, and my self-confidence fermented into arrogance, exposing me.

The monster made a string of squeaks in its throat. Putrefaction flowed from between his teeth. There's movement behind it, and the carapace is straining. It hissed, not knowing whether it was pain or pleasure. A pair of newborn limbs burst out of their shells and stretched out into ugly, wet wings. It had seen the threat I posed, and it had metamorphosed. It doesn't want to be prey.

I rushed forward.

It's too slow. The creature knocked Malcon's dagger out of my hand. Stupid and indecisive, my eyes followed the dagger. This mistake opened my door wide and allowed the evil thing to strike.

Another bladed claw pounced. Blazing sting. There was a roar between my ears.

I stepped back. His face was covered in blood.

I scrambled to pull away, trying to squeeze out the red in my field of vision. The right eye is blurred. It's dark on the left. The roar was endless.

I reached out and touched my face. That's when I realized what the monster had taken away.

It flapped its wings vigorously to shake off the remaining slime. It flew over my head. It bared its fangs but didn't provoke, and it didn't sneer. It lifted my left eye and watched it slowly lower the blood-red bead between my teeth and swallow it.

A bout of nausea. I clenched my fists and rubbed my last remaining eye.

Filthy. It snatched my role as a hunter right now. I don't feel any pain anymore. There is only anger.

I threw myself at it with all my might. I don't need a dagger. I had natural claws and a high-pitched roar. I won't be defeated.

We bumped into each other.

The raging Crimson Dance never seemed to end. We took turns chasing each other. This abomination is cold darkness. I am at the heart of the vengeful sun. We cut each other, round after round, and the world around us no longer mattered.

Finally, night fell, and my enemies fled.

Or maybe it's just me deceiving myself, maybe it's learned everything about me, and instinct directs it to seek something more important. Exhaustion wells up. I fell, leaving only bloody wounds and a new, terrible sense that I was connected to the monster. The moment it ate my eyeballs, the bond was formed.

The flesh-toothed beast called the evil thing Kazik.

In the ancient mortal language, it means "you face yourself".

To be sure, as we fight, it also transforms, grows and struggles. It continues to move forward, constantly approaching its limits, while I look back at myself, looking back at the past and the tribe I was born into, evoking the wrath of my exile.

This is not enough. It has adapted to change, and I have to learn to adapt as well.

Because my hunt never fails.