The Jurra Forest was unlike anything back home—dense, wild, and humming with unseen life. The trees towered above us like ancient watchmen, their thick canopies swallowing sunlight and painting the forest floor in dusky green. Moss covered everything—stones, tree roots, even fallen logs—like the earth had been wrapped in velvet.
Old Man Tavon led us deeper into the woods with the ease of someone who had walked these paths for decades. He said little, occasionally muttering names of herbs or pointing to broken branches we didn't understand the meaning of.
"Stay sharp," he said without turning, "and keep your hands near your hilts. Forests like these don't stay quiet for no reason."
We had no idea what he meant at the time.
We walked for what felt like hours, ducking under branches and weaving through thick underbrush, until the trees thinned slightly and we stepped into a clearing.
That's when we saw it.
At first glance, it looked like a massive boulder covered in dark bristle and dirt. But then it moved. Slowly. Deliberately. The thing rose onto four legs, and its spiked back glinted beneath shafts of sunlight. Its breath came in heavy grunts, and when it turned to face us, its glowing amber eyes locked on like a predator sizing up prey.
Matt's voice cracked the silence.
"What the hell is that…?"
Old Man Tavon leaned against a tree casually. "Swordbear," he said. "Beast-type. Menace rank."
"What does Menace rank mean?!" I whispered, my voice almost a squeak.
He shrugged. "Means you should be afraid."
The beast shifted, claws digging into the earth. It looked like a bear, yes—but one born from nightmares. Thick black fur bristled with natural spikes, and its forearms were so large they looked like tree trunks. When it stood fully upright, it towered over us—at least seven feet tall.
"Leo," Tavon called calmly. "Ready your sword."
I blinked. "What—?"
But it was too late.
The bear let out a guttural roar and charged.
I didn't move.
I couldn't.
My feet were rooted to the ground, my body frozen by a cocktail of fear and disbelief. The beast was impossibly fast, its claws a blur of motion. But before it could reach me, someone shoved me hard.
I stumbled and fell on my back.
When I looked up, I saw El and Matt—side by side, swords drawn, holding back the beast's first wild strike.
Steel met claw with a screech that echoed through the clearing. The impact knocked both of them back a few steps, but they didn't falter.
And off to the side—unmoving, unbothered—Old Man Tavon stepped from the shade of the trees.
He didn't rush in.
He didn't shout orders.
Instead, he calmly walked over to a thick-rooted tree, lowered himself down with a grunt, and sat cross-legged, as if preparing for an afternoon nap.
He looked like a man at peace—completely unfazed by the chaos erupting just yards away. His eyes followed every motion, sharp and unblinking, but his expression stayed unreadable.
He cupped his hands around his mouth "Focus on its movement!" he called. "Use your whole body. Don't just swing—commit!"
That shook me out of it.
Then he folded his arms.
Watched.
I scrambled to my feet, gripping my sword tightly. The bear's eyes landed on me again—it could tell I was the weakest. It lunged, and I did the only thing I could—I dodged, just barely, feeling the wind of its swipe brush my cheek.
I countered, swinging low toward its forelimb.
Steel bit flesh—but only shallowly.
"Tsk…" I growled. "It's like cutting stone."
"El, now!" Matt shouted.
El twisted mid-step, spinning like a dancer with a death wish. Her blade arced in a full circle, slashing across the bear's left arm. A clean hit—but still not deep enough to stop it.
Matt followed up with brute strength, bringing his sword down in an overhead chop. The blade sank into the beast's shoulder with a sickening crunch. The bear roared and stumbled back, its fur now matted with dark blood.
It wasn't enough.
We fought for minutes, trading blow after blow. Blood had been drawn on both sides—minor cuts, slashes, bruises. We were tiring fast.
The bear wasn't.
Its stamina was monstrous, relentless. Each swing of its claw was as brutal as the first.
El's breathing was ragged, her blade trembling in her grip. Matt bled from his arm, crimson soaking his torn sleeve. My legs felt like jelly, barely keeping me upright. We couldn't keep this up much longer.
Then El slipped.
Her foot caught on a root hidden beneath the underbrush, and she hit the ground hard, her sword skidding across the clearing.
Before the bear could pounce, Tavon stood.
Slowly.
He cracked his neck, took up El's fallen blade, and stepped forward—unhurried, almost bored.
The beast roared and lunged, claws gleaming in the firelight.
What happened next defies description.
One moment, Tavon was in front of us. He murmured something under his breath—a whisper lost to the wind. The next, a flash of movement too fast to follow, and a sudden gust swept across the clearing like a shockwave.
Matt and I instinctively raised our arms to shield our eyes.
When we looked again, Tavon stood behind the bear.
El's blade was already sheathed across his back.
The beast—frozen in place—let out a low, guttural noise… then split clean down the middle.
Blood sprayed in a wide arc as the halves crumpled, twitching, to the ground.
"Time's up," Tavon said, turning casually, resting the sword across his shoulders like a walking stick.
The fire crackled softly in the heart of Jurra Forest, its orange glow licking the edges of the night. Shadows danced along the gnarled roots and thick underbrush, while smoke drifted lazily into the starless sky.
We sat in a circle around the flames—El, Matthew, Old Man Tavon, and me. In front of us, a rough stick had been stabbed into the ground, holding a slab of bear meat over the fire. The same bear that had nearly torn us apart just hours earlier.
We hadn't gone back to the old man's hut. That had been Tavon's decision. 'Stay the night here', he'd said. 'The forest will teach you what you need out there'
The silence was thick. Only the occasional pop of burning wood broke the tension. It wasn't just exhaustion that kept us quiet—it was the weight of what we'd survived.
I stared at the meat, slowly roasting.
Then I remembered Tavon's words during the fight.
"Old man," I said quietly, my voice cutting into the hush, "you said that bear was a 'Menace rank.' What exactly does that mean?"
Tavon leaned forward and plucked the cooked meat from the stick, letting it cool in his hands. "Ah," he muttered. "I suppose it's time you understood what you're dealing with."
He looked at us, eyes glinting with firelight. "There are different types of monsters out there. They're not just random beasts. They're categorized—by what they are, how they think, and what they can do. Each one varies in threat, and in kind."
He took a bite, chewed, then continued.
"What you fought today was a Beast type. They're creatures of raw instinct. Not stupid, but not exactly thinkers either. Strong, fast, and dangerous because they act without hesitation. You fought one. Barely survive. That says something."
All three of us leaned in, listening now.
"There are seven types in total," Tavon said. "First is Fodder Beast—weak, dumb, and generally harmless unless you're careless."
"Like the Skyhopper," El interjected.
"Skyhopper?" Matt looked confused.
She nodded. "The first creature we encountered here."
"Oh." Matt scratched his head. "Right. That weird thing. Delicious though"
Tavon smirked. "Exactly. Then comes Lesser Monsters. One alone might not be a threat, but become lethal in numbers. Packs. Swarms. Overwhelm you before you can scream."
He tossed a bone into the fire and his tone dropped lower.
"Third is what you faced. Beast. You know what that's like now. No need to repeat the lesson." He gave a short, wheezing laugh—but it turned into a cough, and when he looked back up, his eyes were cold.
"The fourth type is the Predator. These aren't the strongest... but they're the smartest. Trappers. Ambushers. They'll watch you for days. Lure you. Toy with you. Then strike when you least expect it."
He paused, letting that settle.
"The fifth is the Greater Beast. They combine raw strength with size. Think of the bear you fought—then double it. Now imagine it's smarter and angrier."
I swallowed hard.
"And then there's the Apex Monster," Tavon said, his voice grim. "Massive. Ancient. Primal. Their intelligence might be low, but their destruction is absolute. Entire kingdoms have fallen from one Apex going unchecked."
Tavon leaned back, his face now unreadable. "the ranks."
"There are six levels of threat we use to measure monsters," he said, counting on his fingers. "Nuisance—barely dangerous. Menace—can injure or kill unarmed people and small groups. Hazard—capable of wiping out villages. Calamity—a town's worst nightmare. Catalyst—its presence shifts wars, tips balance of power. And then…" His voice dropped into a whisper. "Oblivion. Rare. Apocalyptic. A force that could unmake entire nations if left unchecked."
He took another bite, then wiped his hand on his cloak.
"I see… so there are seven types of monsters and six ranks that categorize their level of threat. But…" I paused, eyebrows furrowed. "You said there were seven types, but you only mentioned six."
I turned to Tavon. "What's the seventh?"
Beside me, Matthew started mumbling as he counted on his fingers. A beat later, realization dawned on his face—he'd noticed it too.
Old Man Tavon slowly lowered the meat he was holding. He shifted slightly, the firelight casting deep shadows across his face. It was subtle, but something in his posture changed—like he was preparing to speak of something dangerous, something forbidden.
"…Nephilim," he said at last.
He paused—and in that silence, even the crackling fire seemed to quiet.
"Those creatures," Tavon continued, his voice lower now, "are not just monsters… they're omens."
El leaned forward slightly, her brows furrowed. "I thought they were myths," she said quietly.
"Myth?" Tavon scoffed under his breath. "No… they're real. Very real."
He stared into the bonfire, the flickering flames reflected in his eyes—eyes that seemed to hold the weight of something remembered, something endured.
El glanced sideways, thoughtful. "I remember a book that mentioned the Nephilim… Just one, tucked behind the bookshelves back home. I thought it was just old superstition."
Tavon didn't answer immediately. He looked as though he could still hear the screams of the past in the fire's crackle. When he finally spoke, his voice was like gravel—quiet, but with an edge.
"They're not superstitions. They're a shadow carved into the bones of history. You don't write warnings about bedtime stories. You write about things that survived."
"So, what does it say about the book you found?" Matthew asked
"In history," she explained, "they're said to be born of mortal blood and the divine. It was written that the creatures of heaven once experimented on animals, which led to monsters. Then… they experimented on mortals." She looked down. "That's how Nephilim came to be."
"You're right, El," Tavon said with a slow nod. "They were created outside the natural order—beyond the will of the Supreme Being, whose original creations were made to be beautiful, balanced, and peaceful. The Nephilim, however… They are vicious. They exist only for chaos and conquest."
El added, "And did you know… it was the creatures of heaven who taught mortals to forge weapons? That's what sparked the age of war and conquest among humans."
"If they're that dangerous," Matt asked, "why don't they just wipe them out?"
Tavon barked a dry laugh, one with no trace of humor. "Ha! You think we didn't try?"
He shook his head. "The best we could do was seal them away—trapped in what we now call the Damned Continent. But they're not just monsters in body—they have mortal minds. If we mortals are clever… imagine those who carry the blood of both man and the divine."
He stared into the fire now, his eyes distant.
"Our ancestors managed to contain them… for millennia. But no seal lasts forever. We don't know how long before one breaks. So listen well, lads…" His voice dropped to a near-whisper.
"If you ever come across a Nephilim… don't fight. Don't play the hero. Run. And take pride in surviving. There's no shame in it."
He stared deeper into the flames, as if they held memories he'd long tried to forget. His silence said more than his words.
As for the three of us—we said nothing.
There was only silence now.
A silence that spoke of fear.
Fear of what's out there.
Fear of what's waiting.
Nephilim.
That word did something strange to me. Not just fear—but something else.
Something darker.
A sense of anger.
Not at them.
At something deeper.
I didn't understand why.
I just prayed I'd never have to find out.