The tavern reeked of sweat, smoke, and spilled ale—a noxious blend that clung to every surface like a film of grease.
Dim lamplight flickered across warped wooden tables scarred by knife marks and burn stains, casting unsteady shadows over the crowd packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the sweltering heat.
Voices rose in a cacophony of arguments, laughter, and drunken boasts—a babel of different tongues and accents, each trying to drown out the next. The rough frontier Aldermaric language that most used was peppered with loan words and phrases from a dozen different regions, while those who could afford pride spoke in their native languages.
At the counter, five men spoke in the refined, rolling cadences of High Eastern—making no effort to lower their voices or switch to Aldermaric, as if daring the locals to take offense.
"Three Thunderhoof Stags in one sweep," one boasted, the musical language somehow making the arrogance sharper. The heavy thud of a pouch hitting wood punctuated his words. "The cores alone will keep us drinking for a month."
"Thunderhoof Stag?" another scoffed in the same tongue. "Peasant prey. Try a Thunderhoof Eagle—the lightning essence in its beak is worth more than your entire haul."
"Right, and you should've seen the locals scatter when Zhang here claimed the territory," a third cut in, cruel amusement threading his voice. "They actually tried to argue it was their hunting ground." Laughter erupted around the group. "As if border trash has any claim to something of value."
Five of them, all mid-twenties, with the sharp-featured handsomeness common to cultivators who'd refined their bodies through whatever techniques they learned. Their silk robes were dusty from travel but unmistakable in quality—intricate embroidery, Eastern Continent affluence.
At a small table near the bar, a young man sat alone, nursing the cheapest beer the tavern served—the price of a seat and working ears. His skin was darkened by sun and work, shaggy dark hair falling over sharp gray-green eyes. A patched canvas shirt showed beneath a leather vest too large for his wiry frame, and his boots were held together more by stubbornness than leather.
His brow furrowed slightly, his expression souring.
Easterners and their fucking arrogance… How very original.
How did arrogant fools like this even survive the journey to the frontier? Did they lecture the beasts into submission?
The young man—Kael Veyran—understood the Eastern tongue well enough. His father's one useful legacy, reinforced by books he'd scraped together coin to buy and years of making himself useful to Eastern travelers. Guides who spoke the language commanded better rates, and he'd learned early that usefulness could always be turned into coin.
His gaze drifted toward them, his expression settling into neutrality.
Still, while many Easterners carried themselves with a measure of arrogance, few were as openly contemptuous as these men. Most had the sense to temper their pride in unfamiliar territory, or at least the self-preservation to hide their disdain. These five wore it like a badge.
"—the southern watering holes should still be active," one of them was saying, voice lower but still in High Eastern. "Three more days, maybe four—"
"Assuming the information isn't a week old," another interrupted—the one the others called Zhang, seemingly their leader. "These frontier brokers can't tell a Thunderhoof Stag from a plains deer."
"Then why did we pay him?"
"Because even bad information is better than wandering blind."
Kael kept his expression blank, but his mind turned over what he'd heard.
Southern watering holes?
He knew the territory they were talking about—the Golden Plains, where the Thunderhoof herds gathered during the dry season. Good hunting, if you had the strength to claim it and the skill to avoid getting trampled. Cores from a mature stag could fund a month's living, maybe two if you were frugal.
Not that he would ever see that kind of return. Guides didn't get shares of the kill, just their fee. If they were lucky, a small bonus.
"The Runs should start in another week," one of them said. "If we time it right, we can intercept the herds during the migration itself. More dangerous, but more profitable. Migration cores have denser lightning essence. It's worth the risk."
…Migration.
He kept his posture loose, unassuming, but his thoughts raced.
The northern grasslands had seen early rains—he'd heard it from two caravans in the past week. If the grass sea was already filling in, the herds wouldn't wait for the usual schedule. Which meant these five were planning their hunt based on a timeline that was already wrong.
And if they were tracking migration patterns, they'd hit the Run corridor during the scattered phase—herds broken into smaller groups, unpredictable and aggressive. It's also when the Shadow Panther packs were hunting at their most desperate.
He took another slow sip of his beer.
Idiots.
He didn't know their exact level of strength, but Shadow Panther packs during that period were brutally difficult to deal with even for seasoned veterans—let alone outsiders who didn't know what they were walking into.
By the time Kael had all but lost interest in them, Zhang's gaze drifted toward a table near the entrance, where three local hunters were nursing their drinks.
Zhang murmured something to his companions in High Eastern. One of them laughed; another gave a short, knowing nod.
A prickle of unease crept up Kael's spine.
What is that bastard planning now?
Zhang rose, stretching with exaggerated leisure, and sauntered toward the hunters' table.
He stopped in front of them, looking down at the three men as though he'd just noticed an unpleasant stain on his boot. "We want this table."
The Aldermaric was heavily accented, but it was unmistakably not a question.
What a fucking prick...
One of the hunters—a grizzled man with sun-scorched skin and a scar cutting through his eyebrow—looked up slowly. "We're sitting here."
"Not anymore."
"Look, we don't want trouble—"
Zhang's hand shot out and shoved the man who'd been mid-sentence, hard enough to send him stumbling back from his chair. The hunter clutched his ribs where the blow had landed, breath hissing through his teeth.
"I said move." Zhang' hand drifted to his sword hilt, casual as anything. "We take table."
The hunter—Torven, Kael recognized him now—straightened despite the pain. "We were here first. Aren't you just—"
"I don't repeat to dogs." The cultivator's fingers tightened on his weapon.
The tavern's ambient noise dropped by half. Even drunk frontier folk knew when to pay attention.
He saw Torven's jaw tighten, his companions' hands edging toward belt knives that would do nothing against a cultivator's speed, and behind the counter the barkeep's hand creeping toward her cudgel—equally useless, but she would swing it all the same when the fighting began.
Stupid. All of them.
Kael's chair scraped softly as he pushed it back.
Unfortunately, that includes him.
He rose, keeping his movements loose and unhurried as he walked toward the confrontation. Several heads turned to watch—entertainment was entertainment, after all.
"Torven," he called out in Aldermaric, his tone light and cheerful. "There you are. I've been looking all over for you."
The scarred hunter's eyes widened slightly, but Kael pressed on before anyone could interrupt.
"Sorry I'm late. Got held up at the broker's." He stopped a few paces away from Zhang, careful not to crowd the cultivator's space. Then, as if just noticing the situation, he glanced between them with exaggerated confusion. "Oh. Am I interrupting something?"
Zhang's cold gaze shifted to him. "This doesn't concern you, mongrel."
"Ah." Kael nodded slowly, then switched to High Eastern, his accent deliberately rough around the edges. "Apologies, honored cultivator. I didn't mean to intrude. It's just—well, my friend here promised to help me with something urgent."
'Friend' is a strong word, though, he thought. People whose continued existence benefits me is more accurate...
Torven owed him three silver from a card game two months back. Not much, but enough that Kael couldn't afford to write it off. Dead men didn't pay debts.
The bartender—Mara—occasionally slipped him information about which travelers were hiring guides, which ones paid well, and which ones stiffed their help. She would be hard to replace.
And Torven's companions included Daren, who knew a fence who bought questionable goods without asking questions. Also useful.
He wouldn't risk his life for them—but he could, at least, keep them from getting screwed.
Zhang's eyes narrowed. "You speak the civilized tongue?"
"Badly, I'm sure," Kael said, adding a self-deprecating shrug. "I work as a guide sometimes. It helps to know a few words. Though I'm certain my pronunciation offends your ears."
One of Zhang's companions snorted. "At least this one knows his place."
"Honored cultivator, please. I truly need Torven's help. Just for a moment." Kael's voice dropped slightly, glancing at their bearings. "Though if I may ask... are the honored cultivators here for hunting?"
Zhang's hand stilled on his sword hilt. "Why would that concern you?"
"If you're planning to hunt the grasslands, Torven knows those territories well. Better than most brokers, even." He added quickly, "If you're relying on local information, some may be outdated. The early rains changed the migration patterns."
Several cultivators exchanged glances.
"The Thunderhoof herds don't follow the usual schedule when rains come early, for one," Kael continued. "The grass sea's already filling in. The southern watering holes—" He caught himself. "Forgive me. I assume that's where you planned to start. Most visiting cultivators do."
"And if we were?" Zhang's fingers drummed once against his pommel.
"You'd waste your time, honored cultivator. The herds have already moved north."
"And why would you freely tell us this?"
Because lying would get me killed fast, you arrogant prick.
Judging by their bearing alone, Kael couldn't tell how strong they truly were, nor which cultivation path they followed. Cultivators were as varied as mages, priests, or beast tamers—defined not by a single method, but by doctrine, refinement style, and what they bound their power to. Some paths were clean. Others were anything but.
Setting that aside, Kael couldn't ignore one simple fact: the very fact that they had made it to Last Light at all was proof enough that their strength was likely as formidable—and as ugly—as their personalities.
If he lied, or tried to mislead them in any way, and they realized it, he would be in hell.
"Because I need work, honored cultivator." Kael let himself look uncomfortable. "Word travels fast in Last Light. If the honored cultivators waste time and return empty-handed, angry clients don't hire guides. They don't pay fees." He glanced at Zhang's sword. "Some remember faces."
"So you're protecting your reputation?" one of the others snorted.
"Yes, honored cultivator. A guide who gives bad information doesn't work long."
Zhang's eyes narrowed, but Kael could see him thinking it through. A local guide, protecting his livelihood by offering corrections. It was believable enough.
"This northern corridor," Zhang said slowly. "Where exactly?"
Kael described the location without hesitation, outlining the routes, the scattered herd patterns, and the timing.
"One more thing, honored cultivator." He drew a look from Zhang. "During the scattered phase, Shadow Panthers become very active."
"Shadow Panthers?" One of the cultivators scoffed. "We're not—"
"They hunt in packs," Kael interrupted, then immediately looked horrified at his boldness. "Forgive me. The Thunderhoof herds are their primary prey. When herds scatter, the panthers get desperate." He swallowed. "Experienced hunters died last season. They knew the territory, and the panthers still..." He trailed off.
"We're cultivators," Zhang said coldly. "Not frontier trash with belt knives."
"Of course. I only thought—if you're planning your route, knowing where pack territories overlap with the corridor might help avoid complications."
In truth, he was covering himself so they wouldn't blame him later.
Zhang stared at him, and for a moment Kael thought he'd miscalculated—that the cultivator would take offense at the implication he needed warnings about local wildlife.
However, Zhang's expression shifted slightly to a recognition. "You're more thorough than most guides."
"I try to be, honored cultivator. It's safer that way."
"This Shadow Panther activity. How severe?"
Kael glanced at Torven, who was watching the exchange with wary eyes.
"Torven would know the Shadow Panther packs better than I would." He switched to Aldermaric. "He's guided hunters through the Run before."
Zhang's gaze shifted to the scarred hunter. "Well?"
Torven cleared his throat, clearly confused and uncomfortable being directly addressed but still answered nonetheless. "...The packs range from four to seven adults. They're ambush hunters—they'll track you for hours before striking. They're fast and coordinated." He paused. "The ones that died last season were a full party of six. All dead within minutes."
The cultivators exchanged glances.
Zhang studied Torven for a long moment, then abruptly stepped away from his table. "Consider yourself lucky, dogs. We have better things to do than waste time on garbage like you."
He turned to Kael. "You. What's your name?"
Of course.
"Kael Veyran, honored cultivator."
"Kael Veyran." Zhang's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Interesting. We may have use for you after all."
Well, shit.
"I—I'm honored, but I'm already committed to another—"
"We'll find you when we return," Zhang cut him off. "Three days, perhaps four. Be available."
Kael's lips twitched faintly.
"...Yes, honored cultivator."
Zhang and his companions headed for the door, already switching back to High Eastern. Kael caught fragments of their conversation—arguments about whether the information was reliable, whether Shadow Panthers were really a threat to cultivators, whether they should adjust their timeline.
The moment they were gone, Kael sat down hard at Torven's table.
His hands were steady; the only thing stirred was his irritation.
"Did you just be their guide?" Torven said quietly.
Kael clicked his tongue.
"It's better than volunteering to be their scapegoat." He reached for Torven's half-finished beer and took a long drink without asking. "I gave them the truth and everything. If they survive, that just means I've got more clients to guide and fees to collect." He set the mug down. "Or I find a way to be usefully unavailable. I'll figure it out." He glanced at Torven. "You still owe me, Torven."
The tavern had already slipped back into something like normalcy, remarkably fast.
Torven pursed his lips. "You know those bastards could gut you, right? And for what—one or two silvers of mine?"
"Three."
"Right. Still not much."
"Three silvers gets me closer to affording a bond ritual supplies." Kael leaned back. "Another few jobs and I can actually buy a beast, keep it fed, get myself out of this shithole."
Torven sighed. "Aren't you working at the general store? Inventory and stocking should—"
"Should pay enough to stay stuck here forever?" Kael cut him off. "I'll pass."
He didn't mention the widow hunter who'd trained him, or that he knew exactly what he was doing. People like Torven wouldn't understand anyway.
There was no way he would spend all his life in this dreary place.
***
A/N: Hello, everyone.
I'm Wild Cat Man. The name comes from the fact that I love cats, but every cat I had growing up was feral and skittish.
I'm writing this because I hate the 9-to-5 grind, so I've put a lot of effort into this story. I hope you enjoy it.
I'll be doing a lot of author's notes in this section instead of using Webnovel's specialized features, for a particular reason. Of course, you're free to skip them if you don't want your immersion broken. Unless I use A LOT of BOLD TEXT AND CAPITAL LETTERS, none of it will be important.
As you can probably tell, the pacing here might be slower than you expect, but it will pick up soon.
I had an absurd amount of worldbuilding prepared for this story. That said, none of it meant anything if I never actually started writing. I've had other concepts just as detailed, but they weren't very market-friendly, so this is my attempt to strike a better balance here.
For this chapter, I focused mainly on establishing the setting and introducing the characters—especially the main character.
I'm a fairly meticulous person, so please forgive me if that shows in how I handle exposition.
Oh, and I'll be doing this every chapter, for the sake of both sides:
Rate it from 1 to 10, and include your reasoning if possible. That would really help me identify what's still lacking in the story.