Deep within a valley heavily cloaked by dense foliage, near the Orlando Mountains, a primal and fierce struggle was unfolding.
The last rays of the setting sun struggled through the canopy, casting dappled, shifting motes of light that happened to illuminate the heart of the fight.
On one side was a young Tigran boy clad in crude leather armor. His exposed arms and neck were covered in a fine coat of pale gold fur, glistening in the fading light. Though young, his build already far surpassed that of a human of the same age, his muscles rippling with power. His short, golden hair stood up in a messy shock, and beneath his broad nose, every breath was a hot gust of air.
Each of his pounces carried an undeniable might, kicking up sprays of dirt and mud.
His opponent, however, was a human boy so scrawny he looked almost pitiful. Around ten years of age, he was barefoot, his soles a tapestry of small cuts and old calluses.
He was a full size smaller than the Tigran youth. The ill-fitting suit of rough leather armor hung loosely on his frame, its edges heavily worn and stained with fresh mud and the juices of unknown plants. A messy thatch of long, black hair obscured most of his face, revealing a pair of unusually bright eyes only in the brief moments between his frantic movements.
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Tigran — a race of beastmen, tiger-like humanoids. Towering and powerful, they walk on two legs yet bear the fangs, claws, and fierce pride of the great jungle kings.
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A Warrior's strength comes not just from muscle, but from the aetheris that flows within — a unique and potent energy.
Much like how a Mage channels mana, a Warrior learns to guide aetheris through their body, enhancing their physique, sharpening their reflexes, and unleashing extraordinary power in moments of need.
Warriors do not wield spells, but they have their own way of channeling power — warforms.
By guiding aetheris through their body, a Warrior can manifest these warforms — each one a deadly fusion of motion, strength, and will.
To truly master a warform is no simple feat — it requires not only endless practice but also instinct, discipline, and the will to become one with the warform itself.
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On the Tigran boy's fists, a faint golden light swirled—a sign of the unique energy known as aetheris surging through his body. Just as a Mage channels mana, a Warrior could guide aetheris, strengthening their body, honing their reflexes, and erupting with extraordinary power at critical moments.
Judging by the concentration of the light on his fists, he was only a hair's breadth away from becoming a true Rank-1 Warrior.
Each of his punches whistled through the air like tearing silk, the force of the blows gouging shallow pits in the hard-packed earth.
In contrast, the human boy, Rayne, was in a sorry state, spending most of his time desperately dodging. His occasional counter-attacks were wild and disorganized.
Yet, he possessed an astonishing agility that belied his small frame. Every roll and tumble barely evaded his opponent's powerful strikes, his movements flowing with an almost instinctive grace.
Even when grazed by the force of a punch or caught in the wake of a charge, he would instinctively take the blow on his more solid parts, like his shoulder or back. He would then flip back to his feet with incredible speed, giving his opponent no chance for a follow-up attack.
He kept his lips pressed tightly together, sweat soaking the messy hair on his forehead and plastering it to his cheeks.
Unable to land a solid hit, the Tigran boy's pale-gold eyes grew fiercer. A low growl rumbled in his throat as his attacks became even more ferocious.
In the pauses between his assaults, a dozen other beastman youths—wolfkin, minotaurs, and ursans—who were watching from the sidelines would erupt in savage shouts, stomping their feet and pumping their small fists in the air, their cheers nearly tearing the roof off the forest clearing.
A glance around revealed a temporary beastman encampment. Simple animal-hide tents were pitched haphazardly, and a crooked fence made of sharpened logs enclosed the area. A few adult beastman guards, armed with bone knives and stone axes, cast bored glances toward the scuffle, their eyes filled with the casual disinterest of adults watching cubs at play.
This beastman camp, however, was nestled at the foot of the Orlando Mountains. The range had always served as a chaotic dividing line between the human and beastman territories.
The camp's proximity to the human border was unsettling.
"Rayne! If you've got any guts, stop slithering around like an eel and fight me head-on!" the Tigran boy roared, his voice cracking with rage. Another powerful charge had missed its mark, sending him stumbling forward from his own momentum. He stomped his foot in frustration, making the ground tremble.
"Fine," Rayne called back, his voice surprisingly clear as he steadied himself and wiped a smear of sweat and mud from his face. "Next time, I promise I won't dodge." He was panting, his chest heaving, but his voice was unnervingly calm.
The Tigran boy paused, startled, then broke into a savage grin. The golden glow on his fists flared brighter. With a sharp whistle of displaced air, he lunged again, his aetheris-infused fist a golden blur aimed straight at Rayne's face.
Just as the punch was about to land, Rayne snapped his head up. His sweat-soaked black hair fell away, revealing eyes that shone startlingly bright in the twilight and a fleeting, cunning smile. With a flick of his wrist, he flung a handful of wet mud mixed with sharp pebbles, which he had been secretly clenching in his palm.
Caught off guard, the Tigran boy instinctively shut his eyes, turning his head and raising an arm to block. In that split second, Rayne ducked and charged like an agile panther, driving his small, hard head fiercely into the Tigran boy's softer midsection.
Thump!
With a muffled grunt of pain, the Tigran boy's large frame was knocked backward, and he toppled to the ground.
Seizing the advantage, Rayne pounced like a starving tiger, immediately mounting him. His small but powerful fists rained down on the Tigran's face, each punch thrown with all his might.
The onlookers stared in stunned silence for a moment before the clearing erupted in an uproar of angry shouts, condemning Rayne for his dirty tactics with a torrent of crude insults. Yet, for all their fury, not one of them stepped forward.
In ancient beastman tradition, a one-on-one duel, regardless of the process or outcome, permitted no outside interference.
The fallen Tigran boy, Kray, felt the world spin. His face stung, and the shame and anger instantly overwhelmed his reason.
He let out a furious roar as the latent aetheris in his body exploded outward. A ripple of pale gold light flashed across his skin, and the immense force sent Rayne flying.
Kray scrambled to his feet, his face bruised and swollen, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. He glared viciously at Rayne, who had landed in a daze not far away. "You treacherous human whelp!" he bellowed. "I'll tear you to pieces!"
His eyes began to turn blood-red. The pale golden fur on his body stood on end, seeming to lengthen and thicken before their eyes. His nails shot out, becoming sharp, gleaming claws—it was the first sign of a berserker rage!
"Kray, stop!" Just as the situation reached its breaking point, a sharp, authoritative cry, as cold as a splash of ice water, doused Kray's spiraling fury.
The violent aura vanished as if from a popped balloon. The young Tigran trembled, and the red in his eyes faded slightly.
A female Tigran, Ceona, clad in a silk robe, was walking slowly out of the largest of the hide tents.
Her features were soft, yet she possessed the undeniable dignity of her race. Her amber eyes were deep and wise, and she carried herself with an air of noble grace.
Following closely behind her were a mountain of a minotaur guard, Casen, and a lithe, graceful pantheran female guard, Mira. The powerful auras they emanated marked them as true beastman warriors, forged in the crucible of blood and fire.
Seeing them, the rowdy young onlookers fell silent, bowing their heads respectfully.
"Mother!" Kray ran to Ceona, his face a mask of grievance. He grabbed the sleeve of her smooth robe with a trembling hand, his voice choked with tears. "He... he cheated!"
"My Lady," Rayne said, climbing to his feet and patting the dust from his clothes. He lowered his head obediently, his black hair once again falling to hide his expression.
Ceona gently shook Kray's hand off, her face stern. Her voice held an authority that could not be questioned. "Kray, my son, you will remember this. On a true battlefield, there is no honor or disgrace—only victors and vanquished! The one who survives is the king!" Her sharp gaze swept over Kray's still-defiant face.
"But Mother," Kray argued stubbornly, his neck stiff, "shouldn't a true hero win honorably, in a fair fight?"
A complex, unreadable emotion flickered in Ceona's eyes—part pride, part sorrow. Her tone softened slightly but remained firm. "If you want to become the hero you speak of, first, you must survive, by any means necessary. Don't be like your father… so foolish!"
Kray's defiant head dropped as if struck by a hammer. He deflated, his voice barely a whisper. "I... I understand, Mother." He clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms.
Only then did Ceona turn to the silent, head-bowed Rayne. The sternness on her face melted away, replaced by a gentle smile.
She reached out and gently ruffled Rayne's messy but surprisingly soft black hair. Her voice grew tender. "Rayne, you did very well today. Starting tomorrow, I'll have Mira formally teach you some of our beastman warforms. Now, go and eat. You need a full belly to have strength."
"Thank you, my Lady!" Rayne's head shot up, his face breaking into a pure, brilliant smile, completely different from the cunning one he'd worn moments before.
He bowed respectfully to Ceona and then to the pantheran guard, Mira. Then, under the jealous and angry glares of the other beastman youths, he skipped off toward the camp's cookhouse.
"All of you, go. Eat well, so you can become true warriors," Ceona said, her eyes following Rayne until he disappeared. She then turned to the other youths, her voice once again stern. "Starting tomorrow, you will all train with Casen. The training will be stricter."
The beastman youths let out a cheer of excitement. The earlier tension forgotten, they scattered, chasing and roughhousing as they ran off.
Only Ceona remained, standing alone. She slowly raised her head, gazing at the distant silhouette of the Orlando Mountains, which looked increasingly deep and inscrutable in the twilight. Her amber eyes were filled with a profound worry.
As Ceona's gaze swept unconsciously across the distant forest, miles away on a mountainside, several pairs of wary eyes stared unblinking from behind a thicket of bushes, fixed upon the small beastman camp below.
"Heh, Tigrans. Now that's a rare sight," a blond, burly man grunted, spitting a chewed blade of grass to the ground.
The man was exceptionally large, his blond hair tied back messily, and a thick beard covered most of his face. A tattered grey cloak, its original color long lost, was thrown over his shoulders. Beneath it was scarred and heavily patched leather armor. A vicious scar snaked from the left corner of his mouth, up across his high-bridged nose, and disappeared into the wrinkles at the corner of his right eye. When he spoke, the scar twisted like a living thing, adding a murderous air to his already fierce features.
This was Dario, the Captain of the Salt Blade Mercenary Legion.
In five years, he had single-handedly raised the Salt Blade from the lowest Class-F to Class-B, a feat that was nothing short of a small miracle.
"Boss, look at the size of it. Are we about to strike it rich?" a short, plain-looking man next to Dario asked, his voice a low whisper. The man, Jason, rubbed his hands together, his eyes gleaming with an excitement that didn't match his slight build. He had a habit of hunching his shoulders, which made him look shifty-eyed.
"It's about time the Salt Blade got some luck!" Dario grinned, revealing a mouth full of tobacco-stained teeth. His face was an open mask of excitement and greed. "A piddling Class-C intelligence mission, and we stumble upon a whole beastman tribe! If we can take them out quietly, my brothers won't have to worry about food or drink for the next year!" He licked his chapped lips as if he could already smell the sweet scent of gold.