It was already late into the night. Growls and shrieks of wild beasts echoed through the marshy woods, piercing the damp air. They grew louder, more violent, as darkness settled deeper. Roaming outside after dusk was considered foolish—even suicidal. The trees whispered warnings, and even the most seasoned hunters sought shelter.
Avilio and Tora had found refuge in a lone wooden shack, half-buried in moss and weathered by years of storms. Despite its rustic look, the shack was brimming with people—hunters, wanderers, even a few robed scholars. They weren't here for comfort. Just shelter. For one night.
Avilio leaned his back against the rough wooden wall. He could feel the weight of several gazes locked on him. But he wasn't the main attraction.
Most eyes in the shack kept returning to a man sitting calmly at a table near the center. He wore layered black armor with silver trim, his presence almost too quiet to be human. Black hair streaked faintly with silver hung down to his shoulders, and his sharp brown eyes seemed to miss nothing. His posture was alert, like a coiled beast pretending to rest.
Avilio noticed the man glancing at him once—but it wasn't his sword the man was looking at. It was him.
"Why's everyone looking at that guy?" Avilio muttered under his breath.
Tora, sharpening his weapon beside him, gave a short laugh. "I bet you don't know him."
"Nope," Avilio replied, unbothered.
"That's Fenrir the Conqueror."
Avilio raised an eyebrow.
"He's one of the top Masters from the Hunter Academy. They say he's cleared entire corrupted regions with his party. His party, The Next Generation, is famous across all continents. He's usually not alone though. So I wonder…"
Avilio's eyes wandered. He examined the man more carefully now. Medals lined the right side of his chestplate—marks of campaigns, accomplishments, maybe a few kills. But what caught his attention was the bright orange emblem on the left side of his chest.
His gaze shifted.
Tora had one too, though lighter—light blue, not orange.
And then he noticed… nearly every other hunter in the shack bore a similar emblem. Different colors, slightly different shapes, but clearly from the same system.
"Wait… what are these symbols? You didn't mention them earlier."
Tora shrinked. "Ah. My bad. I forgot about the markers."
"Markers?"
"Yeah. They're badges of rank. The Academy gives them out after each trial. Let me break it down—newbies start with gray. Then green for pupils, aqua for specialists, navy blue for experts. Purple is for candidate masters, orange for official masters like Fenrir."
Avilio nodded slowly, taking it all in.
"Above them are red markers for Grandmasters and higher ups," Tora added in a whisper. "And then… black. Only the Elders carry those."
"Got it," Avilio said, quietly glancing down at his own plain shirt. No marker. No emblem.
Tora grinned. "Yeah… so people might be thinking you're some merchant's son carrying a family relic. That sword stands out."
Before Avilio could respond, the silence in the room broke.
Finally he was fed up with all the attention he was getting. Fenrir stood up. His voice was calm but cut through the murmurs like a blade.
"By the way… did anyone else notice?" he asked. "There aren't nearly as many monsters out here as usual."
The room stilled. A few nodded, others exchanged glances.
"Strange," someone whispered. "Usually, this place is crawling all the time, especially at night."
Tora leaned close to Avilio. "He's right. There were more beasts last time I came through here."
"It was probably the Despaired Souls," a voice called out from the far corner. A boy, likely in his early twenties, leaned forward confidently.
Fenrir turned slightly, acknowledging the voice with a nod.
"Yeah, I saw them earlier too," someone else added. "They wiped out a whole cluster of Flame Hounds before I could even draw my sword."
"They're making waves lately," said another. "Their leader just ranked up to Expert. Took him less than a year."
Fenrir gave a faint smile. "They're impressive. I'm keeping an eye on them."
As the buzz grew around the room, Avilio leaned toward Tora again.
"Who are these Despaired Souls?"
"They're the new stars," Tora said. "Started just a few months back. No one knew who they were, and now they're blowing through the trials like fire through dry leaves. Their leader… young guy. Arrogant. But powerful."
Avilio narrowed his eyes.
"What is it?" Tora asked, noticing the shift in his expression.
"I might've seen them before," Avilio said slowly. "Last time I passed through the town market. There was a group there… and one guy leading them. Looked proud. Way too confident."
"Could've been them," Tora shrugged. "But if they're clearing monsters this fast, he'll be getting a red marker before the year ends."
Avilio's thoughts wandered. That kind of power, that kind of growth—it sounded unnatural. And far too fast.
But before his mind could dive deeper into that thread, a sharp sound cut through the damp silence—the low, guttural howl of a Marsh Howler.
The shack stiffened. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Even the fire seemed to pause its crackling. Many inside turned their heads toward the sound, bodies going rigid, hands reaching instinctively for blades and bows. The howl had come from close—too close. Avilio's hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, eyes fixed on the shuttered window.
The Marsh Howler wasn't a monster feared in daylight. In packs, yes—but alone, they were manageable. But at night, under moonlight… they changed. Something ancient stirred in them, a savage instinct unlocked only by the shadows. Their strength didn't just increase—it multiplied. Reflexes sharper, speed inhuman. It was said that they could see the warmth of your blood through walls and hunt it like wolves starved for weeks.
And this one wasn't alone. Another howl echoed. Then another. Three, four, five… each one closer than the last. The shack didn't panic. But the tension thickened like fog.
Fenrir remained seated. His head tilted slightly, eyes closed—as if listening, calculating. A faint hum of power seemed to radiate off him, barely restrained. Those closest to him looked calmer now, as if his presence alone built an invisible barrier of certainty.
Even so, unease crept in. It wasn't about the Marsh Howlers alone.
There were too many people crammed in here. Traders. Novice hunters. Injured ones. If a horde attacked, not everyone would get out alive. Even a Master couldn't protect these many people at once.
Tora whispered, "They're closer than we think."
Avilio gave a silent nod. His sword was already halfway out of its sheath, the steel shimmering faintly even in low light.
Fenrir finally opened his eyes.
"They're scouting," he said, his voice low and calm. "Not hunting yet."
"Yet?" someone near the fire asked.
"They're gauging the prey. Smelling us. Judging how much resistance we'll put up. They're smarter than people give them credit for."
"What happens if they like what they smell?"
Fenrir stood.
"Then they'll come for blood."
The words dropped like a weight in the shack.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then, a strange quiet settled - not fear, but acceptance. A readiness. Everyone knew what might come next. The fire in the center crackled again, this time a little louder, as if trying to fill the silence.
But the howls… didn't return. One minute passed. Then two. Five. No attack came.
Eventually, people eased back into their places. Blades were re-sheathed, bows lowered. A collective exhale, like a drawn breath finally let go.
The fire warmed the air once more, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The tension ebbed, slowly retreating like a tide.
Avilio's grip on his sword relaxed, though he kept it near.
Tora exhaled. "False alarm, huh?"
"Maybe," Avilio replied. But his eyes were still on the window.
Something about the silence after those howls didn't sit right. It wasn't a relief. It was patience. The kind predators showed when they weren't just hungry—but calculating.
He glanced at Fenrir again, who had resumed his seat, gaze turned to the embers.
Avilio leaned in to Tora.
"Do you think they really left?"
Tora paused. "Maybe. Or maybe they're just waiting. Marsh Howlers have good memories. If they mark this shack, they'll come back eventually."
Avilio gave a slow nod, the thought lingering like smoke in his mind.
Still… for now, the moment had passed. Sleep returned to some. Quiet murmurs took the place of worry. The shack was breathing again.
The fire's glow danced faintly in the silence when footsteps echoed lightly against the wooden floor. Avilio looked up to see Fenrir, the Conqueror himself, slowly approaching. His presence shifted the air—heavy with calm authority, like a blade that didn't need to be unsheathed to remind people it existed. His orange marker glinted dimly in the firelight, and the room grew quieter with each of his steps.
Tora straightened instinctively, his breath catching in his throat. Avilio, still seated near the fire, met the approaching hunter's gaze.
Fenrir stopped a short distance away, eyes narrowing slightly as if measuring something in Avilio—his stance, his sword, or maybe something deeper. The crackle of the fire between them was the only sound.
And then, with the simplest of gestures, Fenrir stepped closer.