The trees no longer whispered his name.
No echoes of Harken's instructions, no Lira's sharp counsel, no forge-roars from Vorn's presence.
Just the wind.
Jumong stood at the southern border of Fangwood—where moss gave way to brittle marshes, and the bones of long-forgotten ruins surfaced like the backs of buried beasts.
Ashwing circled above, tail feathers shimmering faintly from its Echo-touched eye.
His pack was light. Just rations, salves, maps, and his reforged blade—runeless, for now, but his grip had grown familiar with its weight again.
This wasn't exile.
It was choice.
"I can't grow in your cage," he had told Harken before departing.
"You might die out there," the old Lodgemaster had replied.
"I might."
"But if I don't—I'll earn something."
Days blurred into a rhythm.
Wake. Scout. Hunt. Record tracks. Avoid sentient veins or elemental shifts.
He hunted minor beasts for coin in outer hamlets—Mossstalkers, Rocktoads, a particularly rabid Boghorn sow.
C-class threats. Barely enough for bounty boards.
But he watched. Listened.
Mapped dangers. Studied old trade roads now lost to the Vein War damage. He learned how long his strength lasted before exhaustion drowned it.
He got sick once—bad marsh fever. Fought through the night with delirium, screaming at trees that weren't there. Survived on will.
"The boy passed through today. Maybe seventeen winters? Wild eyes. Burn on his hand. Said little, but paid with salted meat and bark-wrapped coin. Carried himself like he was twice his size.
Killed two skinless hounds that stalked the south fence. No brag. No drink. Just cleaned his blade and moved on.
I think we'll hear his name again."
The Crimson Grove was a no-go zone for travelers. Its trees bled sap that could drug the mind. But Jumong tracked a trail of missing livestock into its depths.
There, he met it.
A Wispboar—massive, tusked, layered in fog-veins and pulsing with pale Veinlight.
C-Class, possibly low B—dangerous alone.
But Jumong didn't retreat.
He observed its patterns for two days. Marked its sleep cycle, its rooting paths. Noted when its mist pulse dimmed.
Then he struck.
No flames. No Emberbinding.
Just a snare, a pit, and a timed javelin throw laced with soporvine extract.
The fight lasted only a minute. But the preparation had taken two days.
When he emerged, tusks slung across his back, the nearby village stared in awe.
No applause. Just quiet reverence.
A name was spoken behind closed doors.
"The Burnt-Eye Hunter."
Ashwing began to change.
Slightly at first. Keener vision. New sounds only it reacted to—low hums when near corrupted sites.
Jumong didn't push it. Just observed.
But one night, when cornered by a Pack of Slag-Rats, Ashwing unleashed a piercing ember screech—enough to rupture eardrums and set dry grass ablaze.
It collapsed after, wings smoking.
Jumong held it through the night.
"You didn't choose this either," he whispered.
"But maybe we survive it. Together."
In a smoky tavern near the Wyrmspine Path, two mercenaries exchanged rumors.
"Heard a hunter took down a Grove-Wispboar solo," one said. "Used brain over blade."
"Name?"
"Burnt-Eye something."
"A Lodge-born?"
"No. Lone runner. No clan. No mark. But they say he walks like flame hasn't left him."
And in the far north, back in Fangwood, Lira looked over a fresh bounty sheet bearing a familiar signature—Jumong of No Flame.
She allowed herself the briefest smile.
"Still alive, you stubborn bastard."
___
[Midmorning, South of Wyrmspine Pass – Weathered Forest Trail]
The sun filtered weakly through high clouds, turning the forest silver and ash-colored.
Jumong walked slowly, letting the weight of his steps settle into the rhythm of the trail. His boots sank in places, the road soft from last night's drizzle. He checked the mud, noting no prints ahead, no sign of recent wagons or patrols. He was alone. Still.
The path veered toward a narrow split in the stone ahead—Hollow Pass, once part of a Dwarrow-merchant route before the Ember Wars closed it with fire and rubble.
Locals warned him of disappearances.
He entered anyway.
"I'm not here to impress anyone.
I'm not here to be found.
I'm here because no one's watching.
And that's when you get stronger."
Jumong's blade was strapped to his back in a simple hide sheath. He carried no torch—only a slow-burn emberrock wrapped in cloth that glowed faintly from his belt pouch. The path ahead narrowed as high rock walls swallowed light and sound.
He drew his dagger—flat-edged and steady—and moved forward.
[The Hollow Stone Mouth]
The Hollow Pass was more than a tunnel. It was a wound in the land. The walls were etched with half-melted carvings—runes of an old trade-faction called the Veinstep Brotherhood, long gone. Scorch marks still clung to stone, like the place hadn't forgotten fire.
As Jumong walked deeper, sound began to vanish. Not silence—deadness.
No birds. No echo. No Ashwing, who had circled and refused to follow inside.
Jumong lit the emberrock, exposing more of the passage.
That's when he saw it—an arm, half-buried in mossy gravel, no body attached.
Still warm.
The moment he turned, something shifted.
A vine—charred black and pulsing red like veins—slithered along the upper ceiling. It dropped silently, no thicker than a whip, but fast. Jumong's instincts screamed. He ducked, rolled, slashed up—missed.
Another vine. Then three.
They weren't plants.
They were Ember-Leeches—a corrupted parasitic lifeform that fed off residual flame in organic matter. Rare. Dangerous. Pack hunters.
He didn't run.
Instead, he dropped low, used the terrain—a narrow divot in the stone wall—and used his blade's reflection in the emberrock to track movement.
He breathed. Waited.
Then—struck.
[Technique: Split-Stalk Cut]
A precise, upward diagonal slash meant to sever narrow appendages without wasting momentum.
He used the technique not as a master—but as a practiced learner.
The first leech shrieked, its red veins snapping. The others hissed, circling. He backed toward an old stone wagon, upended and half-buried.
Two leapt—he sidestepped, slashed, twisted. One wrapped around his ankle—burned through leather.
Pain shot up his leg.
He screamed, flipped his dagger in reverse grip, and stabbed through his own boot into the leech.
It died. So did the nerve in his foot.
He limped, bleeding.
When it ended, three leeches twitched on the ground, leaking molten red.
Jumong slumped against the wagon, wrapping his calf in pressure vine and pressing bark paste to the wound.
Breathing heavily, he leaned his head back and laughed—short, bitter.
"Almost died for nothing. Again."
But the passage was clear now.
And on the other side—light.
He emerged hours later into the next valley—Thornbridge Basin—exhausted, injured, but alive.
[Local Noticeboard, Thornbridge Basin]
Pinned to the corner of a broken board:
"Pass to Wyrmspine now cleared of corruption.
Beware residual emberflare. Proceed with caution.
Cleared by: Burnt-Eye Hunter."
That night, Jumong slept under a half-rotted bridge, blade across his chest, Ashwing perched beside him, wings twitching in restless dreams.
His wound throbbed.
His heart beat slower.
And he knew: this was just the beginning.