Frederick walked ahead, and Kellan stepped aside to let him pass.
"Are you alright?" Frederick glanced at him. His black cloak was still immaculate—sharp and clean as when they left. The sky was overcast, and his expression grave, making it hard for Kellan to relax.
Kellan nodded, his eyes drifting to Dylan, who was dragging the demon's corpse behind them. Jevnie walked beside him. Everyone had returned safely—except Etienne.
"Where's my master?" Kellan asked.
"No idea," Frederick replied, a shadow flickering in his gaze. "Did he say anything to you?"
"Not really..." Unease twisted in Kellan's gut. "Where would Etienne go?"
"That old bastard does whatever he pleases," Frederick said with clear disdain. "Your master's been famous for decades. The best of the best. No one tells him what to do. He only joined this mission out of respect for me. I have no idea where he's gone now."
His voice was tight with suppressed anger. Kellan hadn't realized there was such bad blood between them.
"There's no need to scare the boy, darling," Jevnie murmured, trying to soothe the tension.
"Your master didn't even show up to fight," Dylan said with a sneer. "Not our fault. He either ran off or got himself killed on the way. Should've stuck with us—serves him right."
Kellan's fists clenched. He couldn't bear to hear Etienne spoken of like that. The old hunter had always cared for him, always taught him without reserve. But Dylan didn't stop—if anything, his mocking grin grew sharper, as if he was trying to provoke him on purpose.
"Etienne's been across every corner of Lorne," Jevnie said gently, casting Kellan a reassuring look. "He's survived worse, trust me. Even if he didn't meet up with us, he'll find his way out of this forest."
"Oh, don't worry," Dylan added with venomous sarcasm. "If Etienne's dead, I'll be your new mentor, little Kellan."
"I've completed the trial," Kellan said coldly, staring Dylan in the eye. "I'm officially a Hunter now. I don't need you."
"You're refusing me?" Dylan scoffed. "With that brain? You'd be better off farming turnips back in your village."
Kellan said nothing, but his heart twisted with frustration. He wanted to be a great Hunter. His gaze shifted past Dylan—to the demon corpse.
It was terrifying.
The thing looked vaguely human, but its skin was pitch-black and scorched, as if fire burned within. Its hide was coarse—like scales, or insect carapace, or armor—and a long tail ended in a jagged black-and-red blade. But the worst part was the head: goat-like, vaguely triangular, its face blurred and eyeless, with only two void-like pits where the eyes should be. From the crown sprouted irregular, twisted horns—jagged and menacing.
But what stayed with Kellan most was the creature's chest: a gaping wound carved deep into its torso. Something sharp had pierced straight through its shell, exposing the writhing, decayed mass of meat and sinew beneath—like rotting black cotton soaked in viscous slime.
He'd heard of this before. Demon flesh was made from Demonite—congealed souls.
Demons ate souls. They wore souls as armor. Burned them as fuel. All they craved was slaughter and soul-harvest.
"…So this is a demon?" Kellan stared at the corpse. It was unnaturally stiff—its evil spirit already banished by the Hunters.
"Yes," Frederick said with satisfaction. "A Blade Demon. High-tier devil of the Infernal Realms. Strong—but we were stronger."
"I'm done here. Drag that thing back to camp, I'm exhausted." Dylan shoved a coarse rope into Kellan's hands and gave him a hard push.
Dylan's hands were cold and rigid—like stone.
Kellan hated him. He was furious, but powerless. With Etienne gone, he had no standing among the Hunters. He was just a rookie. So he grabbed the rope, jaw clenched, and began to drag the demon's carcass. It was lighter than he expected—far lighter than a human of the same size. Like dragging a goat, he thought grimly.
He hauled the corpse beside the flat campstone, dropped the rope, and exhaled.
"Cold night," Dylan barked. "Go light a fire. And quit dawdling."
Kellan's face soured, and Frederick shook his head disapprovingly.
"If you can't endure hardship, how can you call yourself a Hunter? You're just like your master—soft and indulgent," Frederick snapped.
There was only one standard for Hunters: unbreakable will. That was what Etienne had taught him.
Kellan swallowed his pride and said nothing. He walked a wide circle around the forest's edge, collecting sticks and branches. He returned and stacked them tightly in the clearing near the campstone. With flint and focus, he lit them. Flames bloomed in the falling dusk, casting golden light across the forest floor.
In the Twilight Forest, night fell faster than anywhere else. Kellan had never truly seen sunset—just the sudden descent into blackness. The trees stretched endlessly, the shadows bottomless. Wandering here after dark would drive most men mad long before monsters could.
Kellan stood by the fire, watching Frederick heat a strip of dried meat over the flame.
"How was the Blade Demon defeated?" he asked.
"For seasoned Hunters," Frederick said, puffing with pride, "no demon is invincible. Their shells are made from Demonite—condensed and corrupted souls. Tougher than steel. More flexible than leather. No mundane weapon can pierce it. That's why ordinary men tremble before them."
He paused, eyes gleaming.
"But Hunters don't stop there. We challenge all forms of evil—no matter how strong. The answer was a Piercing Hex. I drove it straight through the bastard's chest."
Kellan glanced at the gaping wound in the demon's torso. It was easy now to picture the power of such a spell.
"Amazing…" he whispered.
"Do you want to learn?" Frederick asked, eyes fixed on Kellan.
"Yes! Of course I do," Kellan replied eagerly, heart skipping a beat.
"I'm a master of the Sanctum. It's my duty to educate the next generation." Frederick bit off a chunk of jerky, staring into the flames for a moment, as if weighing his words. Then he looked up.
"But there's a cost."
Kellan stiffened. "What do I have to do?"
"Tell me the incantation rhythm for Aphen Flame," Frederick said. His tone was not a request—it was an order.
Kellan felt a jolt in his chest.
"You hesitate?" Frederick's voice dipped, disappointed. "Listen—I'm offering you the most powerful Piercing Hex I know. You won't get a better deal."
If it was such a fair exchange… why hadn't he gone to Master Etienne?
"No… I'll pass," Kellan said softly, avoiding the man's gaze.
"You serious?" Frederick's tone sharpened, his posture turning aggressive.
"Frederick," Jevnie's voice trembled, "what are you doing?"
"Oh, now you're questioning me too?" Frederick barked. "I just killed a Blade Demon. People will sing of this day—my day. Soon, I'll be the most famous demon hunter in all of Greater Lorne."
"Come on, Kellan," Jevnie stood. "I'm going to search for your master."
"Jevnie?" Frederick's voice cracked with disbelief. "You—"
"The forest's too dark. Even Master Etienne could run into danger. He's been gone too long—something might've happened. I have to go."
She left quickly, vanishing into the woods. Kellan knew she hated conflict, especially between Hunters.
Frederick's face twisted, caught somewhere between rage and defeat.
"If she gets caught in a snare out there, that's on her," Dylan muttered, watching Jevnie's silhouette fade into the trees. "Whole forest's full of traps."
"Enough," Frederick muttered, pressing a palm to his forehead like it ached.
Kellan said nothing. He hated how helpless he felt—how voiceless he was.
"You really should be training with me," Dylan said, sitting cross-legged by the fire. He propped his chin on his palm, eyes fixed on Kellan like a hawk watching a rabbit. "You're still young. Still… pliable. You don't get it now—but maybe you will later."
"I can handle my own damn business," Kellan muttered stubbornly as he walked off to sit by himself. He pulled some rations from his pack and chewed in silence.
Could Master Etienne really be in danger out there in the forest? The thought tugged at him. After all, this place was crawling with trolls, night owls, fae—hell, even dragons in the deeper groves. And at night, everything turned twice as deadly.
But no. Kellan clenched his jaw. Etienne was too experienced. He had faced worse and survived. Slaying monsters and dodging death were second nature to him. And yet… something still gnawed at Kellan. Etienne had always refused to claim the Sanctum's Silver Key. Refused to lead, despite having all the power needed.
"Kellan," Frederick called softly.
"Yes, Master Frederick?" Kellan stood.
"No need to get up." The hunter sighed. "I lost my temper earlier."
Kellan looked at him, feelings tangled. "My master never wanted the Silver Key. Why is there bad blood between you two?"
"Never wanted it?" Frederick scoffed, eyes narrowing. "You don't know him as well as you think. Before his soul sickness worsened, he did want it. When he was thirty, I was fifteen. He traveled the entire continent, basked in fame and glory. To me, he was a shadow I could never catch. The most unfortunate thing in a man's life is meeting someone so far above you that you start doubting your very existence."
He paused, eyes distant. "But he overused spells. Burned his soul. That's how I ended up with the Silver Key… like a charity handout."
"I've heard you've led many successful hunts."
"Every single one of them," Frederick snapped, "had him involved—until now. This time, Etienne didn't help kill the Blade Demon. I struck it down with my Piercing Hex. I did. But once we return to the Sanctum, you know what they'll say?"
Kellan stayed quiet.
"They'll whisper: 'Ah, Etienne killed another demon.'"
Kellan exhaled through his nose.
"Anyway," Frederick waved a hand, "whether we find your master or not, we leave for the Sanctum tomorrow. Our willpower can withstand the fear these things invoke, but ordinary folk… not so much. We need to get the demon corpse back safely. With masks. With chains. Let's hope we aren't stopped on the road."
They set up watch rotations for the night. Kellan was first.
The fire crackled beside him. Dylan hadn't moved to sleep—he just sat there, lips moving silently, muttering something Kellan couldn't hear. Frederick had wrapped himself in a thick fur, already slipping toward sleep.
Without Etienne, the camp felt off-kilter. Kellan sat close to the flames, the warmth comforting but the thoughts gnawing.
Are we really going to leave without him?
He stared into the fire, imagining the day he'd have to walk this road alone. It scared him—but even more frightening was the thought that he'd never learn to stand on his own without his master's shadow guiding every step.
Kellan's eyes grew heavy as he stared into the flickering flames. He glanced over at his pack and spotted the vial of potion—the one taken from the corpse of the late Denvar. Denvar had once boasted that this concoction could let its drinker see through a woman's clothing, promising to save it for when he found a pretty girl.
Kellan had no time for such fantasies now. Instead, he uncorked the vial and took a cautious sip, hoping it would sharpen his senses and help him keep watch. The liquid burned his throat, tasting of wormwood and chamomile steeped too long, leaving his mouth tingling with heat.
Witch's potions truly are something else, he thought.
Within moments, his vision sharpened, the shadows of night growing strangely clear and bright.
Curious, he scanned his surroundings—and his blood ran cold.
Where the demon's corpse once lay by the fire, there now rested the body of Dalton, gutted completely. In place of his spine was a wicked blade, black and blood-red, twisted with corruption. Frederick dozed nearby, a chainmail shirt faintly visible beneath his cloak.
But what seized Kellan's full attention was the figure seated where Dylan should have been.
A demon, its skin covered in black scales, a long tail coiling behind it. It caught Kellan's gaze and turned with a chilling smile. Blood dripped from its mouth; its blind eyes were empty voids. Jagged horns—seven or eight of them—jutted unevenly from its head, sharp as blades.