The outskirts of the town were barren, no stalls, no laughter, no watchful guards. Just wind, dust, and the looming silence of the mountains ahead.
Most would never begin a journey from here. The proper place was the Medali Province, where the academy groomed hunters into soldiers of order and pride. But Avilio wasn't like them.
He adjusted the straps of his long, worn satchel. The sword on his back glinted briefly under the morning sun, silk threads around its hilt fluttering like a banner in the wind. This was it.
His first step toward destiny. As he passed the broken stone markers at the edge of town, a faint sound caught his attention—a grunt, sharp and pained.
Avilio stopped. Eyes sharp. Body still. From behind a leaning pine, a figure stumbled out. Broad, armored, and dragging a massive greatsword along the ground like it weighed nothing. His armor was dented, burned in places. Blood trailed down his left shoulder, dripping onto the snow-soaked soil.
The man nearly collapsed before slamming his sword into the ground to hold himself upright. Avilio stepped forward.
"You're injured," he said simply.
The armored man gave a faint chuckle. "And here I thought I was doing a good job hiding it."
"You're loud," Avilio added. "And you're bleeding."
The man looked up. His brown eyes were tired, but not broken. His jaw was square, his presence heavy. "Name's Tora. Tank. Was part of a mid-tier party clearing out some Orc nests to the west."
"You don't look mid-tier."
"We weren't." Tora's voice turned bitter. "We wiped them out. But... those bastards weren't alone. High Orcs. One of them cast a poison wave right before we finished him."
Avilio narrowed his eyes. "Your team?"
"Gone." A pause. "All but our leader. She got out with me. But we had to split. She headed for the cliffs to the north. We separated our ways. I was returning to town for medic but..." Tora looked down at his leg, which was clearly giving out beneath him.
"...you're barely walking."
Tora tried to laugh again, but it sounded more like a growl. "I've had worse. Just need a break."
Avilio looked at him for a long moment. Then dropped his satchel and reached into it. Tora tensed—but Avilio pulled out a flask and tossed it toward him.
"Drink."
Tora sniffed it. "Smells like it might kill me."
"Then your body will have to pick: me or the poison."
With a smirk, Tora took a swig. "Burns like hell. I like it."
Avilio crouched beside him. "You're not going to make it back to town on that leg."
Tora grunted. "Not without someone watching my back."
There was a pause. Avilio stood and extended a hand.
"Then come with me."
Tora blinked. "What?"
"You said your leader's headed north. That's where I'm going. You might meet her again"
He looked toward the distant ridge, wind brushing through his frizzy hair.
"Who said I am going with you?" Tora said.
"Look, I need someone who can take a hit. You need someone who won't let you die."
Tora stared at him for a long time—this kid with the sharp eyes and strange sword. His body screamed like a rookie. But something about him was… untouched by fear.
"...You're not from the academy, are you?"
"No."
Tora grabbed his sword, shoved it onto his back, and took Avilio's hand.
"Good. I'm sick of academy brats."
"Let's head back to the town first to get you a medic," Avilio said, steadying Tora's weight against his side.
Tora grunted in agreement, his breath fogging in the chill air. His steps were heavy, but with Avilio's support, the two eventually limped their way past the outskirts and into the busy town. Most of the shops were full with customers. Half-collapsed signs swung in the wind.
Eventually, they reached a squat stone building with faded paint and a crooked red cross carved above the wooden door. The medical center.
Inside, the place smelled of herbs, old metal, and faint antiseptic. Shelves were stacked with yellowed scrolls and dusty vials. A single lantern flickered above a wooden counter.
"Back again, Tora?" an old man with graying hair and thick spectacles called from behind the desk.
"Unfortunately," Tora muttered as he collapsed into a chair.
The doctor—Doc Vellin, judging by the name etched into a rusting placard—got to work, pulling off Tora's broken armor and inspecting the wounds.
"You're lucky," Vellin said, dabbing green salves into the bruised flesh. "Any deeper and you'd be heading to the soul trees."
"Still might," Tora joked.
Avilio stood silently by the window, observing the old instruments and jars of strange liquids. After a while, he turned. "Tell me more about your party?"
"Yeah," Tora nodded. "Ten of us. Good group. Solid frontline and two mid-tier casters. They were all Pupils and Experienced Newbies. The orc nest was supposed to be a quick sweep. We didn't expect the High Orc. Poison spell turned the whole place into a death trap."
He paused. "Only me and our leader made it out as we had passed the Specialist Trials. You might know, there is a part where we need to survive from poison traps in the specialist trials."
Avilio leaned on the window frame. "You just mentioned something about 'specialist trials.' What is that?"
Tora raised a brow. "Wait. Don't tell me you're not ranked?"
Avilio blinked. "Ranked?"
Tora chuckled, then groaned at the pain in his ribs. "You serious? Man, you really are on your own."
"What's it mean?"
Tora leaned forward, ignoring Vellin's protest. "Alright, listen. Hunters are categorized based on strength and experience. That way, missions can be assigned, teams can be formed, and people don't die biting off more than they can chew."
He held up fingers as he spoke:
"First, there's Unrated—that's you. Either just started or never registered. After that comes Newbie, Pupil, then Specialist—that's me. From there it goes Expert, Candidate Master, Master, Grandmaster, Legendary Grandmaster, and finally... Elder. That one's reserved for those whose names change history."
Avilio stayed quiet, digesting it.
"You pass trials to move up," Tora continued. "Most people join the Hunter Academy to learn the ropes. It's not just a school—it's an organization. They've got divisions for everything: swordsmen, spellcasters, archers, healers. Even logistics and intelligence. All of them start their journey as a Pupil"
Tora motioned to the window. "The Academy has their own paramilitary, too. Patrol squads, suppression units, even research labs. The academy's been the backbone of humanity's fight since monsters started spawning out of nowhere."
Avilio folded his arms. "You said not all hunters follow them?"
"Yeah. Some don't like the academy's bureaucracy. Too many rules. But even they respect the hunter ranking system—because the pay, access, and mission approvals depend on it."
"Pay?"
"It's not just about coins." Tora's voice turned serious. "High-danger zones—like the Northern Snowy Cliffs—are restricted. Only Specialist-rank and above can enter. That place got flagged last month. New monster activity. Real nasty."
Avilio looked down. "Then I can't go through it."
"Not unless you get your license and pass the Specialist trial."
"I don't care about money," Avilio muttered.
Tora grinned. "It ain't about money, kid. It's about permission."
They sat in silence for a while, broken only by the crackling oil lamp and the faint rustle of papers as Vellin finished stitching Tora's shoulder.
After a while, Tora looked at him again. "So why are you doing this? No academy. No rank. No team."
Avilio's voice was low. "Because I must."
Tora didn't press further.
That night, they stayed in the back room of the center—two cots, thin blankets, and a flickering lantern.
Tora slept like stone. Avilio stayed awake longer, staring at the ceiling, mind replaying everything he'd learned.
The world was more structured than he thought. More guarded. More political. If he wanted to move forward—toward the snowy cliffs, toward his goal—he couldn't just cut his way through blindly.
He needed to adapt.