The next day dawned under a copper-red sky that bled across the horizon like a half-remembered wound. Light seeped over the rooftops of the village, catching on the weathered shingles of Bill's Tavern and glinting off the iron brackets that held its warped sign.
Inside, the air was heavy with stale whiskey, woodsmoke, and the faint tang of metal polish. Cid sat at the far end of the bar, hood thrown back, elbows resting on scarred oak. His wounds had closed miraculously fast but the ache of goodbye still lay beneath the skin, a slow, dull throb that had nothing to do with flesh.
Bill wiped down a tankard with a rag that had long since given up on being clean. His voice was rough, but there was a new weight in it that hadn't been there the night before.
"Morning, kid. You're a hunter now. That means it's time you learned what that really means. Come with me."
Cid rose without a word. The boards under his boots creaked as they moved past the back hallway and down a narrow staircase into the guts of the tavern. At the bottom, Bill unlocked a heavy door with a key that looked older than the building itself.
The room beyond was lit by a handful of lanterns, their glow flickering over racks upon racks of steel. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint tang of oil and old leather. Blades, spears, crossbows, and stranger tools some Cid recognized, others he didn't lined the walls like trophies stolen from a hundred different wars.
Bill stepped into the center.
"There are three kinds of weapons you need to understand."
He gestured first to a line of plain steel swords.
"Regular weapons. Cheap, common, easy to make. No magic, no soul. They'll cut, they'll stab, but they won't do more than what your arm puts into them. You'll find these in every barracks, and on every corpse of a fool who thought bravery alone was enough."
He moved to another section, where the metal shimmered with unnatural hues blades that caught the light in blues, reds, and greens.
"Then you have magic weapons. Most hunters favor these. Forged with infused elemental cores fire, frost, lightning, poison, whatever a smith can bind into steel. Usually single element, but the rare and costly ones can hold two, maybe three. A weapon's no use if you can't control the element, though. You'll burn your own arm off before you hurt the enemy."
At last, Bill walked to a covered stand at the far wall. A black cloth draped over it, hiding what lay beneath.
"And then there's the third kind. Soul weapons. Rare enough that most hunters die without ever seeing one, let alone touching it."
He pulled the cloth away, revealing a black-bladed sword. Its hilt was carved into the shape of a white wolf, jaws stretched wide as if trying to swallow the sun.
"This one is called Sun."
Cid's thoughts flickered. Sun? Is Clain the same…?
The blade seemed to drink the lantern light. The wolf etching glimmered faintly, like the ghost of a howl caught in the steel.
"These are forged with a bound spirit," Bill said. "Something old, powerful, dangerous. The spirit chooses its wielder not the other way around. Build a strong bond, and you can manifest its true form. Lose that bond, and you'll be lucky if all it does is refuse to work."
Cid's eyes stayed locked on the weapon. His voice was quiet. "Since I first picked Clain up… I've been seeing a man in my dreams. He never speaks. Just watches me."
Bill's brows drew together. "That's him. The spirit. You've got no magic, so he probably found another way to reach you, your dreams. Next time, try talking back."
Cid nodded once.
Bill turned away and pulled a thin black card from his pocket. Veins of silver ran through it like lightning frozen in glass.
"This is your hunter's card. Tracks your rank, your earnings, your contracts. Right now you're A-rank, thanks to that black wyvern you cut down. It's also your bank you'll get paid through it, and you'll pay through it."
Cid touched the card. A faint glow pulsed through the silver veins, and a small sigil rose above it: A RANK.
"That was fast," Cid said.
"You did the work of ten men," Bill replied. "That wyvern wasn't some back-alley lizard."
Back upstairs, the tavern's warmth felt almost oppressive after the cool hush of the armory. Bill slid two mission slips across the bar. One bore an official guild seal; the other had charred edges, as if it had survived a fire.
"The clean one's from the guild villages nearby getting attacked by a Mersomufs. Standard hunt. The other's off the books. Private client wants twenty full horns from adult Mersomufs. Rare, heavy, dangerous to get. You'll be knee-deep in sand and blood before you hit ten, let alone twenty."
"I'll take both."
Bill eyed him. "Didn't even think about it, huh? Fine. Take this." He handed over a black leather satchel stitched with faintly glowing blue runes. "Magic bag. Holds up to thirty horns without weighing you down. Lose it, and you'd better run before I find you."
"I'll be back in a few days," Cid said, slinging it over his shoulder.
He stepped into the White Desert, the heat pressing down like a shroud. He barely noticed.
"I'll come back, Emily," he murmured. "Just hold on."
The first hunt was brutal. The Mersomufs was massive, tusks curved like twin scimitars, eyes the pale, hungry color of bone. Its charge shook the ground, but Clain moved faster three slashes, one leg gone, then the other. The beast crashed, thrashing, before a clean strike ended it.
By the time he left, villagers whispered thanks from behind their crumbling walls.
Two days later, he'd felled seven more. Then another four. Each kill came quicker. Cleaner. Colder. By the thirteenth, they didn't even realize they were prey until they were already dying.
On the third evening, black blood steaming into the air, Cid muttered, "That's the last. Now I want to know who needs these horns."
Back at the tavern, Bill met him at the door.
"Back already? Let's see them."
Cid placed the satchel on the counter. Bill opened it, eyes scanning the contents. "Perfect. Well done."
The black card at Cid's hip chimed once then again. The glow shifted from silver to crimson-gold. Letters burned above it: S RANK.
"You're S-rank now," Bill said, studying him. "Took a team of four A-rank hunters to kill one Mersomufs last month. You just brought me twenty horns without a scratch worth mentioning. You're not a kid anymore, Cid."
The payout shimmered briefly above the card. Cid's jaw tightened. "This is too much. I…"
"You earned it," Bill cut in. "That wyvern and these hunts prove it. Don't know what the hell's in your blood… but if you keep this up, the whole kingdom will know your name."
"I don't want fame," Cid said quietly. "I just want to be strong enough."
Bill poured two glasses. "This world doesn't care why you're strong it only cares what you do with it."
That night, Cid dreamt of Moonlight Village.
The sky was aflame. Buildings collapsed under waves of ash. Voices called out from the fire voices he knew, twisted by hate.
Why didn't you save us, cursed brat? You brought this on us! We should have killed you for the Lunar gods!
He stumbled through the burning streets, clutching Clain, searching for Emily—
And then the flames turned to shadow. The voices vanished.
A single man stood before him.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Long blond hair tied back, a neatly trimmed beard. Piercing blue eyes burning with unnatural light.
"So," the man said, voice sharp as winter wind, "you finally decided to talk, brat."
Cid swallowed. "Clain?"
"Who else?"
They faced each other in the soundless street.
"Why now?" Cid asked.
"Because now you're worth my time," Clain said. "You've been carrying me, but you don't know a damn thing about what you're holding. So, here's the deal: find me a new wielder someone worthy and I'll teach you everything I know about this world… and about you."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because you want answers. And I've got them."
Cid hesitated, then nodded. "Deal."
When he woke, rain pattered softly against the shutters. He went downstairs to find Bill already awake, polishing glasses.
"Nightmare again?" Bill asked without looking up.
"Not exactly. Clain spoke to me."
Bill's brow rose. "And?"
"We made a deal."
Bill grunted. "Better hope you're not the one getting the short end."