[Mid-Morning, Fangwood Lodge Grounds]
The Fangwood Lodge was alive with motion.
Hunters sharpened blades, trained beasts, mended leather. Fires crackled in the forges. From the roost towers, hawks shrieked at passing clouds. Bells rang at intervals—some marking drills, others danger.
Jumong sat cross-legged on a worn training mat, sweat beading down his brow. Before him was an oak dummy, riddled with shallow gouges.
He breathed. Drew. Fired.
The arrow nicked the edge—barely a hit.
"Too slow," came a sharp voice.
Lira stood nearby, arms crossed. She hadn't changed out of her hunt leathers.
"You're relying on instinct," she said. "That's a start. But instinct without refinement is just survival."
Jumong frowned. "Didn't instinct keep me alive in the hollow?"
"It did. But now you're not just surviving." She gestured. "Again."
For the next hour, Lira drilled him.
Not with flashy techniques—but movement, rhythm, patience.
She taught him how to wait, how to breathe, how to see.
He practiced [Gutter Roll] with weighted packs, refining its flow from wild flail to precise dodge.
He adjusted the angle of his [Piercebind Shot]—not for power, but for placement.
He learned to read wind by scent, not just sight.
By the end, he was panting. Not broken. But humbled.
[Lodge Canteen, Afternoon]
The canteen smelled of stewed roots, smoked venison, and sourleaf tea. Hunters laughed, argued, shared tales of things half-true and half-cursed.
Jumong sat with Kirr and Brenna, who, after the ogre hunt, treated him like a half-brother.
"You still aiming to tame that duskwolf?" Kirr asked.
Jumong nodded. "Someday."
Brenna grinned. "Better make sure it doesn't tame you first."
They laughed. Then silence.
Kirr said, quietly, "You held your ground out there. Not everyone does. I've seen Beast-class kills break better men."
Jumong lowered his cup. "I don't think I'm better. I just… don't want to die useless."
Brenna met his eyes. "Then you're already one step ahead of half this place."
___
[The Lodge Hierarchy & Ember Trials]
The Fangwood Lodge was one of twelve across the continent. Each maintained its own rules, but all answered to the Ember Pact, a council of Ember-ranked legends sworn to preserve the Vein balance.
To rise in rank, a hunter must survive three Ember Trials:
Trial of Flame – proving one's will and control.
Trial of Shadow – confronting the unseen.
Trial of Echoes – uncovering the truth of one's Vein.
Very few passed all three.
Even fewer returned unchanged.
___
[Roost Tower]
Atop the roost tower, where hawks circled in high thermals, Jumong sat feeding Ashwing. The bird's wing was healing—slow, but strong.
Torren joined him, pipe smoke curling in the air.
"You've been asking questions," the old tracker said. "About Feralbloods. About history."
Jumong nodded.
"Good. Just don't go digging too deep without armor on your soul."
"What do you mean?"
Torren tapped ash from his pipe. "There's things in this world that remember pain longer than we remember names. The deeper you go, the more likely you'll hear them whisper."
Jumong looked over the pines. The wind carried scent of rain.
"I want to understand them," he said.
"Then pray you're strong enough not to become what you understand."
Jumong stood before the old lodge master, called in without warning.
Harken flipped through scrolls, muttering. Finally, he held one up.
"A request came in. Escort mission. North trail. Seems simple, but…" He looked up. "That's when things usually go to rot."
"Who's the client?"
"A merchant—old contact of mine. But he's headed near the Gravepine Weald."
Jumong's pulse ticked faster. That was old land. Half-buried ruin. Whispers of war spirits and bone-cursed beasts.
"You want me to go?"
"I want you to learn," Harken said. "Take Brenna. Maybe Kirr if he's not drunk."
Jumong nodded.
"Oh, and one more thing," Harken added, tossing him a sealed scroll.
"What is it?"
"Your first real trial. Not official. But… close enough."
Jumong sharpened his blade under moonlight, gear packed tight.
He looked at Ashwing, now perched again on his shoulder.
He was no longer just a goblin hunter. Not yet an adventurer either.
But he was moving.
Forward.
Beyond the northern trail, where the Gravepine roots drank old blood, something watched the roads once again.
And this time, it remembered his name.