Jumong, survives as a hunter in the deadly Fangwood. Wounded and alone, he now carries proof of a Shaman's death—a trophy that may change his standing in the Hunter's Lodge.
[Early morning, outskirts of Hal-Virun]
The morning haze lingered over the crumbling ruins like a veil of ghosts. Smoke coiled from the wrecked goblin cauldron, twisting upward into the gray skies. The forest was still. Even the carrion birds waited.
Jumong limped through the shattered woodland path, each step painting leaves with blood. His cloak had torn, boots soaked through. The black talon of the goblin shaman was clenched in his raw fingers.
His falcon, Ashwing, had not returned.
He did not whistle.
He did not look back.
"If I die before Harken sees this… all for nothing. No badge. No fire. Just rot in a ditch like the rest."
He gritted his teeth and pressed forward.
___
All living things possess Veins of Might, a web-like flow of primal energy granted by the world's ancient core, called the Anima Deep. Unlike magic, Veins do not bestow spells—they enhance instinct, body, and skill. Measured in five mortal ranks:
Kindling – Weak sparks of potential. Most peasants and novice hunters.
Cinder – Hardened experience; capable of hunting low-ranked monsters solo.
Ember – Veterans of blood and toil; rare outside the capital.
Flameforged – Wielders of war arts. Each has a named technique.
Infernal Crown – Living legends. Only a handful exist.
Hunters register with the Lodge of Ash, who track Vein progression via combat feats and trophies. Every beast slain adds to the hunter's Emberlight, a metaphysical residue that enhances their Veins.
Jumong? He still burned at Kindling—but the shaman's talon could be his first step upward.
___
[Harken's Lodge, Fangwood Edge]
The Fangwood Lodge was a squat stone keep smothered in moss and ivy. Wooden spikes ringed the clearing, and above its doors hung a crude sigil—an antler wreathed in fire.
Jumong staggered into the courtyard, barely conscious. The guards almost didn't recognize him.
"Gods—get Old Harken! The boy's half-dead!"
From within, a thick voice barked: "Half's more than most come back with!"
A burly man limped out, cloaked in the flayed hides of swamp drakes. One arm was missing, replaced by a bound iron brace. His beard was tangled, eyes sharp as blades.
Old Harken.
"You bring me a pox-sack of goblin ears, Jumong?" he growled.
Jumong collapsed to his knees, raised the black talon.
Silence.
Then—low laughter.
"You killed a Shaman." Harken spat. "Or at least outlived one. How many came with you?"
"No one."
Harken grunted. "Either you're lying… or you're madder than I thought."
He held the talon aloft, veins in his wrist glowing faintly—a test of Emberlight. The talon shimmered with a dull red hue.
"Not a fake. You earned this."
A cheer rose from the Lodge's watching hunters.
"He's still Kindling," one scoffed.
"But he's breathing," Harken replied. "More than your cousin did."
He turned to Jumong.
"You want a badge? Earn it. One task remains."
___
That night, as Jumong's wounds were stitched by torchlight, a cloaked figure approached his cot. She was tall, ash-blonde, and bore twin crescent scars on her cheek. A silver badge hung from her leather sash—Ember Rank.
"You're Jumong?" she asked, voice like rain on stone.
He nodded.
"Lira," she said. "I'm leading a sanctioned purge into the western Fangwood. Spotted signs of a Feralblood ogre. Bad one."
He stiffened. "Ogre?"
"Your talon bought you a spot in the squad. Or you can rot here."
He looked down at his stitched leg.
I can barely stand…
He met her eyes. "When do we leave?"
"Dawn."
___
Every known creature in Galdareth is ranked by the Hunter's Bestiary, divided into five threat levels:
Feral I – III: Goblins, dire rats, bloodhounds.
Beast I – III: Trolls, ogres, swamp serpents.
Dread: Basilisks, shades, war drakes.
Ancient: Titanbeasts, sky krakens, unseelie monarchs.
Cataclysm: Named beings that changed history. Last sighted over 100 years ago.
Ogres fell into Beast II—far above Jumong's weight.
But so had the shaman.
___
Around a flickering fire, Lira's squad sharpened blades, whispered war chants, and bound armor. Jumong sat silently, bow in hand, watching their movements—learning.
One hunter sneered. "That's the pup who killed a shaman?"
"He survived a shaman," Lira corrected. "There's a difference."
But she looked at Jumong differently.
He knew the look.
Doubt.
He would prove them wrong.
Tomorrow.
With his blood, if needed.
As the sun dipped beyond the Fangwood's edge, Jumong gripped his bow and whispered:
"One step. One hunt. One fire at a time."