......

  The morning mist had not yet fully lifted. The damp air carried a blend of wet earth, decaying leaves, and the faint, musky scent of grass and greenery that always drifted in from the deeper forest.

  The column marched across the relatively flat stretch of wilderness between the village and The Duskwood—a winding footpath worn smooth by generations of human boots and animal hooves leading toward the distant tree line.

  Brog walked at the very front, like the lead ram guiding a flock.

  “Right now our hunting team—including you—totals one hundred and three.” Brog’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried clearly over the soft crunch of boots on soil, reaching Rune who followed half a step behind. “Forty-nine full members. Fifty-four probationers.”

  He tilted his head slightly, glancing back at the loose, serpentine line stretching behind them, and continued:

  “We follow the ‘one veteran, one rookie’ rule. Each experienced hunter takes responsibility for one green probationer. Problem is—”

  He gave a small shrug; the thick pauldrons of his armor scraped faintly against each other.

  “—veterans are always in short supply. So each of the four lieutenants carries an extra. Regular members take one; lieutenants take two.”

  At that he turned his head fully, flashing Rune a wide grin that showed teeth faintly yellowed from years of ale and pipe smoke.

  “As for me, the big captain… heaviest load. I take three.”

  His gaze lingered on Rune’s face for a beat—part appraisal, part the knowing tease of someone who’d already figured you out.

  Rune nodded calmly. He understood.

  He could feel the eyes of the probationers behind him: curiosity, scrutiny, maybe a flicker of reluctant envy. After all, he had pulled off a miracle only yesterday.

  “Technically speaking,” Brog’s tone shifted, growing more formal, “you completed the ‘challenge.’ You personally killed a high-tier Tier 1 Terrene Drake. By the rules, you’re fully qualified to skip probation and become a full hunter on the spot.”

  He paused, locking eyes with Rune.

  “But little guy, I’m going to be blunt upfront—you’ve killed a magical beast. That doesn’t mean you know how to hunt. You still lack the experience of tracking, judging, coordinating, and handling sudden crises in the ever-changing forest environment. Those things can’t be bought with brains or brute strength alone. They have to be earned with time—and with lessons paid in blood.”

  His voice was steady and earnest.

  “So even though you’re officially a full member now—entitled to the same respect and privileges—in the short term, at least for this hunt and the next few, you’ll still train as a probationer. This isn’t to belittle you. Quite the opposite. It’s to keep you alive. On the edge of The Duskwood, one small mistake can cost you everything in blood. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Rune nodded again—this time with deeper gravity.

  Of course he understood.

  Yesterday’s life-and-death struggle with the Terrene Drake had indeed proven his magical theories and combat resolve. But it had also laid bare how much of it had hinged on luck: the peculiar terrain, the beast’s blind rage and missteps, and—most crucially—that single fleeting instant of opportunity.

  True forest hunting was nothing like a one-on-one arena duel.

  He had far too much left to learn.

  For any knowledge or experience that could raise his odds of survival, he held nothing but the deepest respect and hunger to absorb it. He would never let arrogance convince him this was “a waste of time.”

  “Good.” Brog was clearly pleased with the response. “So from here on, I’m going to treat you exactly like any other probationer—same demands, same training. Counting you, I’ve got four rookies under me. My plan is to split you into pairs: two-man teams that watch each other’s backs. That way you build teamwork skills while maximizing safety for you greenhorns—especially you.”

  He gave Rune a pointed glance.

  “A spellcaster facing a sudden crisis alone is never as flexible as a warrior.”

  As he spoke, his eyes flicked toward the three other young men trailing just behind Rune. They were all a year or two older than him, faces tight with the nervous thrill of stepping into danger for the first time.

  Brog’s gaze finally settled on the one walking silently at Rune’s left shoulder—the quiet youth with a strangely shaped longbow slung across his back. The weapon looked as though it had been crafted from the bones and sinews of some massive creature.

  “Perfect timing, actually…” Brog’s tone carried the quiet certainty of something falling neatly into place. “Silas has been running solo up till now because of personnel shortages—no fixed probationer partner. Now he can pair with you.”

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  He nodded toward the archer.

  “Silas is an excellent tracker and bowman. Sharp eyes, light feet, very sensitive to the forest’s smells and signs. You two—one precise long-range striker, the other… well, your ‘little fireballs’ are already decent mid-range burst damage. In theory, you should complement each other nicely.”

  A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of regret crossed Brog’s face.

  “Shame, though… the ideal partner for a spellcaster is a knight. Someone who can tank, deal damage, buy you casting time, cover your flanks. But awakened knights are rare as hen’s teeth in our whole hunting team. We don’t have a single one among the probationers.”

  He sighed.

  “Your friend Gart would’ve been the perfect match. He awakened as a knight—decent talent underneath it all… but the kid’s heart isn’t settled yet. Training’s half-hearted; he can’t even pass the basic endurance test. If he wants to cross the threshold into probation, he’ll need at least another year to grow up.”

  Brog shook his head, a touch of helpless frustration in the gesture at Gart’s wasted potential. Then he looked back at Rune.

  “Alright—enough chatter. We’ve still got a ways before we properly enter the woods. Little guy, use this time to get to know Silas. Talk a little. You’ll be fighting shoulder-to-shoulder soon enough.”

  With that, Brog faced forward again, attention locking onto the increasingly rough terrain and the thickening shadows of the trees ahead. He said no more.

  Rune turned his gaze toward Silas, who had been walking in silence at his side.

  The two weren’t strangers. Growing up in the same small village, close in age, they had seen each other constantly over the years—heads nodding in passing, names known, but never deep friends. Acquaintances at most.

  Silas had always been the village’s classic “quiet gourd”—introverted, few words. But he was also undeniably a prodigy with a bow.

  “Silas,” Rune greeted him naturally, tone even and calm.

  At the sound of his voice, Silas turned his head just slightly. His sharply defined face—tanned dark from endless days outdoors—curved into the faintest, yet unmistakably real, smile. He gave Rune a small nod in reply.

  His voice matched the man: low, clipped, economical.

  “I’ll teach you everything I know about hunting. And I’ll do my best… to keep you safe.”

  Short. Direct. Done.

  He turned his eyes forward again, as though even one extra word would have been wasteful.

  Rune didn’t mind. He simply nodded. “Understood. Thank you, Silas.”

  He knew this was Silas’s way of showing goodwill and making a promise.

  The words had barely left Rune’s mouth—Silas hadn’t even finished nodding—when—

  “Hey! Silas!”

  A lively, deliberately provocative voice cut in from Silas’s other side.

  A youth half a head taller and broader than Silas, muscles knotted like ropes, a wide-bladed machete slung across his back, sidled up with a grin. He gave Silas’s shoulder a not-too-gentle nudge with his elbow.

  “Wanna have another match this hunt?” Kade—the tall, burly one—raised a thick brow, eyes glittering with competitive fire as his gaze flicked back and forth between Silas and Rune. “Same rules: whoever bags more kills—and better quality—wins! What do you say? Got a new partner now… scared?”

  The last jab was clearly aimed at Rune. The look in Kade’s eyes was pure, naked challenge—no real malice, just the raw, hormone-fueled need of young men to measure themselves against each other.

  Silas didn’t even lift his eyelids. A barely audible huff escaped his nose.

  “No interest.”

  Clean. Brutal. Final.

  “Hey! Silas!” Kade reacted like a cat whose tail had been stepped on; his voice shot up an octave. “You’re not chickening out, are you? You never turned me down this fast before! What—don’t have faith in your ‘famous’ new partner now?” He leaned hard into the word “famous,” smirking wider as he shot Rune a knowing “you get it” look.

  Silas’s stride faltered—almost imperceptibly.

  He slowly turned his head. Those unnaturally calm eyes fixed on Kade for a full two seconds. For once, an expression actually appeared on his face: pure, unmistakable “this guy is exhausting” exasperation.

  After a silence long enough that Kade started to think he wouldn’t get an answer at all, Silas finally spoke. His voice stayed perfectly level, but the words landed like a perfectly aimed throwing knife:

  “Kade. You’re jealous of my partner.”

  “Pfft—!”

  The words hit like a thunderclap.

  Not only did Kade stumble, nearly tripping over his own left foot—he lurched sideways several steps, flailing to regain balance. His eyes bulged. His mouth hung open. He looked exactly like a frog struck by lightning: throat working, no sound coming out.

  Even Milo—the quieter, leaner youth half a step behind Kade, carrying a heavy iron case on his back—couldn’t hold it in. A snort of laughter escaped.

  He immediately felt Kade’s murderous glare and clapped both hands over his mouth, turning away. His shoulders shook violently as he fought to contain the rest.

  Up ahead, Brog’s broad back gave the tiniest tremor. A muffled, deeply amused grunt slipped out—barely suppressed laughter—but he didn’t turn around. His steps simply became a fraction lighter.

  “Silas! You—what the hell are you talking about!” Kade finally recovered enough to sputter. His face flushed crimson. He jabbed a finger at Silas, words tumbling out in a furious machine-gun burst. “I’m one final test away from full membership! How—how could I possibly be jealous of him? I—”

  He never finished.

  Silas cut him off again, calm as ever.

  “My partner killed a Terrene Drake.”

  Kade: “…”

  Silas seemed to feel the point needed reinforcing. He added, slow and deliberate, voice quiet but crystal-clear to everyone nearby:

  “…Alone.”

  Kade: “…………”

  The blood drained from his face, then rushed back in a violent tide. Shock, disbelief, frustration, and an undeniable undercurrent of chagrin chased each other across his expression in rapid succession.

  He looked at Silas—still utterly expressionless, as though he’d merely commented “nice weather today”—then at Rune, who seemed faintly surprised by the blunt flex. Kade opened his mouth. A strangled “heh… heh…” rasped out.

  In the end he deflated like a punctured bladder. Not a single coherent word emerged. With a frustrated huff, he sullenly increased the distance between himself and Silas, muttering under his breath and pointedly ignoring the “unreasonable” quiet gourd.

  Only then did Silas calmly look forward again, as though the entire exchange had never happened.

  Rune watched from the side, shaking his head slightly. The corners of his mouth curved in the tiniest arc.

  His taciturn new partner wasn’t just deadly with a bow. His talent for “one-shot verbal kills” was equally lethal.

  Just then, Milo—who had finally gotten his laughter under control—spoke up again, tone laced with curiosity and a teasing edge:

  “But Silas… you never turned down a match before. Now that you’ve got a partner who can solo-kill a Terrene Drake, why the sudden fear?”

  He had neatly sidestepped the word “jealous,” but the meaning was the same.

  Silas didn’t break stride. Didn’t even glance back. He answered in that same flat, matter-of-fact tone:

  “I never agreed before either. You people just kept forcing comparisons.”

  Milo: “…”

  His smile froze.

  Silas apparently decided the point needed total clarity. He added one more line:

  “…And you lost every time.”

  ......

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