William pushed the front door of ' The Rusty Nail', the inn filled with smell of woodsmoke a welcome relief from the stifling heat outside. He was sweating, not from rain, but from the effort of finding his way through the convoluted passageways of the Secularis Chamber House and excitement. Sweat glued his black hair to his forehead and poured through his tattered tunic.
He made no delay, went to his tiny room. The single window had a view of the crowded road but William saw none of it. His eyes were all for the tomes hugged desperately against his chest. He sat heavily upon the bed, the springs creaking in protest, and laid the book open carefully across his lap. The cover was torn . The title and writer's name burned.
His chest pounded against his ribs. This was it. He needs to win The Hunter Ascension Contest and without a cutting edge advantage, the chances against experienced veterans were nothing. Tier 3 was not only a rank; it was a threshold between the true hunters and novice Hunters.
He flipped back the cover. The first page was not crowded with close script, but with detailed, curved diagrams that seemed to change just beneath his eyes. Beside them was a caption that caught his breath in his throat:
"Thunder Dragon art"
*First technique: Dragon's Lash .*
"Not merely speed, but the absence of wasted motion. For the archer, it is the instantaneous draw and release, the arrow finding its mark before the target registers the string's hum. In the press of close combat, it is the explosive conversion of stored tension – a coiled spring unleashed – channeling kinetic force through daggers or short swords with devastating, pinpoint bursts. It is not sustained fury, but the perfect, lethal strike born of absolute stillness preceding absolute violence."
William traced the diagrams with finger. It spoke of redirecting momentum, of using an opponent's force against them, of movements so economical they bordered on the supernatural. It was the perfect fusion of hybrid style – archery for distance, daggers or short sword for when things got messy.
The skill implied the sudden, whip-fast strike, the precision, the coiled potential snapping out.
He didn't notice the hours passed. His eyes burned, his head ached, but he devoured the instructions, the subtle shifts in weight distribution, the breathing techniques that seemed to draw energy from the very air. By the time the first grey light of dawn began to seep through the window, he'd barely scratched the surface.
He comprehended maybe fifteen percent – enough to realize the horrifying potential, but scarcely enough to implement it. Frustration fought against excitement."Fifteen percent… but it's something. Enough to know where to proceed next."
His thoughts inevitably turned to the Ascension Contest. Tier 3 hunters operated in zones far beyond Kasha or Rekka like village's relative safety.
He needed real-world application, trials by fire against threats that would push him to its limits. He needed a place where the forest itself was a predator, where beasts didn't just hunt, but deadly and terrified.
A name surfaced from tavern tales and grim warnings: "Black Fang city". Nestled deep within the Whispering Weald, a forest rumored to be cursed, where the trees drank blood and the beasts were twisted by ancient plague. Perfect. Deadly. Exactly the hell he needed.
He left the inn for gathering Information. He passed the morning in the thronged Caravaner's Yard, ears tuned for any word of routes going east, towards Black Fang city .Luck, or maybe fate, favored him. A veteran caravan master by the name of Borin confirmed a departure for Blackroot Thorne within two days.
"Last caravan before the Weald engulfs the path whole for winter," Borin shouted ,gnawing on a stalk of dried grass. "Rooms are scarce, price is twice. Got the credit, boy?"
William did, just barely. He walked over to the assigned wagon, a solid-looking thing braced with iron bands, already filled with a small group of expectants and veterans alike. As he moved up to address Borin, a person roughly pushed him out of the way.
"Out of the way, gutter rat," sneered a voice full of contempt.
William spun around. The fellow was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing costly, oiled leather armor that likely cost more than the total of William's equipment. His bow sat across his back. His face was well-favored but conceited, eyes slitted with scorn. A Mumbra Family's Tier 2 hunter badge shone prominently on his chest.
"Excuse me?" William attempted to sound even-toned, although his hand automatically drifted over the blade of his dagger.
"The place is mine," the archer declared, as though it were a fact of life. "Borin recognizes good when he sees it. Not like some of those scavengers who likely pilfered their boots."
There was a mutter of assent that ran through the witnesses. This was Kelen Swift, one of the young stars famous for his flashy long-range kills and even flashier attitude. Some of the hunters around him nodded, clearly in his corner. "Yeah, kid, know your place," one growled. "Swift's got the creds," another chimed in.
William's anger flared up inside him, but he pushed it away. Anger was a waste of energy. He looked Kelen in the eye. "Borin has not sold the spot yet. I have the credit. First come, first served."
Kelen let out a bark of laughter. "Credit ?You're thinking this is all about credit? This is about survival. "Black Fang " ate amateurs like you for breakfast. My skills will keep the entire caravan safe on the trip. What do you offer? Rusty knives and desperation?"
The insult stung, but the arrogance was breathtaking. William's mind raced. He needed this spot. And Kelen's bow… it was calling him.A tool that could be used perfectly with'Dragon's Lash '. An idea, reckless and sharp, formed.
"Fine," William said, his voice suddenly calm, cutting through Kelen's bluster. "You think you're so much better? Prove it. Right here. Right now."
Kelen scoffed. "A street brawl? Hardly fitting for a hunter of my caliber."
"Not a fight," William replied, his gaze fixed on the bow. "A competition. Archery. One arrow each. Closest to the center on that target." He gestured to a worn practice target pinned to a post fifty yards distant. "And we bet our arms."
There was silence. Even Borin ceased chewing his grass. Betting a main arm was serious, rarely seen outside of duels to the death.
Kelen's eyes grew wide, then slitted in anger and incredulity as William doesn't even possess a bow. "You have the temerity to bet my bow, the 'Whisperwind'? With that. that dagger you're using as a weapon? You're either the most courageous fool or the most foolish brave man I've ever known."
"Name it as you please," said William. "Do you accept? Or is the great Kelen Swift afraid a 'gutter rat' will outshoot him?"
The taunt, spoken so brusquely, stoked Kelen's pride. "Afraid?! Me ? Never? But where is your bow?"
William pointed at a boy with a plain long bow, and exclaimed" I will use his bow"
Kelen bellowed. "Fine! You want to lose your one weapon, so be it! Prepare to walk barehanded, boy!"
The crowd pushed forward, creating an uneven circle. There was electricity in the air. "He's crazy!" someone said. "Swift never misses at this distance!" "Poor kid's bow is probably taped together with spit," another laughed glancing at the other bow William borrowed for 100 credit for 10 minutes.
Kelen released an arrow in practiced, flowing ease. He pulled, paused for a heartbeat, and let go. The arrow whistled past and struck the edge of the bullseye. A perfect shot by any conventional measure. The crowd thundered into applause. "Told you!" "Kelen!Kelen!"
Kelen grinned, looking at William with a face full of pure triumph. "Your turn, scrap. Don't hit your own foot."
William turned a deaf ear. He took one deep, closed breath. He didn't think about the diagrams, not really. Rather, he thought about the feeling described in the tome – the quiet, the pure economy. He was sensitive to the flick of breeze, to tension in his own body, to weight of the bow.
He moved. Not with Kelen's showy flourish, but with a startling, almost lazy speed. Nock. Draw. Release. It happened so fast it seemed like a single motion, a blur.
His arrow fled, not with a hiss, but with a crisp 'crack'.
It hit Kelen's arrow directly through the center, cleaving the shaft in two and burying itself squarely in the bullseye's center.
The cheering died instantly. Utter, stunned silence descended, broken only by the distant cry of a gull. Every face in the crowd was slack-jawed. Kelen's smirk vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated shock. He stared at the target, then at William, grinding his teeth.
Whispered murmurs erupted, hushed and reverent.
"Did you see that?"
"Split his arrow… at fifty yards?"
"Who is that kid?"
"Looks like the gutter rat just swallowed the hawk…"
Kelen's face reddened with anger and humiliation. He stepped forward, his hand jerking towards the short sword at his waist, but Borin's huge hand dropped across his shoulder. "The wager's settled, Kelen," the caravan master growled, his eyes flashing with new respect as he stared at William. "Turn over the Whisperwind. Boy's got his slot."
Seething, Kelen almost threw the magnificent bow at William's feet before storming off into the amazed crowd. William retrieved the Whisperwind, its cool smooth steel feeled familiar in his hands, contrast with Maya's bow he had used just a few days prior. He slung it over his shoulder, the weight a reassuring promise of future strength.
"Caravan departs at dawn," Borin said, thumping William on the back. "Don't be late."
William nodded, a tired but pleased smile on his lips. He turned to go back to 'The Rusty Nail.' He had to study. The 'Dragon's Lash' was waiting, and now he had a bow to practice.
William strode through the busy streets. He was so focused on the diagrams going through his head, that he didn't notice,
there, half-concealed in the shdowy ally way was a lad following him . He was the same age as William, perhaps a year or so younger, with tangled brown hair and eyes that were too bright, too observant for his purported age. He was dressed in travel-worn clothes, and moved with a cat-like stealth. His purpose unknown.
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A N:- Comment your thoughts about the boy tailling William. Who knows if your idea is better than mine , I will write the next chapter in that direction.
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To know who is the boy read the next chapter tomorrow.
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