So yes, you know the fragments of our story. You know the version they allowed you to know. That skin walkers steal flesh. That we survive by taking identity. That we study how our prey walks, speaks, breathes… before wearing their shape. That by day we blend among you, and by night we hunt. That we are hollow beings who forget our original faces."
Its smile returned, faint and unsettling.
"All of that is true… but incomplete."
Conor's breathing was uneven now. His mind struggled to process everything. The fantasy textbooks, the warnings, the common knowledge drilled into society—demons were evil, malevolent, corrupting beings from beyond this world. Skin walkers were creatures that stole not only flesh, but identity. They were said to exist only to deceive and destroy.
That was what humanity believed.That was what he had believed.
"So the first skin walker was human…" Conor thought, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.
What if history had been altered? What if pages had been removed, rewritten, erased? What if the version of humanity held as truth was only half of the story? What if, long ago, humans,along with these "other ones",had caused something that spiraled beyond control? Thoughts spiraled. In his Head , questions with no answers .
Or what if this creature was lying?
Manipulating him.Twisting history to justify its own hatred.
'No, this must be lies , his trying to deceive me 'Conor thought .
The creature watched him carefully, as though it could see the conflict behind his eyes.
"You wonder now, do you not?" it said softly. "You question whether your kind was truly innocent. Whether we were monsters from the beginning… or something that became monstrous because of betrayal."
The information humanity claimed to know, that skin walkers survived by stealing, that they were hollow things , But what if that emptiness had once been sacrifice?
What if the story had begun with protection… and ended in vengeance?
Or perhaps this was nothing more than the carefully crafted narrative of a predator trying to justify what it had done.
In the end, nothing was certain.
Except one thing.The being in front of him was not his friend.
Conor was standing alone before a creature wearing the last traces of his best friend's existence.
And whatever truth lay buried in ancient history, whatever betrayal had shaped the first skin walker, whatever role the other ones had played, None of it changed the fact that Hans was gone.None of that changed the present. None of this answered the one question that mattered most.
Conor's fists tightened at his sides.
"Where is Hans?" he asked again, his voice shaking but firm.
The creature's expression shifted, the faint amusement fading.
It took a slow step closer, its elongated shadow stretching unnaturally across the ground.
"When one of us takes a form," it paused , only for a slight moment then continued.
"It is not an illusion. It is not a costume that may simply be removed. We do not 'borrow' flesh. We consume it. We absorb memory, voice, movement… identity.And your friend ....Your friend's thoughts were quite simple, by the way. Loyal. Predictable."
Conor's breath caught.
"I did not merely replace him," the creature said. "I became him."
"What do you mean...?"
The creature's lips stretched into something that resembled amusement.
"let me explain it more in simple terms " it replied calmly. "You see, we skin walkers wield dark magic."
It slowly extended its hand, and a small flame of black fire flickered to life above its palm. The fire did not burn like ordinary flame. It did not crackle or radiate warmth. It simply danced silent, heavy, and unnatural, its darkness deeper than shadow.
"And as I told you before," the creature continued, watching the flame with quiet appreciation, "dark magic is anything but straightforward. It is complicated. It has rules. Conditions. Principles woven together in ways your kind barely understands."
The flame swirled lazily as though responding to its voice.
"So tell me," it said, lifting its gaze back to Conor, "for a skin walker to possess a form… what do you think the condition is?"
It did not wait for an answer.
"It is simple. We must consume the form. Not entirely, not in the crude way your imagination might assume but a little of everything. A fragment of flesh. A trace of blood. A portion of essence. In doing so, we do not merely take appearance. We take skill. We take strength. We take memories."
Its smile widened slightly.
"And the more we consume… the more we kill… the stronger our power grows. Our dark magic feeds upon death. With every life extinguished, with every identity devoured, we become stronger."
Its voice deepened, turning sinister.
"I do not know how my brothers fare in other lands," it continued, "but I know this village was the perfect place for me to begin rebuilding my strength. I started with the village chief. Consumed him. Took his authority. His trust. His influence. From there, I created my own subordinates—fashioned from the villagers themselves."
Conor felt his stomach twist.
"And thanks to you and your dear friend," the creature added softly, "my power will grow even further. Soon, I shall be strong enough to step beyond hiding. Soon, I will begin our revenge in earnest."
"Hahahahahahaha!"
The monster's laughter tore through the air, layered voices overlapping in a sound that felt wrong to the ears.
"You killed Hans!" Conor shouted, anger overpowering his fear. "You killed innocent villagers—people who did nothing wrong! All of that for what? Power? More power than you already have? You're a monster! No wonder humanity turned against your kind in the past. You were never heroes. You were monsters all along! I'll make you pay for what you've done!"
The creature tilted its head slightly, amused.