Zubo finally spoke, his voice low and steady as the shadows around them.
"That prayer was a reassurance—to the Forest God."
He stepped over a root that seemed to shift gently under his foot.
"A vow that we come in peace. We're not here to steal or destroy. We seek only the blue gems—and to earn them, we'll hunt the creatures of shadow. No sacred beast shall fall by our hands."
Harsha frowned.
"Wait… isn't killing shadow monsters still killing something? Why doesn't that count?"
Zubo's eyes darkened, touched with sorrow.
"Because shadow monsters aren't born. They're made."
He glanced into the trees, where shafts of light barely pierced the canopy.
"They're the souls of sacred creatures—calm, gentle beings who once protected this forest."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"But when they're hunted… betrayed… and slain by outsiders seeking greed or glory, their souls don't rest. They burn. They twist. And that pain becomes something darker."
Harsha's gaze dropped.
"They turn into shadows."
Zubo nodded solemnly.
"Revenge binds them. Their kindness is buried beneath torment. They forget who they were… and become what the forest fears."
Then he gave Harsha a sidelong glance.
"Killing them doesn't end a life. It frees one."
A beat of silence.
"Didn't you read that in Yug's notes?"
Harsha scratched his head, avoiding eye contact.
"…I skimmed it."
Zubo sighed and shook his head.
"Figures."
They walked on, the path narrowing as the light dimmed and the air thickened with quiet magic.
Zubo added, voice low but firm:
"But if we harm anything sacred—roots, birds, even the air—the Forest God will turn on us. And no prayer will help then."
They stepped past the vine-woven threshold, into a world that breathed with ancient breath.
The air grew denser—cooler, heavy with the scent of moss and mist. Strange blue motes floated like drifting embers.
Zubo paused and raised his hand expectantly.
Without a word, Harsha sighed and handed him a silver coin.
Zubo accepted it with a smug grin, then slung off his bag and unbuckled the flap.
Inside were shimmering pieces of silver-blue armor, etched with glowing runes—clearly enchanted, softly humming with ancient energy.
He strapped them on smoothly. The pieces clicked into place with subtle pulses of power. When the final piece settled, he stood tall and declared:
"We're not done yet. One more hindrance remains."
Harsha groaned. "What now?"
Zubo dusted off his gloves and glanced at him seriously.
"This forest protects humans—but only those who wear enchanted armor. Without it, if a shadow monster attacks you… you'll turn into one of them."
Harsha froze, blood draining from his face.
"…What if I don't have any?"
Zubo turned sharply, his armored joints clinking with tension.
"Don't tell me, Mr. Harsha—you forgot your enchanted armor?! Without it, you'll be cursed the moment you're struck—doomed to become the very thing we're here to hunt!"
Harsha looked down, rubbing his arm sheepishly.
"All this is the fault of that greedy shopkeeper… He was asking fifty gold coins for it!"
Zubo stared, stunned.
"Fifty coins?! And you call me greedy for one silver coin?!"
He sighed dramatically and opened his bag again.
"Well, lucky for you, I always come prepared."
He pulled out another set of armor—sleek, polished… and very, very pink.
Its curves were unmistakably feminine, complete with rounded breastplates and glittery flower engravings.
Harsha recoiled like it was made of fire.
"What the hell is that?! I'm not wearing that crap! I'm a proud man! I'm not wearing—girly stuff!"
Zubo smirked and casually turned to put the armor back.
"Suit yourself. Go walk naked. Or better yet, go ask the shadows for a hug."
Harsha's eye twitched.
"…You're enjoying this way too much."
"Not at all," Zubo said innocently, lips twitching.
Grumbling, Harsha snatched the armor from his hands.
"You owe me for this humiliation."
"Nope," Zubo said cheerfully. "You owe me. Twenty gold coins."
Harsha pouted like a betrayed puppy.
"But… Lady Sephara told me it costs only ten!"
Zubo crossed his arms. "Then go buy it, Your Highness."
Harsha mumbled, "It's back at the market… and we're already deep inside the forest…"
He let out a strangled chuckle as he began donning the glittering pink armor piece by piece.
"Great. I'm in debt, dressed like a royal maiden, and possibly cursed. What's next, a wedding invitation from a shadow demon?"
As Harsha reluctantly put on the armor, a soft shimmer ran across its surface. The joints and straps adjusted perfectly to his body—yet the round chest plate and delicate curves stayed exactly the same.
It was as if the armor had a mind of its own… and a very specific sense of fashion.
Harsha sighed in defeat, the helmet clicking shut with finality.
"Great. It fits… too well. Just my luck."
Behind him, Zubo was already rolling on the ground, laughing.
"You look like—like Princess Buttercup ready for war!"
"Shut up," Harsha growled from inside the helmet.
Zubo wheezed, wiping a tear.
"I'm sorry—I'm sorry! I just didn't know the enchanted armor had built-in… uh… accessories."
"If I die, I'm haunting you in this outfit."
Still chuckling, Zubo offered his hand.
"Come on, Princess. Let's enter the sacred jungle."
Harsha took it with a defeated groan.
Together, they stepped into the forest's heart—one cloaked in darkness, magic… and now, a little bit of pink.
The forest loomed before them like a sleeping beast—dark, endless, and waiting. As Harsha crossed the arched stone gate carved with forgotten runes, the temperature dropped. The world behind him faded. Only silence and shadows remained.
Zubo stopped just inside. "This gate is a safe point," he whispered. "Shadow monsters never come near it. It's the last place we can breathe easy."
Harsha nodded, eyes adjusting to the gloom. No sunlight pierced the twisted canopy. The trees looked as if they had grown in pain, and the air hung thick with something ancient.
They walked only ten minutes when a suffocating aura swept over them. Harsha's instincts flared—he dove behind a gnarled tree. Zubo followed silently, crouching low.
Then came the sound—hoofbeats, like distant thunder.
A horde of massive wild boars emerged from the mist. Their violet eyes glowed, and their bodies bled darkness. One after another—nearly a hundred of them—stomped past like a storm of rage.
Harsha pressed his back to the bark, whispering, "That… I haven't felt this kind of aura before."
Zubo exhaled. "Exactly why the scroll said—attack only small groups."
"For the last time, Mr. Harsha," Zubo's voice dropped low, almost trembling, "tell me how you plan to hunt those beasts. What are their characteristics? I want to know… if I'm giving my life into safe hands—or foolish ones."
Harsha gulped, steadying his breath. "Alright."
---
🟦 1️⃣ Shadowlings (1-Stone Creatures)
> 💠 Rabbit, Boar, Deer and others
Type: Low-threat beast
Size: 2-4 foot
Appearance: A single glowing blue gem—either on the forehead or chest
Abilities:
*High speed and sharp reflexes
*Camouflage in rock or forest terrain
Behavior:
*Hunts in groups
*Flees when outnumbered
Weakness:
Brute force to crack their hard exterior
Followed by holy water… or direct exposure to pure light
Harsha took a deep breath, steadying his voice.
"Alright, listen. Shadowlings—Tier I. They're considered low-threat, but only if you don't act like an idiot."
He held up a hand and ticked off each point with his fingers.
"Size: About two to four feet tall. Small, but not tiny. You'll spot a single glowing blue gem—usually on the forehead or chest. That's the core."
"Abilities? They're fast. Like really fast. Sharp reflexes, too. And they can blend into forest or rocky terrain like they're part of it. You'll never see them until they move."
He glanced at Zubo to check if he was following, then continued.
"Behavior-wise, they hunt in groups. Never solo. But the moment they realize they're outnumbered or outmatched, they run. Cowards at heart."
Zubo raised an eyebrow, but didn't interrupt.
Harsha pointed at the ground, serious now.
"Their weakness is the outer shell. It's hard—like cracked stone—but it can be broken with enough brute force. Doesn't matter how fancy your weapon is—just hit hard."
He leaned in a bit, lowering his tone like Yug used to.
"But here's the important part—once the shell's cracked and the gem is exposed, you have to purify it. No delays. Use holy water, or pure light—sunlight works if it can reach, but in this forest…" he glanced up at the twisted canopy, "we're better off using the flasks."
Zubo nodded slowly.
Harsha added one last note, softer, but firm.
"If you don't purify them fast enough… the soul inside festers. Corrupts. And it'll come back meaner, stronger, and way harder to deal with."
He straightened, arms crossed, trying to hide the pride creeping into his voice.
"So yeah. Shadowlings. Not born—they're made. Fast, skittish, but deadly in numbers. Break the shell. Cleanse the core. Simple."
He looked at Zubo with a smirk.
---
"Good," Zubo muttered, almost proudly. "Then it's time… you draw your weapon."
Harsha froze. "What weapon?"
He narrowed his eyes. "I know you. You have one. Maybe cheap, maybe hidden, but something. Don't lie to me."
He looked away. "I thought… thought I could do this with strength alone. But now I see—I can't."
Zubo's voice cracked.
"I… don't have one. Yug always protected me. I never fought before… Oh God… Zara was right. I'm going to be killed here."
They both slumped beside the tree, the weight of reality pressing on them like iron.
Harsha whispered, "What now?"
Zubo didn't speak. Instead, he slowly raised one hand—two fingers extended, palm open.
"This time I want a gold one."
"A coin?" Harsha blinked in disbelief. "Seriously?! We're about to die!"
Zubo didn't lower his hand.
Harsha cried out into the gloom, "Please be serious! Our lives are on the line!"
Zubo tilted his head.
"And my information is priceless."
Grinding his teeth, Harsha handed over the gold coin.
He was now down to 2 gold and 6 silver—still carrying a debt of 20 gold… for the cursed pink armor.
Zubo leaned back against the tree, exhaling slowly.
"You know… there was this one time with Yug. His weapon broke mid-fight—shattered like glass. We were being hunted by a pack of five shadow beasts, low-tier but fast. We didn't have time to run. So Yug… he did something insane."
Harsha looked up, curious.
"What did he do?"
Zubo smirked faintly, eyes lost in memory.
"He snuck around, singled out the weakest one, and captured it. Used a binding rope made from soul-thread—quiet and strong. While I distracted the rest, he dug a pit just deep enough to trap a beast."
He crouched, tracing a rough circle in the soil with his finger.
"Then he placed the captured one right over the trap… like bait. The others noticed one of their own missing. They came back—panicked, angry—and rushed toward the scent."
Zubo's grin widened.
"Boom. All four fell straight in. We pulled them out one by one, cracked their stone hides with brute force, then poured holy water straight into the core gem. They screamed, but they were freed."
He stood up, brushing dirt off his gloves.
"We'll do the same. But I'll need your holy water."
Harsha tapped his pouch. "I've got plenty."
Zubo blinked, mock shocked.
"Well, finally! You brought something useful for the job."
Harsha rolled his eyes. "Glad I could impress you."
Zubo chuckled, eyes gleaming.
"Let's get to work, Princess Buttercup."
Harsha groaned.
"If I ever survive this, I'm buying you a gag."
Zubo winked.
"And I'll price it—twenty gold coins."
They moved quietly, deeper into the shadows—one with a plan, the other with pink armor and grudging hope.
As the forest stirred around them and the scent of danger grew stronger, Harsha tightened his grip on the pouch of holy water. Zubo unslung his rope, eyes scanning the mist.
Their plan was reckless. Their odds? Worse.
But together, they stepped forward—into the hunting ground of shadows.
With only a fragile plan that could betray them at any moment, Harsha stepped deeper into the forest… unaware of what waited beyond the mist—traps, trials, or something far worse. Let's see if the plan succeeds… or shatters.
To be continued…
Next chapter: 20 Echoes of the Hunt