The boss dropped from the highest branch. The Hollow Stag. Its antlers were made of white branches. Its ribs were visible through its body, and inside the ribs burned a small eclipse. Every step it took erased the ground behind it.
My bat scouts vanished when they got too close. My ghost knights lowered their blades, but their outlines flickered. This was not just a boss. It was a territory.
It lowered its head. The whole forest charged with it.
I had no chance of overpowering that, so I did what I was good at. I cheated with style.
I sent my shadow wolves in every direction except forward. The Hollow Stag expected me to dodge, so it spread roots wide to catch me. I did not dodge. I jumped off my mount and ran straight at it across the roots. The curse burned. My stats surged under moonlight. Not enough to make me stronger than the boss, but enough to make my stupidity look intentional.
The stag lowered its antlers. At the last second, I threw my cloak into its face. Not to blind it. To make it think I was still inside the cloak. I dropped flat, slid under its chest, and stabbed the eclipse between its ribs.
My dagger snapped. That was inconvenient.
The stag kicked me through a tree. I hit the ground, rolled, and came up with both arms shaking. Broken daggers, bruised ribs, health dropping. Very cinematic, very painful.
The stag turned for the finishing charge. Behind it, my wolves completed the circle.
I had not been trying to kill the boss with daggers. I had been marking its shadow from every angle.
The pack howled together, and lines of darkness snapped tight around the stag's legs, antlers, throat, and ribs. It stumbled. My ghost guards rushed in and pinned the lines with their swords. The ogre shadow lifted a tree root like a club. The bats dove into the trapped moon in the trunk.
I raised one hand and pulled. The stolen player shadows tore free from the branches and crashed down into the Hollow Stag like a rain of black knives. The boss screamed, not because I was stronger, but because every stolen shadow remembered being afraid. I used that fear as a weapon.
The stag collapsed, the eclipse in its ribs cracking. I walked up with no daggers, no shield, and no patience. Then I grabbed its antlers and slammed my forehead into its skull. Once, twice, and the third time the eclipse broke.
Night territory conquered. Shadow pack expanded. Hollow Wood authority claimed.
The forest went silent. Every tree bowed away from me. I stood in the middle of that cursed place, bleeding from my face, laughing like an idiot, while a pack of shadow wolves circled at my feet.
I had entered a maze. I left with a road.
From then on, every night became a campaign. I hunted moon dungeons other players skipped because the schedule was inconvenient. I cleared grave towers that only opened when clouds covered the stars. I invaded spider dens where the webs were made of nightmares, and came out wearing a scarf woven from their queen's shadow. I fought a lake monster by freezing its reflection with ghost blades and forcing it to drown in its own mirror. I stole a bell from a haunted monastery and used it to summon my ghost guards in perfect formation whenever I rang it.
Was I still cursed? Painfully.
During the day, I was a disaster with legs. I moved through alleys, sewers, tunnels, and abandoned cellars. One careless sunbeam could drop me to my knees. Holy fountains made my skin smoke. Priests glared when I passed, and low-level players suddenly got brave when morning came.
One group tried to rob me at noon. That was adorable.
They cornered me in a market alley, saw me leaning against the wall under a torn awning, and assumed the curse made me helpless. One had a spear. One had a fire wand. One had the confidence of someone who had never been corrected by consequences.
They told me to hand over my cloak. I told them it did not match their shoes.
The spear came first. My daytime stats were low, but low stats do not erase timing. I tilted my head, let the spear scrape my cheek, grabbed the shaft, and pulled the attacker into the sunlight patch I had been avoiding. He stumbled forward, blocking the sun from me.
Shade. Beautiful shade.
My shadow stretched. A single ghost hand rose from it, grabbed his ankle, and flipped him into his friends. I could not summon my full army in daylight, but even a sliver of darkness was enough if I used it like a scalpel.
The fire wand user panicked and shot at my chest. I grabbed the spear guy's cloak, spun it in front of me, and the fire caught the fabric instead. Smoke filled the alley. Smoke made shade. Shade made me smile.
Five seconds later, all three were hanging upside down from a signpost by shadow ropes, screaming that they had made a mistake. I said mistakes were educational. Then I took their lunch, because conquering the night burned calories.
Rumors changed after that. At first, people said I was unlucky. Then they said I was unstable. Then they said I was farming forbidden monsters. Then they said not to say my name near a window after sunset, because bats might be listening.
They were right about that one.
My scouts were everywhere. I learned which guilds were planning raids. I learned where rare dungeons spawned. I learned which players mocked me during the day and double locked their doors at night.
I did not attack most of them. That would have been petty. I simply let bats perch outside their windows and stare. Fear is cheaper than violence and lasts longer.
But power attracts attention, and attention brings idiots with glowing swords.