Now, under the command of Lira of the Ashveil—an Ember-ranked veteran—Jumong joins a team set to eliminate a Feralblood Ogre in the western Fangwood, a task far beyond his current Kindling rank.
[Dawn, Rootveil Hollow—Western Fangwood]
Mists curled like spirits over the gnarled floor of Rootveil Hollow. The canopy above was a cage of shadows, pierced only by slanted beams of pale sunlight. Moss-covered stones bore claw marks. Trees bled sap like open wounds.
Five hunters moved through the thickets.
Lira led—silent, fluid, her twin sabers sheathed at her sides. The others followed:
Torren, a one-eyed Beast I tracker with a crossbow carved from wyvern bone.
Brenna, a flame-scarred berserker wielding a hooked greataxe.
Kirr, the group's quietest—dual knives, beastblood tattoos, and sharp eyes.
And Jumong, limping slightly, bow in hand.
They were hunting Kruug—a Feralblood Ogre, one of the old brood born from corrupted Veins during the Age of Breaking. Hulking, cunning, and worst of all—evolving.
Each hunter specialized in Vein Techniques, martial arts or instincts honed through repeated exposure to Emberlight.
___
Strikers: Front-line bruisers (Brenna)
Stalkers: Silent killers, scouts (Kirr)
Rangers: Bow and beast tamers (Jumong)
Wardens: Tactical supports, shields (Lira)
Trackers: Finders and trappers (Torren)
Hunters develop personal styles based on how their Veins adapt. These styles manifest as Ember Techniques—named skills reflecting their experience.
___
Torren muttered, "Tracks end here. Ogre's smarter than we thought."
"Of course he is," Brenna growled. "Feralbloods aren't born—they're survivors. Like us."
Lira raised a hand. "Jumong. Your bird returned?"
He shook his head. "No sign of Ashwing. But these claw marks are fresh."
Kirr crouched beside a tree, tracing old blood. "It's nesting. Underground. This grove's wrong—quiet. Too quiet."
"Then we draw it out," Lira said.
Torren grinned. "Bait?"
Everyone looked at Jumong.
He blinked. "…You serious?"
Brenna thumped his back with a grin. "You've got the 'fresh meat' look."
As the others set traps, Jumong crouched at the hollow's edge, stringing his bow. His mind raced.
They don't think I belong here. Not really. Just another warm body.
He clenched his teeth. Then let them watch.
He laced a binding powder onto an arrowhead—his father's trick, long before the man vanished.
Every scar teaches. Every loss sharpens. That's the only law I need.
The forest trembled.
From beneath an uprooted tree, the ground cracked.
Then it rose—towering, hunched, ribs like ship beams under hide. Its flesh was armored with fungal bark and spiked bone. Eyes burned orange, mouth lined with yellow tusks.
Kruug, the Feralblood Ogre. Beast II.
It sniffed the air—and roared.
Traps exploded—nets of embersteel, binding vines, and rune-anchors.
Kirr vanished into shadows. Brenna charged, roaring back, swinging her axe in an overhead arc—[Crimson Pendulum]. The blade carved into Kruug's shoulder but stuck.
He swatted her aside like a child's doll.
Lira moved in—[Twin Moonguard], her sabers carving twin arcs that flashed with silvery light. Veinlines on her arms glowed bright.
Kruug howled, staggering—but not broken.
From the ridge, Jumong nocked his arrow.
[Piercebind Shot]—a technique that split on impact, wrapping prey in an entangling snare.
He loosed.
The arrow struck true—bursting into thorn-vines that coiled around the ogre's legs.
"NOW!" Lira shouted.
Brenna surged again—[Ashcleave]—a two-handed slash that cracked bone.
The ogre shrieked.
It grabbed a fallen tree and hurled it straight at the ridge.
Jumong dove—[Gutter Roll] again saving his life, but the impact sent him sliding across gravel.
Pain flared. His leg wound reopened.
Don't stop. Not now. Not again.
Through the chaos, Jumong saw Torren bleeding. Kirr limping. Brenna half-conscious.
Lira stood alone before the beast.
"Boy!" she shouted. "One clean shot! The throat!"
He forced himself up. A final arrow.
He dipped the tip in his flask—concentrated burnweed oil.
Nocked. Breathed. Aimed.
The ogre raised its club.
[Hunter's Grace]—his father's forgotten technique.
He fired.
The arrow flew—silent, true.
It struck beneath the jaw—then burst.
Fire ignited in the ogre's throat.
The beast staggered, choking.
Lira screamed, "Finish it!"
Brenna rose—barely.
And cleaved.
The ogre fell.
Silence...
Smoke drifted from the ogre's corpse.
Lira limped toward him, bloodied but standing.
"You did it," she said.
"No," he replied. "We did."
She smiled—faintly.
Torren groaned, "Still think the pup's useless?"
Brenna grinned through a swollen lip. "Not bad for bait."
Jumong's Emberlight surged. The Lodge would mark this kill.
He was no longer Kindling.
Not yet Cinder—but the flame now burned brighter.
That night, under flickering campfire light, Jumong stared at the ogre's smoldering remains.
"Next time," he whispered, "I won't just survive."
"I'll lead the hunt."