The Birth of a Hunter
Kael Draven was born in the crumbling frontier village of Blackmere, a place where monsters prowled just beyond the wooden walls. His father was a low-ranked Hunter in the local guild, a man who never rose beyond C-rank but was respected for his courage. His mother was a herbalist who tended to the wounded whenever hunts went wrong.
From childhood, Kael's lullabies were not songs but the roars of beasts at night. He grew up watching hunters leave through the gate with confidence—and return broken, scarred, or not at all.
The village of Blackmere always smelled of woodsmoke, damp earth, and the faint copper tang of monster blood. At eight years old, Kael Draven already knew that scent better than any child should.
He loved to follow his father, Joran Draven, around the wooden palisade that served as their wall. His father was no great hero—just a C-rank Hunter, his leather armor patched with scars, his sword nicked from years of dull sharpening. But to Kael, he was the strongest man alive.
"Keep your eyes sharp, Kael," his father would say, crouching beside him at the watchpost. "The difference between a hunter and prey is who notices the danger first."
Kael would puff out his chest, clutching the wooden practice blade Joran carved for him. "I'll notice it first, Father. And I'll cut it down before it gets near."
His father only chuckled, ruffling his son's dark hair. "A Hunter's heart you've got, that's true."
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The Calm Before the Storm
That night, the village celebrated a small victory. A group of guild hunters had slain a wandering troll in the marshes. Kael's mother cooked stew thick with carrots and venison, rare luxuries in Blackmere. Laughter filled the tavern, mugs clinking, children chasing each other in the firelit square.
But outside the gates, in the cold forest, yellow eyes were watching.
The Nightfangs had been tracking the hunters' scent for days. Packs of them were nightmares with fur—massive wolves with jet-black coats, their fangs long enough to pierce armor. Intelligent, organized, and hungry.
When the wind shifted, carrying the smell of meat and blood from the village feast, they moved.
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The Attack
The first scream tore through the night like a knife.
Kael dropped his wooden toy sword. The laughter outside died instantly, replaced by shouts, the pounding of boots, and the deep-throated snarls of beasts.
His father's expression changed in an instant—warmth gone, replaced by the steel of a hunter.
"Aria! Hide him!" Joran barked at Kael's mother.
"But Joran—"
"No arguments. Take him to the cellar. Don't open it for anyone unless it's me."
Kael tried to protest, but his mother dragged him into their small house. She pushed him down into the earthen cellar, shutting the heavy wooden door. Through the cracks, Kael saw the glow of torches, heard steel clash against fangs, the guttural roar of Nightfangs tearing through men.
The ground shook with every impact. His mother's hands trembled as she held him close, whispering prayers.
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The Moment of Loss
Hours—or perhaps only minutes—passed before Kael heard his father's voice above the chaos.
"Hold the line! Push them back—"
The words were cut off by a sickening crunch and a scream.
Kael's blood turned to ice. He tried to scramble for the door, but his mother held him tight, tears streaming down her face.
"Don't, Kael… please don't."
But Kael could still hear it—the sound of his father's sword striking, then snapping, the guttural snarl of a Nightfang claiming its prey. The scream that followed wasn't just his father's voice, but the voice of every villager dying that night.
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The Arrival Too Late
By dawn, the world outside had gone eerily quiet. When Kael and his mother emerged, the village was a graveyard. The palisade broken. Houses smoldering. Bodies everywhere.
And his father's body among them—torn, lifeless, eyes staring at the gray sky.
Kael fell to his knees, unable to breathe. His small fists pounded the dirt.
"If I was stronger… if I was a hunter, I could've… I could've…"
It was then the S-rank hunters from the capital finally arrived—gleaming armor, flawless blades, killing the last of the Nightfangs with ease. The villagers who survived wept with relief. But Kael only stared at them with burning hatred in his chest.
"You came too late," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Too late for him. Too late for us."
That morning, Kael Draven swore he would become the kind of hunter who never arrived too late.
He would rise, no matter the cost.
He would reach S-rank.
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⚔️ End of Chapter One.