A different feeling washed over Rick the moment he stepped out of the Hunter Association building. The setting sun seemed to await him deliberately, drowning his figure in a sea of red light.
He inhaled the fresh air deeply, his curly bangs fluttering in the wind. Clutching an insect-hide map, he'd expected a grand mission, but it proved to be the lowest rank. The map was yellowed and curled, reeking of mildew—likely scorned by veteran hunters.
"Can't expect more as a rookie," Rick chided himself. Still, it was a chance to train and earn guild fees. The mission was Class F, the lowest tier, offering 1,500 silver coins and a set of insect-fire lanterns. The target: Needlethorn Insects, used in medicine. Harmless overall, but their horned spikes packed a punch.
According to the map, they nested in oak thickets at the forest's edge—no need to venture deep. If all went well, he'd return by noon tomorrow.
As Rick descended the steps, an insect-carriage rolled up, its carapace body gleaming metallic in the light. "Where to?" The driver popped his head out. "Lucky you—first passenger of the last shuttle."
"I... don't have much money," Rick stammered.
"Hah! New hunter, right?" The driver laughed, straightening his askew cap. "This is an Association shuttle—free for hunters. It's a perk."
"Really?" Rick hopped in. "To the city outskirts, please."
"So polite? Unheard of." The driver started the carriage. "Most hunters gripe nonstop. You're a rarity."
"Why?" Rick asked, marveling at the carriage.
"You'll see. You're green..." The driver eyed him in the rearview. "Hunters are cocky—nothing like you."
"How long till we arrive?" Rick settled into the seat.
"Soon." The driver scoffed. "Kid, move to the second deck."
"Why?" Rick sensed condescension.
"These seats aren't for you. That's a Brass badge, right? Haven't seen such a low rank in ages."
"Got it." Disheartened, Rick shuffled to the second deck's last row, right seat.
Just then, a group of hunters flagged down the carriage. Rick's blood froze at the familiar faces—they were the ones who'd chased him in the forest. He ducked his head, feigning nonchalance, peering through his curls.
Seven hunters total—a small team. The youngest, about Rick's age, was skinny with a Brass badge (pattern unclear), scowling in silence. The rest wore Copper badges; their leader, a unkempt forty-something, sported a Bronze Moon Badge. All were decked in gear—veterans.
Rick tensed. They'd lost the sickle insect egg to him; discovery meant trouble. He heard their voices from the first deck:
"Business sucks... We'll starve at this rate."
"Stop whining like an old hag!"
"I'm worried for us! We need a plan."
"Shut up!" Boss Lant rapped the window. "Quit bickering. If you weren't so weak, we wouldn't have lost the hunting ground..."
Someone changed the topic: "Boss, why haven't we found that guy? Days later, no trace."
"Ask Moya—he swore he was in the city."
"Yeah, prove it, Moya!" The others pestered the youth fidgeting with his Brass badge.
"I swear my hunch is right! He's nearby."
"But we've searched everywhere. Did he sell the egg? Hope he chokes on that million silver."
"Ugh, don't mention money! A damned untouchable stole our prize."
Lant interjected: "What if he's become a problem?"
"You mean he idiotically implanted the egg and turned into a bug-man?"
"Hard to say. Idiots like that can do anything."
"Heh, fine by me—killing a bug-man pays more..." The group chuckled.
"Bug-man?" Rick's heart pounded, his body trembling with the carriage's rocking. A morning breeze flipped his training booklet to the bug-man section. He stiffened, hurriedly reading:
"Bug-man: hybrid of insect and human, formed by forcefully implanting unmodified wild insect eggs... Danger Level: Special. Bug-men have overwhelming advantage over hunters below General Insect Realm who share the same egg type..."
Rick thrilled—if true, his potential was limitless! He flipped the page:
"Chance of survival: 1%. Most die from insect cell rejection... Bug-men are mindless beasts dominated by insect instincts. City law mandates killing them on sight, with doubled rewards."
Rick recoiled, curling in his seat. "No, this can't be. I don't want to die." He scratched his arms until the skin reddened, visions of himself transforming into a grotesque insect haunting him: peeling flesh, shattering bones, insect limbs, a misshapen head—forever crawling, consciousness replaced by foul insect fluid.
This was the bug-man he'd seen at Kester Zoo—monsters for display, lab experiments. Caused by unmodified eggs clashing with human immunity, leading to necrosis and putrefaction.
His only escape might be death.
Suddenly, Moya shrieked: "I sense him nearby! Strong sickle insect stench."
"Crazy bastard. We're exhausted—focus on the forest mission." The others jeered.
"Listen! I'm certain—trust me!" Moya stammered.
"Then where is he?"
"Somewhere... here—within meters!"
The hunters leaped from the carriage, scattering. Rick ducked, sweat drenching him. The driver slammed on the brakes and fled. Silence fell. Rick hugged the wall, his right arm's serrations emerging involuntarily, black edges veined with red.
Footsteps approached the second deck. Moya's skinny form appeared, his eyes locking with Rick's. "Aah!" His arm antennae twitched.
"Get lost!" Rick tore apart a seat and hurled it. Moya crashed through the window with the debris.
"Over here!" Hunters swarmed, their limbs transforming into insect weapons. Rick slashed a hole in the carriage and jumped out.
Cold wind whistled as blades lunged. A loud crack split the air, blood mist spraying. Rick fell like a leaf, rolling into a street corner, knocking over pedestrians.
Training kicked in—he sprinted, breath labored but steady. He vaulted a wall, collapsing then rising. Blood trickled down his back. When the shouts faded, he stopped, yanking insect blades from his flesh with a cry.
Looking back, his trail of blood would lead them here. Ahead, the forest loomed in mist. His back wound was severe—facing Needlethorns might mean becoming their prey. But staying meant death at the hunters' hands.
"He must have a talent for tracking scents," Rick thought, realizing staying in this narrow area was suicidal. His face pale, he tore his shirt to bind his back wound, wincing as the knot pulled tight. Agonizing pain wracked him, and he collapsed, curling into a ball.
The pain wasn't just from the wound—his chest felt crushed, as if a boulder stifled his breath. An unknown force thrashed his veins, causing blood to pound through his body until he vomited blood. "Am I... turning into a bug-man?" He slammed his head on the ground, fighting to retain consciousness.
His vision whitened, filled with images of sickle insect claws swinging, dripping blood as they smashed the ground. Ears ringing, sweat stung his eyes. Suddenly, his muscles relaxed like a released bowstring, his ragged breathing easing...
The red glow of the setting sun reappeared. Gasping, Rick woke from his daze. "I'm alive? I didn't mutate?" He dared not look at his shadow, fearing a monstrous form. Blood and sweat caked his skin, but as clarity returned, he saw his reflection: the serrations on his right arm unfurled like blooming flower petals, while fine spikes rippled up his left arm to his shoulder. His muscles had tightened like armor, and a fire seemed to burn in his chest, merging with his soul.
A loud rip tore through the air—his shirt shredded as hard keratin plates covered his body. "What's happening?" he trembled, feeling his back wound. The skin peeled away, revealing a healed scar beneath. Crisp sounds filled the air as his skin regenerated, shedding flakes that vanished like petals in the wind.
"Strange, but I'm alive. Need to move." He bolted, surroundings blurring. Amazed by his speed, he slowed, fearing another episode. The bizarre changes faded without a trace.
Glancing around, he realized the map was reversed. "Dammit! I'm in Unknown Zone A." The red text on the map burned: "Danger Level: 1." This primeval forest, split between Kester, Terry County, and Isor City, was a buffer zone teeming with ferocious wild insects. Even crossing into known hunting grounds risked conflict with rival hunters.
"I can't go back." Rick studied the map. A dark stripe through Zone A—Hell's Corridor, a comet-impact scar. "A barren, scorching path to Terry County... but it's a death trap."
The river at his feet, warm from Hell's Corridor, offered a slim hope. "Follow the river. Maybe reach Terry County." It was a gamble, but better than dying in Zone A.