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Chapter 1 - Chapter one welcome to the Village that not a village

Just a piece of advice I really don't care about your opinion of me there are like other people's life story you could read about, so you might as well enjoy learning about how bad ass I am. So here we go

Blitzan Village wasn't a village, not by any sane definition. It was a country parading as one, vast enough that a man could walk for months and still be within its borders. The name was an old joke—one no one laughed at anymore.

Our government was a democratic monarchy, which meant when the king had kids, we got to pick which one would rule us. Sounds fair, right? Except there was always a clear winner, and the losers tended to disappear before they could complain.

Technology? We had just entered its dawn. Electricity existed, but it flickered like a drunk trying to stand up. Guns were rare but loud enough to make up for it. Cars existed but only for the rich, and telephones were planted like ornamental trees in every town center. No mobile phones. No television. No air-conditioning. If you wanted to cool off, you learned to sweat in silence. And learn to find the cool in heat.

Then there were the Night Monsters. They came when the sun set, like that one fly you just can't kill. But Blitzan's people still walked outside at night. Why? Because of the Bounty Hunters. They made sure the monsters didn't get too bold. They'd been doing such a good job that most people forgot why they were needed in the first place.

But people forget things easily. And forgetting why you needed protection? That was a great way to find out why you should have been afraid all along.

Fear is a funny thing. It makes people whisper your name but never say it to your face. It makes them stare when they think you're not looking. It makes them keep their distance, as if standing too close might infect them with whatever disease they think you carry.

I was Ko Stoneheart, still am unfortunately. Mute. Trainee. A problem no one wanted but couldn't ignore. And most importantly silent but deadly like a fart. I didn't speak, but I didn't need to—my reputation spoke for me. Ever since I was a kid, the stories had spread.

"Ko doesn't cry."

"Ko doesn't flinch."

"Ko doesn't feel."

They whispered about the fights, about the accidents, about the way I looked at people like I was measuring their worth( i just had something in my eye). They weren't entirely wrong. I didn't flinch. I didn't cry. And as for feeling? That was debatable.

Rhio Remby:The Boy Who Talked Too Much

Rhio was the kind of person who should have learned to shut up a long time ago. But he never did. Even now, standing beside me, blindfolded and tied together for the test, he wouldn't stop talking.

"You ever think about the things we sign up for?" he muttered. "I mean, really think about it? Like, did we read the contract? Or did we just see 'bounty hunter' and go, 'Yeah, that sounds cool'?"

I said nothing. Because, obviously, I couldn't.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he sighed. "You don't talk. But if you could, what would you say?"

I turned my head slightly, giving him a look. He groaned.

"Yeah, yeah. 'Shut up, Rhio.' I get it."

Rhio was weak. He knew it. Everyone knew it. But he was here anyway, standing in the same line as killers and lunatics, as if sheer willpower could make up for what he lacked.

"Y'know, back home, my parents used to tell me stories about the first hunters," he said. "Said they were gods in human skin. Said they fought the Night Monsters with their bare hands before we had weapons."

I didn't react. He kept talking.

"I used to believe them. Thought if I trained hard enough, I'd be just like them. That I'd never be afraid again." His voice lowered. "But standing here, tied up like livestock, waiting to fight something that actually wants to eat me? Yeah… I think I might've been stupid."

I almost smiled. Almost.

But then the voice of Commander Osasha Stoneheart rang out, and all the chatter died.

There's a saying in Blitzan: If they blindfold you and tie you up, you're either getting married or executed.

Since none of us were wearing wedding attire, you can guess which one we were preparing for.

The moment the blindfolds went on, the tension in the air thickened. Some people laughed nervously, while others tried too hard to sound indifferent. There was a sharp inhale from someone to my left. A girl muttered, "This is just a test. Just a test." Poor thing, she didn't realize that in Blitzan, 'test' and 'mass grave' were sometimes interchangeable.

The instructors moved efficiently, securing the last few restraints. We were tied together in long chains of flesh, seven hundred women and three hundred men, standing in forced unity. The ground beneath my boots felt uneven, the dirt packed but with small ridges. Someone near the back tried to struggle against their bonds, but a sharp slap echoed through the silence, followed by a muffled grunt. That was the only warning they got.

Rule number one of Blitzan: Don't waste the instructors' patience. They have very little of it, and they prefer to spend it on things like drinking and gambling.

The scent of sweat, leather, and something faintly metallic filled my nose. The air had that stillness that only comes before disaster. I focused on my surroundings, shutting out the useless noise.

Somewhere, a low chuckle. Someone trying to be funny. "Well, at least if we die, we won't see it coming."

Another voice, colder. "No, but we'll feel it."

That shut him up.

Footsteps approached—heavy, deliberate. The sound of authority. The kind of footsteps that could belong only to someone who had seen countless fools tied up just like us, most of whom probably never got untied.

Then, a voice. Deep. Commanding. The kind of voice that didn't need to shout to be heard.

"Silence."

Everything stilled. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

That was the vice commander. And that one word carried more weight than any chain wrapped around our bodies.

I remained motionless. Waiting. If there was one thing I had learned in my years of training, it was this:

The real test hadn't even started yet. And for most of these people, it was already over.

Out of the balcony, stepping from the embrace of darkness itself, Osasha emerged. Her brown hair flowed as if guided by unseen hands, her red cloak billowing just enough to highlight her fair skin. She looked like she was in her early thirties, though reality had a less flattering number: forty. Not that anyone dared to mention it.

Something was off. No weapon. A commander without a blade was like a butcher without a cleaver. Then again, Osasha had never needed a cleaver to carve through her enemies. How do I know all this? Well, she's my mother. Not that we look anything alike.

"MY HUNTERS, RISE!" Osasha's voice cut through the silence like a well-honed knife. The crowd roared back, fists raised, blindfolded but not blind in their enthusiasm.

"WE RISE TO FIGHT!"

"Welcome, my hunters, to the first of the final three tests that will determine if you are worthy of becoming official bounty hunters," she continued. "I cannot promise you all will pass. I cannot promise that, if you do, you will do so with your humanity intact. But before we begin, let me ask you this: would you rather accept death than failure?"

A thousand voices screamed as one. "YES, COMMANDER!"

The vice commander stepped forward, a silent shadow beside Osasha. He knelt before her, waiting.

"Commander," he said. No response. Her focus was elsewhere. A mother's instincts, some might say. Somehow, out of a thousand identical trainees in identical uniforms, she had found me.

"Commander," he tried again. Nothing.

Finally, he raised his voice. "COMMANDER, PERMISSION TO RISE!"

Osasha finally acknowledged him with a nod. He stood, stepping fully into the light, revealing his face—brown-skinned, crimson-red hair (dyed, obviously), and a longer cloak with touches of white.

"They say they would rather accept death than failure." He chuckled darkly. "They have no idea what those words truly mean."

Osasha turned to him, her gaze steady. "And what do you mean by that?"

The vice commander faced the gathered trainees, his eyes sweeping over them like a predator surveying prey. "You, of all people, should understand. To truly be able to accept death… one must also be capable of delivering it. After all, you had the highest kill count."

The crowd tensed. The air thickened, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on them.

The bindings were removed, but the blindfolds remained. The vice commander leaped from the thirty-foot balcony, landing effortlessly. His voice rang out.

"Welcome to the first of the top three tests. This is the combat test. It will measure your ability to dodge, to adapt, and most importantly—to kill. This test may result in casualties. If you are not ready to die, you are free to leave. No shame, no judgment. You are blindfolded, after all. If you wish to exit, raise your hand."

Silence. Then a single hand. Then fifty more.

Just as the officials moved to escort them out, a voice from the crowd shattered the quiet.

"COWARDS!"

It was the guy next to me. His voice burned with conviction. "How dare you turn away from this opportunity? HOW DARE YOU?! This is a test! A chance to prove we are more than they expect! We must show them that we would truly rather accept death than failure!"

His speech sparked something in the trainees. Excitement. Foolishness. Maybe both. No more hands were raised.

The vice commander approached the boy, his gaze sharp. "Name?"

The boy's chin lifted. "Sir! My name is Rhio Remby, sir!"

A fool.

The vice commander laughed, a dry, knowing sound, before stepping back to the balcony. He took his place beside Osasha, awaiting her signal. She raised her hand.

"Let the combat test begin."

Something inside me twisted. A cold sensation crawled up my spine, urging me to look up.

I did.

And instantly wished I hadn't.

Arrows. Spears. Katanas. Falling like judgment from the heavens.

Then I looked forward.

And realized that what was above was the least of our concerns.

They stood before us. Green-skinned. Spikes lining their backs. Teeth long enough to pierce flesh like a hot knife through butter. Three gleaming gems embedded in their heads, a mark of their rank.

B-Ranked Night Monsters.

A flashback struck me like a hammer. My mother, furious. My teacher, droning. Me, stuck in a night class because I "wasn't paying attention."

"There are five ranks of Night Monsters," my teacher had explained. "D-Ranks are barely a threat. Strength of a bird. C-Ranks are stronger, armored, but still killable. They pack the strength of a gorilla. B-Ranks, though, that's where things change. They wear armor as thick as a knight's plate, and while they can be killed, it won't be easy. They hit like a car going forty miles per hour. A-Ranks? Forget it. Their armor is impenetrable, except at the joints. And they know it. They regenerate in five seconds unless decapitated. And then…"

His voice had dropped to a whisper.

"S-Ranks."

"They don't need armor. They don't need anything. They regenerate instantly. Any damage inflicted on them is absorbed, doubled, and returned. They can shape their flesh into weapons, and they are fast. Insanely fast. S-Ranks are not for you. They are for the commander and vice commander."

That memory faded as reality reasserted itself.

I was surrounded by B-Ranked monsters.

And just when I thought the situation couldn't get worse, Osasha raised her voice again.

"One more thing. The test will last one hour. Each of you must achieve a certain kill count to pass."

Someone in the crowd dared to ask, "And if we don't?"

Osasha opened her mouth to respond, but the vice commander cut in, a devil's grin twisting his lips.

"ISN'T IT OBVIOUS? THE HUNTERS WHO FAIL TO MEET THEIR KILL COUNT… WILL BE KILLED BY US."

Silence.

Then realization.

Then fear.

Some believed it was a bluff.

Then they remembered what they had signed away when they joined the Bounty Hunter Association.

Their lives.

This was no bluff.

The first sound was a whisper—a gentle hiss of metal cutting through the air. Then came the storm.

Swords, spears, axes, and daggers rained from above, a merciless downpour of sharpened steel. The first wave of weapons struck the ground with sharp clangs, embedding themselves in the stone or bouncing wildly, becoming just as deadly as the fall itself. Some weren't so lucky—flesh split, bones cracked, and the scent of fresh blood flooded the hall as the unlucky ones were impaled where they stood.

Screams ripped through the air. Not the cries of warriors but the shrieks of prey realizing, too late, that the hunt had begun.

Blindfolded and bound no more, the trainees fumbled in the chaos. Some scrambled away, some dropped to their knees, others were frozen still, too stunned to process what was happening. Someone beside me caught a blade straight through the shoulder. His voice, high-pitched and desperate, turned into a bubbling gurgle as blood filled his mouth.

The metallic scent thickened. The weight of death was pressing down.

I had already moved.

I wasn't about to let a random sword cut my story short before it even properly began. My ears tuned into the rhythm of falling steel. It was erratic but predictable—a moment's gap before another deadly wave came slicing through the air. A second longer, and I would have been skewered like a pig on a spit.

My hands shot out. A katana, falling just slightly to my left, became my salvation. I snatched it mid-air, its handle cold against my palm, and spun it into position just in time to deflect another blade aiming for my skull. The impact rattled my bones, but I stayed standing. Another shift of my wrist sent another dagger veering off course. The weapons were relentless. It wasn't just a test of survival; it was a game to see who could remain standing after the first minute.

Around me, others weren't so fortunate.

A boy a few steps ahead, having torn off his blindfold in panic, made the fatal mistake of looking up. The last thing he ever saw was the head of a spear rushing down to greet his eye socket. He crumpled instantly, dead before his body could even register the pain.

The floor was becoming slick with blood.

Some had managed to arm themselves, but they held their weapons wrong—hands shaking, grips weak. They were students, not fighters. They weren't ready for this. The screams became a chorus of agony and desperation, a twisted orchestra playing their deaths in real-time.

Then the blindfolds came off.

One by one, people ripped them away, revealing the horror around them. Gasps, cries, some even vomited right where they stood. Bodies, fresh and warm, lay crumpled in heaps. Limbs twitched from the ones who hadn't fully died yet. Some reached for their fallen weapons with trembling fingers, hoping that steel would somehow protect them from the reality they were now trapped in.

I kept my expression blank. I already knew the truth. I had known from the moment I stepped into this hall. This wasn't a test—it was a culling. A trial designed to weed out the weak, not just by skill but by will.

And yet, I wasn't invincible.

My katana was sharp, my reflexes honed, but even I wasn't perfect. I analyzed fast, but perfection? That was an illusion. One I almost paid for when an axe came swinging from my right. My body twisted instinctively, but the blade still grazed my side, cutting through my uniform and leaving behind a sharp sting.

Tsk. Sloppy.

I adjusted my stance, resetting my balance. A breath in. A breath out. Then, with a flick of my wrist, I sent the katana slicing forward, intercepting another weapon before it could claim my throat.

The vice commander, still on the balcony, watched the chaos unfold with an amused smirk. His crimson hair was vibrant against the red-stained floor. "Now, now," he mused, his voice cutting through the noise. "Look at them. Struggling, scrambling. Beautiful, isn't it?"

Osasha, my 'mother,' said nothing. Her gaze, sharp as a blade itself, had found me again. Of course, she had. Out of a thousand blindfolded trainees, she still knew exactly where I was. Some might call that motherly instinct. I called it unsettling.

"Now that you've all had your warm-up," the vice commander continued, still grinning, "let's move on to the real part of the test."

He clapped his hands. The sound echoed through the hall like a gunshot.

And then the Night Monsters arrived.

The doors at the far end of the hall were torn open, and out they came. Their green skin gleamed under the torchlight, their muscular bodies bristling with spikes. Sharp claws clicked against the stone as they rushed forward, their mouths already dripping with hunger. B-ranked. Strong. Deadly. But not impossible.

Not for me, at least.

Others, though?

I could already see who was going to die first. The ones shaking, the ones gripping their weapons like foreign objects, the ones whose eyes were still locked on the corpses around them instead of the danger ahead.

The kill count had begun.

And the only way to survive was to start killing.

I lifted my katana, my grip firm, my stance solid. The first monster lunged, claws raised high.

I welcomed it with a blade to the throat.

The first kill is always the easiest. The next hundred? We'll see.

But one thing was certain.

I was going to make it out of this alive.

Silence fell over the battlefield like a burial shroud. The dust had barely settled, the ground still slick with fresh blood, and the acrid scent of death hung in the air. The voice of the announcer cut through the quiet like a blade.

"Final count: 250 dead."

The words landed heavier than any of the weapons that had rained down on us moments before. The surviving trainees were frozen, some still panting, others gripping their newfound weapons as if letting go would mean joining the fallen. There were no screams anymore, no frantic shouts for help. Just the raw, oppressive weight of what we had lost.

250.

A quarter of us. Gone.

It wasn't even a war—just the first test.

My grip tightened around the katana in my hand. It was still warm, either from my own touch or the blood it had already spilled when it fell. My knuckles whitened against the hilt. The silence dragged on, stretching unbearably, as if the world itself had taken a moment to mourn.

Then, the night monsters roared.

The shockwave of their collective battle cries shattered the stillness. The green-skinned creatures, their spiked backs arched, their gleaming teeth gnashing, surged forward. The three gems embedded in their foreheads pulsed as if they could taste the carnage to come.

I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders. The weight of my decision pressed on me for only a moment before I let it go. I didn't have the luxury of mourning. Not yet.

Not when the real battle had just begun.

I took a single step forward, blade in hand, feeling the thick air of fear and hesitation clinging to the others behind me. The hesitation of the weak. The hesitation of the ones who would die next.

The vice commander had said we needed to accept death.

He never said it had to be our own.

A slow grin crawled onto my face. My muscles coiled, my heartbeat steady. The night monsters were charging, their claws raking through the air, their hunger evident in their glowing, soulless eyes.

Good.

Because I was charging too.

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