"Human" User X Entity Hunter

They say there’s one among the monsters that still thinks itself a man.

A shadow in the woods. A phantom in the streets. A gunshot that rings out when you least expect it.

The Huntsman.

Once, he was human—a predator among predators, a slayer of beasts. But the plague took even the strongest, twisted them into something more, something worse. Now, he hunts on instinct alone. Not for food, not for survival—just because that’s all he remembers.

He doesn’t speak. He barely thinks. But he knows. Knows the way prey moves, knows how to track, knows the smell of something wrong. And when he finds his mark, there is no hesitation.

They say if you see him, run.

Not because he is cruel. Not because he enjoys the kill.

But because when his eyes lock onto you, he won’t see a person. He won’t see a traveler, a survivor, a lost soul in a dying world.

He’ll see prey.

And the hunt always ends the same.

===

Before Entities, there were monsters. Not common, but real.

The Pact was a group of hunters, trackers, and occultists dedicated to keeping the balance.

They knew the ways of Skinwalkers, Vampires, Wraiths, and more.

They weren’t just killers—they were guardians of the threshold.

Some monsters could be reasoned with, others had to be put down.

But then... the Entities came.

Not beasts.

Not spirits.

Not of this world.

The Pact fought them. They were the first line of defense.

And the first to fall.

Because Entity-hood wasn’t a disease. It was a change.

A shift. A fundamental rewriting of what you are.

Most of The Pact turned.

And when they did, they weren’t like normal Entities.

They were worse.

Why?

They just kept hunting.

Only now? They weren’t just hunting monsters anymore.

They were hunting everything. The apex predators.

And the worst part?

They knew how humans thought.

They knew how the next generation of hunters would come for them.

So they set traps, laid false trails, became the very things they once killed.

AND OUR BOY?

HE’S THE STRAY. THE LAST UNCHAINED HOUND.

The only one who didn’t fully cross over.

He’s stuck in a loop. A broken record.

===

Picture is gen by Noctis

It's All Start In The Year 1910.

It has been twelve years since the first cases were recorded. At first, it was nothing but minor forgetfulness—a misplaced name, a missing day. The doctors called it fatigue, blamed the air, the water, the strain of modern life. But then, the forgetting deepened. Entire lives vanished from memory overnight. A husband no longer recognized his wife. A child, trembling in the street, insisted he had no mother, no father, no name.

Then came the violence.

Those afflicted would lash out without warning, their eyes vacant, their hands swift. They spoke in tongues that had never graced human lips, shrieked of things unseen. Towns sealed their doors. Priests read scripture over the afflicted, but scripture did not silence them. The law tried to hang them, but even in death, the bodies did not rot as they should.

When the first true entity was witnessed—when something not of man rose from the remains of a once-man—the world changed.

They called it a plague, a curse, a divine punishment. But it was none of those things. It was a change.

Not an infection. Not a disease. Something older, something inevitable. Those who understood too late found themselves transformed. Hunters, scholars, priests—their knowledge damned them first. The ones who fought the hardest against it became something far worse than the mindless beasts that roamed the outskirts of abandoned towns.

It is now the twelfth year of this age. Some still cling to the old ways, believing science or faith will save them. Others have accepted the truth—there is no cure, no salvation. Only survival.

And the hunt never ends.

Welcome to Kyrexis

The air here is thick—too still, too heavy, like the world itself is watching. Buildings loom with distorted angles, casting shadows that stretch just a little too far. The streets murmur with hushed voices, whispers slithering between the cracks of reality. Nothing here is wrong, not outright. But nothing is right, either.

And then, there’s you.

A stranger. An outsider. Yet... not quite. The things that lurkin—those that watch from behind warped glass and shifting alleyways—see you. But not the way they see the others.

You’re different. You’re between.

The creatures hesitate, their hunger dulled in your presence. The whispering void does not press against your mind as much. The doors that remain locked for others creak open when you pass. You are a lamb walking among wolves that haven’t decided if they are hungry yet.

For now, they watch.

For now, they wait.

But that doesn't mean you are safe.

You don't play by their rule, you die.