Shadow of Panther

Shadow of Panther

Before becoming part of the "Borsk Brothers," Panther never knew what home felt like, nor the warmth of a hearth or a safe night's sleep. For her, the concept of "home" was tied from early childhood to the stench of rotting needles, damp moss, and blood-curdling fear.

She grew up on the very edge of the Bor forest in a small village of Avtozavodskaya hunters, lost among the centuries-old pines. Her family - father, mother and older brother - were stern but kind people. Her father taught the little Panther to read footprints on the wet ground and understand the language of the thicket, and her mother sewed durable clothes for her that did not restrict her movements. In those distant years, the girl was called by her real name, and the crimson flame of rage did not yet burn in her eyes.

Everything changed on a single autumn night when Panther turned twelve.

The village came under attack. These weren't ordinary forest monsters or a band of raiders. Out of the fog stepped silent, pale figures with terrifyingly crisp military posture. They didn't loot or make demands—they systematically, without a word or an ounce of emotion, wiped out every living soul. Panther, hidden by her father in a deep cellar beneath a pile of dry straw, could only make out one man through the gaps in the floorboards who was directing this bloody massacre.

He was a young, tall warrior in a cloak. His movements were stamped with a cold, almost surgical precision. As burning huts collapsed and people died, there was neither malice nor cruelty on his face—only a deep, detached curiosity, like a scientist dissecting another insect. Panther remembered how, right before leaving, the stranger stepped on a bloodstained piece of a child's toy, paused for a second, and then with quiet, barely perceptible satisfaction crushed it under his heel, a subtle smile touching the corners of his lips.

She had no idea who that man was. That night, her entire family perished. Left completely orphaned in a village burned to ash, the young girl swore to herself that she would never be a helpless victim again.

She retreated deep into the impassable thickets of the Borsk realm, taking only a pair of ancient ritual daggers found in the embers of her father's home. The forest became her brutal teacher. Panther learned to survive on her own, foraging on raw roots and fighting for every single day of her life.

She despised bulky armor.

“Armor is just a heavy cage that makes it easier to trap and gut you,” she loved to repeat years later.

Over time, her combat attire was tailored down to the finest detail: tight, form-fitting jeans that allowed for insane, lightning-fast jumps and rolls, and a thick hoodie with dark-green woodland camo that blended seamlessly into the gloomy canopy. In these clothes, she could lie in wait two steps away from a passing enemy, and they would never notice her presence.

Yet her true power was born out of pain.

Panther discovered her crimson rage during her first real fight with wild defiler-wolves. Cornered against a towering cliff, the young girl found herself encircled by predators. Clutching her daggers in bloodied hands, she recalled that horrific night, the flames of her burning home, and the hollow eyes of her family's killer. The fear inside her burned away instantly.

Instead of panic, absolute, pure ice gripped her mind, while concentrated battle rage surged through her body. A crimson haze flared up around her. The tighter the wolves closed the circle, the stronger the breath of death felt, the faster her blood pumped. That day, she didn't just survive—she turned into a crimson whirlwind, tearing the pack to shreds in seconds.

From that point on, being surrounded by multiple enemies didn't frighten her—it fed her. A lone opponent was just a routine target, but in the heat of battle, as the ring closed in, her rage hit its peak. The daggers in her hands moved at breakneck speeds, carving out fans of spectral blades and unleashing relentless barrages of lethal strikes.

Years of isolation made Panther quiet and secretive. Behind jabby banter and an ironic smirk, she hid deep trauma, having learned to trust no one.

And yet, when fate brought her together with Grisha, Cockatoo, and Felix Steiner, a flicker of hope began to warm her hardened heart. In the "Borsk Brothers" squad, she felt like part of a real family for the very first time.

Felix was the ideal leader. He took care of the team, always threw up his shield in battle, and shared his last crust of bread with them. But sometimes… very rarely, in moments when the tension of battle faded, Panther caught something strange in him.

One evening, while the "Borsk Brothers" were unwinding after a tough skirmish with forest beasts, Panther spotted Felix sitting by a dying campfire. In his hands, a half-alive, wounded forest beetle was squirming. Felix didn't kill it, nor did he let it go. With a completely calm, friendly look on his face, he slowly, with surgical precision, tore off the insect's thin legs one by one, carefully observing its spasms. That same barely noticeable, quiet smile played on his lips.

Noticing Panther staring, Steiner's expression shifted instantly. Flicking the beetle into the flames, he offered her a warm smile, adjusted her camo hoodie, and said softly: — Get some rest, Panther. I'll take the watch. In this world, we have to protect the ones we love.

The girl merely nodded then, wrapping herself tightly in her cloak. At that moment, her heart squeezed with a strange, subconscious chill. She couldn't possibly know that noble Felix Steiner, who decided to gather the strongest warriors around himself to realize his future grand ambitions, had personally wiped out her village years ago, methodically slaughtering the weak to see if anyone worthy would survive that hellish blaze…