A hush fell over the bustling city gate as a monstrous black beast stepped through.

  It was sleek and feline, massive enough to make the ironwork beside it look small. Its hide swallowed the daylight, and its crimson eyes burned like coals.

  For a heartbeat, the entire gate froze.

  Then panic erupted.

  Shouts rang out. Guards snapped spears forward and reached for blades. Civilians scattered, stumbling over each other as they fled the entrance.

  But the creature didn’t attack.

  It swayed—slow, unsteady—like it had forgotten how to stand.

  Then it collapsed with a heavy loud thud.

  Only then did the crowd see the figure beneath it.

  Gasps rippled through the gate as understanding spread from one face to the next.

  The Redstalker was dead.

  And someone had been carrying it.

  “Lara! You’re back! Where have you been?” Locke hurried through the gate, half relieved, half exasperated. His eyes flicked to the carcass, then back to her. “You scared everyone out of their minds. That thing is bigger than you. Ever heard of a cart?”

  People cautiously returned to their routines, though none of them could stop looking. Some edged closer, others kept their distance, stealing glances at the slain predator sprawled across the ground like it didn’t belong in the city at all.

  Lara shrugged and brushed dirt off her clothes as if she’d just come back from a long walk. “Wasn’t planning on hunting,” she said. “It jumped me out of nowhere. Seemed like a waste to leave a Redstalker corpse behind.”

  Locke raised an eyebrow, pointing at the absurdity with one hand. “Out of nowhere? You just happened to walk through the outerlands, casually took down a Redstalker… and carried it all the way back?”

  Lara blinked. “Not exactly. It was unusually close to the farmlands.”

  “The farmlands?” Locke echoed, confusion sharpening his tone.

  And then—without warning—she heaved the beast off ground, and dropped it onto him.

  Locke stumbled back a step, nearly buckling under the weight. He let out a strained groan as the carcass slammed into his arms. “Of course,” he grunted. “You expect me to drag this thing back, huh?”

  Despite himself, he grinned, shaking his head like he’d lost the argument before it even started. “You sensed a Redstalker before it even struck. As expected—your instincts are terrifying.”

  “It wasn’t much.” Lara waved a hand dismissively. “It lunged. I crouched and sliced upward. Its guts spilled, and it went down.”

  She walked past him, head tilting and eyes already scanning the street ahead as if nothing unusual had happened.

  Locke watched her go, still wrestling the dead weight in his arms. “Right,” he muttered. “‘Wasn’t much,’ she says.”

  * * *

  Near a quiet olive grove behind a weather-worn house, a young man named Zill moved through his drills. The late sun warmed the ground beneath his feet, and the air carried the dry, faintly bitter scent of olive leaves. His brown hair—sun-lightened at the edges from too many hours outside—fell in a slightly messy way, more natural than styled, refusing to sit perfectly no matter how often he pushed it back.

  His breathing stayed controlled. His movements were sharp. Training had stopped being something he did and become something his body simply knew.

  He stopped for a moment taking a breath and reflecting. I am twenty now. so I can finally join the Explorer’s Guild and become a predator—well, an explorer, technically. I still haven’t found the right weapon though. I’ve tried swords, bows, daggers… none of them feel right. The only thing I can barely handle is a staff. Just a plain, blunt stick. You can’t take down a predator with that.

  A voice called out from the path, breaking his focus.

  “Zill! Hey!”

  A girl with dark red hair jogged toward him, her tone light but her eyes alert—as if she couldn’t help watching his form even while teasing him.

  “You’re training even today?” Violet said. “Tomorrow’s the big day. You should rest so you’re at your best.”

  Zill slowed and exhaled, giving her a quick smile. “Oh—Violet. Yeah, I know. But I need the distraction.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Keep it light, though. You don’t even know what weapon you’ll end up with yet.” Her grin turned playful. “Probably a staff.”

  Zill flinched like she’d hit him. “No. I’m not using a staff!”

  Violet chuckled. “Relax. I’m sure you’ll find your match.”

  Another figure appeared from the side road—taller, black-haired, walking with a quiet steadiness. Dru didn’t have Violet’s energy, but he wasn’t awkward either. He carried himself like someone who thought things through twice before saying them, eyes a little too focused, like his mind was always running ahead and trying to map what came next.

  “Still at it, Zill?” Dru called. “Give it a rest already. You’ve got this. You’re one of the strongest people our age.”

  Zill frowned and wiped his brow. “I’m only physically strong. Without a weapon, I don’t have any real skills. This is all I can do, Dru. You know that.”

  Dru scratched the back of his head. “I mean… I can’t use a weapon either. But the Guild has way more options than what we had at school. We’ll find something.”

  Zill let out a short chuckle. “You don’t need to worry, Dru. You can wield a shield like nobody else. That’s enough for a medic.” He tilted his head, half teasing. “Just get a big one. You’ll protect us when we’re down, yeah?”

  Then he looked at them both, expression turning direct in that blunt way of his—like he didn’t even realize he was saying something that would land hard.

  “Don’t worry. I know you and Violet will pass the trial easily. I’ll count on you to have my back out there.”

  Dru and Violet froze.

  Their cheeks flushed—at the same time.

  Violet stammered, “How can you say that so directly, you weirdo!”

  Zill tilted his head, confused. Hmm?

  * * *

  The awaited day had finally come.

  Applicants filled the Explorer’s Guild training space, eyes wide as they took in the enormous facility. Ten full-sized arenas with padded floors stretched out before them—more than three times what the school had. Farther back, a massive hall loomed, lined with iron-forged rigs, pulleys, and old-school weight benches. The air smelled faintly of oil and metal, like the place had been built for sweat and repetition.

  If you made it as an explorer, this entire place became yours to use.

  And the Guild’s library… it was legendary—field reports, predator records, maps, and notes about the land beyond the city walls. Stories said you could spend years inside it and still not reach the end.

  Locke stepped forward, hands behind his back, voice loud enough to settle the crowd.

  “Impressive. One hundred and fifty applicants this year—nearly double from last.” His gaze swept over them. “You’re also the first batch to complete the full two-year school prep system. We expect a smooth trial, so I won’t waste your time repeating rules you’ve already memorized.”

  He lifted a hand, pointing toward the arenas.

  “The exam runs for five days and ends with a dungeon dive. Get into your assigned groups.”

  The crowd scattered.

  Zill was placed with the largest group—the ones expected to specialize in close combat. Over two thirds of them gathered on the same side of the training space, some eager, some stiff with nerves.

  Violet’s aiming for ranged combat, Zill thought as he followed the flow, and Dru’s going in as a medic. Most people choose close combat. Figure. Predators are easier to finish up close… and that’s where most of the glory is earned.

  A tall man in a tight uniform waited for them, posture rigid, eyes narrowed like he’d already decided none of them were impressive.

  “My name is Lass,” he said curtly. “I’ll be evaluating your performance. Follow instructions, don’t mess around, and don’t waste my time.”

  A couple of trainees near Zill whispered as they lined up.

  “That’s Lass. They say he favors the rich.”

  “Or the ones who come in with expensive gear,” the other muttered. “Same thing.”

  Zill didn’t react.

  That doesn’t matter. I just need the right weapon—then I’ll prove I belong here.

  They began with raw physical evaluations.

  Grip strength. Reaction tests. Short sprints. Endurance drills. Controlled sparring in the padded arena. The kind of work that stripped people down to what they really were.

  After the rounds of testing, ranks were announced.

  “C-grade.”

  Zill blinked.

  Disappointing… but I’m just getting started.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The guy next to him received a B. His bracers bore the insignia of a wealthy merchant house, polished like they’d never seen dirt. A thorny red rose was stamped into the steel—sharp, perfect, untarnished.

  No surprise. He’s probably had top-tier training his whole life. I’ve been struggling since Grandpa was gone. But that doesn’t matter now. This is the Guild.

  Lass’s gaze lingered on the B-rank applicant—not in admiration, exactly, but in calculation. Like he was already measuring how far that advantage could carry.

  Then came the weapon trial.

  It wasn’t a “test” the same way the physical evaluations were. More like a fitting—an attempt to find what your body accepted, and what it rejected.

  Zill stepped into the armory.

  Rows of gleaming weapons waited under lamplight: swords of different makes, custom spears, twin blades, curved daggers from different smiths—some practical, some extravagant. The quiet in the room felt heavy, like the weapons were watching back.

  He tried sword after sword. Spear after spear.

  The grip felt wrong. The balance fought him. The motion didn’t flow.

  Nothing clicked.

  In the end, he was left holding a staff.

  Of all things… he thought bitterly. I have to go into tomorrow with this.

  The sky was dark by the time he left the Guild. Most of the others had already gone home.

  I took too long…

  But when he reached his house, two figures waited by the door.

  “Zill!” Violet called. “There you are. It’s late.”

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

  “We wanted to check on you,” she said gently.

  Then her eyes dropped to the staff in his hand.

  “Oh…” Her voice softened even more. “Well. I’m sure you’ll still do great.”

  It was meant kindly, but it stung anyway.

  Dru stepped forward. “Yeah, you will, Zill. Just… believe in yourself the way you always believe in me.”

  Zill forced a smile. “Guess I’ll have to work with what I’ve got.” He glanced between them. “Let me guess—Violet using a bow, and Dru’s walking around with a shield the size of a door and no backup weapon?”

  Dru scratched the back of his head. “My examiner said a shield can be enough for a medic.” He hesitated, then added honestly, “But it also means I will have more to prove during the dungeon dive.”

  Zill huffed a laugh. “So they did let you through with just a shield.”

  Zill nudged Dru lightly. “Honestly, it fits you. You’re careful. A shield matches that.”

  Violet smiled. “It really does.”

  She stepped back and waved a hand like she was shooing him. “Now go sleep, training-freak. Tomorrow the exam starts for real.”

  Zill watched them leave, the staff heavy in his grip.

  A staff’s not the end. It can’t be. I’ll make it work.

  He turned, then went inside.

  * * *

  The next day arrived.

  The close-combat candidates gathered inside one of the padded arenas, spread out across the wide floor. The Guild hall swallowed sound strangely—murmurs echoing off stone and iron, footsteps dull against the mats. The air carried the faint smell of oiled metal and old sweat, like this room had been used for years and would be used for decades more.

  Lass paced in front of them, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Alright,” he said. “Today I’ll evaluate your combat ability. One-on-one bouts. Avoid injuring your opponent. There are no winners or losers—I’m observing how you move, how you defend, and how you use your weapon.”

  He glanced down at the sheet in his hand, then let out a short, unimpressed breath.

  “As for physical results…” His eyes swept the group. “Most of you scored D.”

  A few trainees stiffened.

  “Two exceptions.” He lifted his chin slightly. “Zill. Demian. You two will fight each other.” His gaze shifted to the rest. “Everyone else—find a partner.”

  Demian glanced at Zill, unbothered.

  His staff won’t stand a chance against my katana.

  Zill stepped forward, calm and steady. “I’m Zill. Let’s have a good match.”

  “Sure. I’m Demian.” Demian raised a brow at Zill’s calmness.

  Lass raised his hand. “Ready… begin!”

  Zill barely had time to register the word before Demian was already on him.

  Steel flashed down in a clean, decisive arc.

  Zill sprang back, staff lifting on instinct. The strike skimmed close enough that he felt the air cut past his face.

  Fast—he’s already trying to cage me.

  Demian didn’t pause to admire his own speed. He flowed into another slash, then another, stepping forward each time, forcing Zill to give ground.

  Zill retreated, heart thudding—not from fear, but from pressure. The katana wasn’t just sharp. It was confident.

  Am I already getting pushed out?

  Then Zill’s eyes flicked past Demian—past his shoulders, past the line of observers—to the arena itself.

  It was huge. Way bigger than the school’s training circle. He’d been moving like the walls were close, like he was already cornered.

  He exhaled, and his footwork changed.

  His steps lengthened. His pivots got cleaner. He stopped running away and started guiding the chase—dodging just enough, drifting just enough, pulling Demian toward the edge on his terms.

  Demian lunged again, certain he’d finally trapped him.

  Zill saw it coming.

  He didn’t try to block the katana head-on. Instead, he struck the blunt side with his staff—not to stop it, but to tilt it—and pivoted in the same breath. The end of the staff snapped into Demian’s forearm.

  Smack.

  Demian hissed, wrist tightening. But the katana stayed in his grip.

  For a heartbeat, both of them paused—each surprised by the other.

  “Damn,” Demian muttered, impressed despite himself. “You lead me on!”

  Zill nodded once. “Still, your grip holds.”

  Demian’s mouth tugged into a smirk through the sting. “Naturally. If I lose it, the fight ends. We cannot let this end fast.”

  Both smiled, exhilaration seeping through their veins.

  They re-centered. The watchers around them quieted.

  Zill kept his staff up, but his mind raced. I can’t strike his blade the same way again. He’ll bait it.

  Demian came in again—same speed, but smarter now, watching Zill’s hands, watching his hips.

  No time to overthink.

  Zill dodged back, angled to the side, and dipped low, staff cutting toward Demian’s knee, baiting.

  Demian didn’t bite.

  He widened his slash instead—punishing the movement.

  Blade touched flesh.

  A sharp line opened across Zill’s left arm.

  Blood immediately trickled down.

  Lass shifted, ready to end it—then hesitated.

  Their eyes weren’t wild. Their stances weren’t sloppy. Both of them were still controlled, still present. This wasn’t reckless. It was serious.

  He let it continue.

  Demian flicked his blade once, shaking off the blood. “You still moved. But I left a mark.” His gaze locked on Zill. “Can you keep going?”

  Zill steadied his breathing, smirking through the pain. “Of course.”

  Demian’s smile widened, drawn into the rhythm now. “Good.”

  What followed was a flurry.

  Demian attacked again and again, pressure building like a tide. Zill slipped back, shoulders twisting, feet sliding, staff catching strikes at angles and redirecting them where he could. But each parry cost him.

  I’ve got to meet him instead of only dodging…

  Demian slashed downward.

  Zill saw it—finally a clean chance.

  He moved to redirect—

  —but Demian’s speed was brutal. The katana curved low toward Zill’s leg.

  Clang!

  Zill’s staff caught it—barely.

  The impact jolted up his arms, and a deep crack spidered along the shaft.

  Zill’s stomach dropped.

  No…

  Demian’s eyes flicked to the damage. He didn’t grin. He didn’t mock. He simply adjusted, ready to capitalize.

  Zill felt the staff tremble in his hands.

  Then a thought flashed—bright and reckless and strangely right.

  Why not?

  He snapped the staff across his knee.

  Crack.

  The sound echoed off the stone walls.

  A few trainees stared, wondering.

  Zill straightened, holding a broken half in each hand. His shoulders felt… lighter.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “Now I’ve got two.”

  Lass’s eyes narrowed. “That’s enough. You won’t be using broken weapons in real exploration. Test ends here.”

  Zill snapped his head up. “Let us continue!”

  “It’s over,” Lass said flatly. Not angry—firm.

  Demian glanced at Lass, then back at Zill, eyes bright now in a way they hadn’t been before. “He’s not finished. Neither am I.” He lifted his katana slightly. “We’re just getting started, Examiner.”

  Lass exhaled through his nose, annoyed at the stubbornness—but not blind to what he was seeing.

  “One more engagement,” he said. “Then I end it.”

  Zill dipped into a small bow. “Thank you, Examiner.”

  He stared at the two broken halves.

  He’d never fought like this before. Never dual-wielded. Not once.

  But the moment the weight split between his hands, his body stopped arguing.

  This feels right… I’m lighter. Faster. More flexible.

  Demian smirked, katana ready. “You attack. Let’s see what you’ve got with this… made-up style.”

  Zill locked eyes with him—focused, silent.

  A strange tremor passed through Demian’s posture. Not fear. Not weakness. A reflex. Like his instincts had flinched before his mind could due to Zill's stare.

  Zill’s left arm bled steadily.

  He will assume my left is slower. I’ll use that.

  He lunged first with the left half—an obvious strike.

  Demian dodged it easily, as expected.

  Zill’s right hand moved low immediately.

  Demian blocked.

  But it was another feint.

  Now!

  Zill snapped the left half up again—not to hit Demian’s body, but his grip.

  The strike jolted Demian’s hand. His katana dipped for a fraction of a second.

  Demian recovered fast, stepping back—

  —but Zill didn’t stop. He surged forward, putting his whole weight into the motion.

  Too much weight.

  His foot caught. His long reach pulled him farther than he meant to go.

  Zill stumbled and hit the mat hard.

  But the swing had widened more than he realized.

  The broken staff slammed into Demian’s stomach.

  Thud.

  Demian’s breath left him in a violent burst. He dropped to one knee, then both, winded.

  Zill groaned from the floor, blinking up at him. “I wasn’t aiming there.” He sucked in a breath, embarrassed and irritated at once. “I didn’t know my reach was that long…”

  He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking at Demian’s still-clenched katana.

  “Anyway. I’m the one on the ground and you’re still holding your weapon.” Zill grimaced. “You win.”

  Demian coughed out a laugh while still catching his breath. “You still fooled me.” He shook his head. “It’s a tie.”

  He offered a hand. Zill took it, and Demian hauled him up.

  For a moment, both of them stood there grinning—sweaty, bruised, and strangely pleased.

  Then a voice cut through the space, calm and amused.

  “You were aiming for his grip…” the woman said, “…and hit his stomach?”

  Zill blinked and turned.

  A woman had approached without anyone noticing, hands in her pockets like she owned the place. Her presence wasn’t loud, but it was heavy—like the air had decided to pay attention.

  “In-teresting,” she said, drawing the word out just enough to make it a judgment. “Agile style. Unrefined. But unique.”

  Zill frowned. “Who are you?”

  Demian’s eyes widened. He bowed immediately. “Great Explorer Lara—it’s an honor.”

  Zill stared again, then blurted the first thought in his head.

  “You’re that Lara? You don’t look as impressive as your reputation.” His eyes narrowed in honest confusion. “Also… you’re kinda short.”

  Demian went pale. “Shut up!” he hissed. “She’ll kill us! No one calls her short!”

  Lara raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “You know my name and insult me on the same breath?” Her mouth twitched. “You’ve either got guts… or no brains.”

  Lass walked over, posture straight, expression careful. “Lara. I didn’t expect you to visit the trials.”

  Her gaze didn’t move from Zill yet. Lass continued anyway, factual.

  “Demian is the strongest candidate in this arena today,” he said. “Best equipment, best foundation. He performs like he’s been trained for this his whole life.”

  Demian shifted awkwardly at the blunt summary.

  Lara nodded once. “Yes. He’s excellent.”

  Zill’s jaw tightened. He looked away, frustration flickering across his face.

  Then Lara finally looked at Demian properly—and dismissed him just as quickly.

  “But I didn’t come for him.”

  Lass blinked. “You came for… Zill?”

  Zill snapped his head back, startled.

  Lass wasn’t offended, just confused. “He lost footing, overextended, and ended on the ground. The result is messy.”

  Zill’s mouth curled into a small smirk despite himself. “Lost? I thought there were no losers, Examiner Lass.”

  Lara grinned. “Oh, there are definitely losers.” Her eyes slid to Demian. “You’re just lucky Demian decided to play it out—most people would’ve shut you down the moment your staff cracked.”

  Demian rubbed the back of his head. “Uh… thanks? I guess”

  Zill’s eyes narrowed again. “I’ll win next time. Once I find my weapon—dual daggers.”

  Lara snorted. “Idiot. You must’ve tried a dagger already. Didn’t work. Why would two work better?”

  “I never dual-wielded before,” Zill shot back.

  Lara’s gaze sharpened. “You only made that work because you’re decent with a staff. Two blades won’t magically solve what your body rejects.” She gestured lazily at him. “And with arms like yours, you’ll keep overreaching and eating the floor unless you learn control.”

  Zill bristled. “I’ll get better. I want a weapon that can kill a predator. Otherwise I’ll never make it as a solo—”

  Lara crossed her arms, smug. “A solo explorer? Like me? as things stand now it is not happening.”

  “I will become one,” Zill growled.

  “Sure you will,” Lara said—and the annoying thing was, she sounded like she meant it.

  She turned slightly toward Lass. “He passes. I’m taking him.”

  Lass’s brows rose. “Lara—Demian deserves a recommendation too. He’s earned it.”

  “I’m not denying that,” Lara said. “Demian already has a path.” She flicked her eyes to him. “He just needs to walk it.”

  Then her attention returned to Zill, and the tone changed—less teasing, more curious.

  “But this kid…” She leaned closer just a fraction, eyes narrowing as if she were trying to see something under the surface. “I like the look in his eyes.”

  Zill stiffened instantly.

  His eyes were… a thing. People had stared at them his whole life. Some whispered. Some laughed. Some called them creepy. Some called him cursed.

  So he snapped, defensive. “Don’t make fun of my eyes!”

  Lara blinked—then smiled wider, like she’d just confirmed something she wanted to confirm.

  Without warning, she grabbed him by the shoulder and started walking, dragging him with effortless confidence.

  “Just follow along,” she said.

  Demian bowed again, voice steady with respect. “Thank you, Lara. It’s an honor.”

  Zill stumbled after her, grumbling under his breath. “Where are you taking me, shorty—OW!”

  Lara bonked him on the head. A bump rose immediately.

  “You seem like the kind of idiot who will keep repeating that,” she said pleasantly, “so brace your head every time and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Rubbing his head, Zill glared. “Fine. Where are we going?”

  Lara smirked, eyes gleaming with excitement.

  “To find you a weapon that can kill a predator.”