I wake knowing exactly what I must do. The thought has been gnawing at me since yesterday: I need to discover who the second hunter was, the one the chieftain killed. The face haunts me. Why did it happen? What did it mean? Should I confront the chief directly? Would that draw too much attention? Or should I find out on my own? As I lie there in the dark, questions circle endlessly, answers slipping through my fingers like water. Sleep refuses to come. Tonight, I will not close my eyes. Tonight, I will plan.
If the chief had wanted to tell me, he would have already answered when I asked before. He chose silence, and silence tells me enough: I have to find out myself. That is my decision. That is my path.
Midnight arrives. The camp lies in slumber, its heart lulled by the crackling embers of dying fires. I take my gear, my spears, my hide belt, the sharp stone knife hanging at my hip. My feet are steady, quiet. As I step into the central square, silence embraces me like a cloak. There is no threat, no whisper, only the faint rustle of leaves and the cold, star-hung sky.
The spears rest across my back; their weight comforts me. My confidence feels solid, forged in battle and fire. If I am to uncover the hunter's identity, I must take risks: either speak to the rival tribe, or find someone within my own clan who knows more than they admit. After all, someone must have seen the hunter's face, must recognize him. The forest swallows me whole as I leave the village behind. Thoughts run like wild animals through my mind. I am not merely a warrior; tonight, I must become a hunter of truth, a silent tracker. My eyes scan for prey, both beast and secret. A hare darting in the undergrowth, a bird startled into flight, all distractions that remind me of my strength, but my true quarry is knowledge.
Respect within my clan is high. They follow my orders, call me their war-chief. But respect comes with responsibility. I must ask questions, interrogate them one by one if I have to. When I return, I will. These thoughts gnaw at me when suddenly another sound cuts through the night: laughter. High, bright, unmistakably female. Beneath it, the gentle murmur of water. I slow my breath, press the haft of a spear to my palm, and creep forward. The trees part, and there before me lies the small pond near Ragno's Haven. The moon spills its silver light across the rippling surface, and within that shimmering reflection, three women bathe.
They are young, no more than twenty. Two with hair dark as obsidian, one fair as harvested wheat. Their skin glistens under the moonlight, droplets tracing curves down toned bodies honed by survival, by endless days of toil. Their laughter is low and intimate, splashing water at each other as though the night belonged only to them. The sight halts me.
For a moment I allow myself to simply watch. They are beautiful, undeniably so. In my old world, meeting even one woman of such wild beauty was a struggle, a conquest in itself. Here, in this savage land, three such women play before me, unaware of my gaze. My chest tightens with hunger that is not only physical but primal, a reminder that I am no longer the man I once was.
Yet fantasy cannot linger. I will not hide in shadows like a coward. I must act. With deliberate slowness, I step from the thicket. Branches brush my shoulders, grass bends beneath my weight. My mind still whispers about the dead hunter, the unanswered question, but I force the thought aside. Answers will come later. Now, I need something else.
One of the women notices me first. Her laughter stops, and she signals to the others. They all freeze, then rise from the water, droplets cascading down bare skin. Their eyes widen, fear and recognition mingling like oil and flame. Their bodies, though exposed, tense like warriors preparing for a fight. "I mean you no harm," I say, my voice calm, firm. "Do not fear me." I repeat it again, trying to pierce their fear. "I only wish to speak."
But the eldest-looking of the three narrows her eyes and spits words sharp as flint: "You are the one. The warrior who burned our homes. Because of you, we have nothing left to eat." Her voice trembles with anger, yet I hear the weight of hunger beneath it. I open the leather pouch at my side. From within, I draw cooked meat, spoils from the last hunt. The scent drifts into the cool night air, rich and irresistible. "Take this," I offer, holding it out. "Eat."
At first they hesitate. But hunger betrays pride. Slowly, they step forward, snatch the meat from my hand, and devour it with the intensity of starving wolves. Grease glistens on their lips as they chew; their eyes flicker with suspicion, but also with relief. I watch in silence, not speaking until they are ready. Dominance must be quiet sometimes, not shouted. Finally, the woman who had spoken before raises her head, her tone softer now though still edged with pain. "Who are you? Why did you attack us? What had we done to you?"
"I am the newest among my people," I answer, keeping my tone steady, almost diplomatic. "I was told your tribe raided us, killed many of ours. Chief Pre decided after much watching that we must strike first. I am merely a warrior, think of me as a messenger, not the hand that chose the fire." The explanation hangs in the air. But then comes the question I anticipated, the one that chills my spine even as it excites me: "The fire. How do you control it?" Their eyes bore into me, wide with curiosity, perhaps fear, perhaps awe. Words will not suffice here. I choose demonstration.
I step from the pond's edge. The moon paints every scar and muscle on my body with silver light. Their eyes follow me , hesitant at first, then with a heat that cannot be denied. The blonde tilts her head, eyes roaming the breadth of my chest. One of the dark-haired ones bites her lip, a gesture unconscious but heavy with meaning.
I kneel, gather dry twigs and brittle grass. From my belt, I draw the two small stones I always carry. I strike them together, once, twice, again, until sparks leap into the tinder. A breath, a whisper, and the tinder smolders, then ignites. Flame blossoms at my command, licking upwards, painting the night in orange and gold. The women gasp, voices caught between disbelief and something else , reverence, desire. Reflections of fire dance in their eyes, alive and trembling. They step closer, drawn by both the flame and by me, their fear dissolving into something heavier, more intimate.
And in that moment, I feel it , not just pride, not just strength, but a surge from deep within. My body feels lighter, my mind sharper. The fire does not merely answer to me; it respects me, grows with me. I recognize the sensation instantly: another rise, another step upward.
[+150 XP]
Strength +1
Endurance +1
Firecraft Lv.3
The change courses through me like molten metal. My senses heighten, my stance feels unshakable. I look at them again, and now they no longer see just a warrior. They see something more. Their eyes linger not only on the fire but on me, tracing every line of muscle, every drop of water that slides down my skin. The fair-haired woman moves a fraction closer, her breath catching. The others follow, their gazes laced with unspoken questions , and unspoken desires. Around us, the forest is still, watching. Only the crackle of the fire and the faint lapping of water at the pond's edge remain.
I know this night has only begun. From here, I will draw not only answers but submission, not only knowledge but something deeper. The dead hunter's shadow lingers, but for now, firelight and the eyes of three women hold me in their grasp…