The feast dwindled to embers by the time Zed left the great hall. Torches burned low along the corridor, their flames bowing to the midnight draft that slipped through open shutters. He walked past the echoing laughter, the songs of cousins toasting their new companions, the clinking of goblets. The weight of their mockery pressed faintly against his back, but for once, he did not flinch beneath it.
His father's words still rang within him.
Congratulations, son.
Simple, almost plain. Yet stronger than any jeer, warmer than any pity.
Zed pressed a hand to his chest where the faint tether of the Zombie pulsed, sluggish but steady in his dantian. Weak though it was, it was his. And for that, his heart refused to bend.
The moon was high when his feet carried him toward the library pavilion.
The building loomed on the northern edge of the clan's compound, away from the training grounds and banquet halls, as though it had chosen solitude over celebration. Its frame rose three stories high, built of black stone veined with silver filigree, its curved eaves sharp like the wings of a resting bird. Tall lanterns burned in bronze sconces outside, their glow shimmering against polished wooden doors carved with the likeness of serpents twining around runic glyphs.
The air here was different—heavier, quieter, thick with the silence of centuries.
As he stepped closer, the scent of old parchment and oil lamps seeped even through the cracks of the door. A single figure stirred near the entrance.
The custodian.
He was an old man, his beard white but trimmed neatly to his chest. His frame was bent but wiry, his eyes sharp under heavy brows. He wore a robe of ash-gray wool bound with a plain leather belt, and from that belt hung a ring of bronze keys that jingled faintly with his steps. In his hand rested a gnarled cane, its head carved with the clan's crest.
The custodian's gaze fixed on Zed as though weighing him. "You're late to study, boy." His voice was gravel yet not unkind.
Zed drew the carved seal from his sleeve and presented it with both hands. The faint glimmer of the clan sigil shone under the lanternlight.
The custodian studied it for a long moment, then gave a small grunt. "The heir, hm? You'll find little comfort in these halls, but knowledge doesn't care for pride. What is it you seek?"
Zed hesitated, his voice low. "Something old. Forgotten."
The custodian's lips tugged into something between a smirk and a frown. "Most come here for battle forms or breathing scrolls. You speak as though you know where to look."
"I don't," Zed admitted. "But I know what I seek won't be on common shelves."
The old man's eyes narrowed, then softened as though he saw more than Zed said aloud. "Very well. The first floor holds techniques fit for the youth. The second, for promising disciples. What you want is not in either. If you fail above, come back to me. Ask for the archives."
Zed bowed faintly and stepped inside.
The doors opened into a hall wide as a banquet chamber, its floor polished wood that reflected the lantern glow. Rows upon rows of shelves climbed toward balconies above, their ladders stretching into shadows. The ceiling arched high, beams carved with dragons, and faint incense drifted through the air. Every footstep echoed softly, swallowed by the sheer weight of silence.
Zed explored the aisles. Scrolls lined the shelves in neat rows, their spines marked in gold ink. Iron Ox Stance. Tiger Roar Form. River Serpent Binding. He skimmed them, but none spoke to him. He tried the second floor, climbing a stair of creaking wood, the shelves narrowing, the air thinner. Here the techniques gleamed brighter, the ink still fresh. But even here, he found nothing that pulled at him.
Frustration gnawed. He descended, the echo of his boots sharp against the polished floor. The custodian stood waiting near the door, leaning on his cane, as though expecting his return.
"You've found nothing."
Zed shook his head. "Where are the archives?"
The old man studied him a moment longer, then nodded slowly. He led Zed past the main hall, into a narrow corridor lit by a single flickering lamp. At its end stood an iron-banded door, a heavy lock gleaming faintly. The custodian slid a key from his ring, the sound of metal grinding echoing as the lock yielded.
"Few come here," he said, his voice lowering. "The archives are a graveyard of knowledge. Failed attempts, abandoned paths. Read what you wish, but do not forget—some things were buried for a reason."
The door opened.
Stale air rushed out, thick with the smell of dust, ink, and mildew. Stone steps descended into darkness. Zed carried a lamp from the wall, its flame trembling as he walked downward.
The archives stretched like a cavern beneath the pavilion. Shelves leaned under the weight of forgotten records, their bindings cracked, their ink faded. Tables sagged under piles of manuscripts, loose parchment scattered like autumn leaves. Jars of dried ink and broken quills lay abandoned in corners. Strange relics rested in alcoves—cracked beast bones, fragments of shattered runestones, a rusted helmet with runic carvings barely visible.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the crackle of his lamp. Dust motes swirled in its glow like tiny stars. Zed moved cautiously, fingers tracing spines, eyes straining to read faded titles.
The Ledger of Failed Summons.
On the Nature of Broken Meridians.
Compendium of Flawed Contracts, Volume III.
Scrolls slipped from his grasp as their bindings crumbled to dust. He pressed on, deeper between leaning shelves where cobwebs hung thick as curtains. Hours bled away as he sifted through volumes that led nowhere.
One tome, its cover of cracked leather, bore the title: Chronicle of the Beast Wars. Inside, pages spoke of an ancestor—General Morvane Latian—whose campaigns were carved in blood. The text described him as broad of frame, his armor blackened steel engraved with sigils, his helm crowned with iron spikes. His name alone had cowed enemies, for he commanded not wolves, not serpents, not flame, but shadows that moved with his will. Though the stories brimmed with victories, the records quickly turned cautious, the tone shifting. Morvane had bound the dead themselves, raising corpses from battlefields until armies marched under his command even after death.
Zed's breath caught. The text called him the Gravebinder. Feared, shunned, yet unstoppable. His summons were no proud lions or radiant stags, but creatures reviled—Zombies, Ghouls, Revenants. The clan, though they owed him survival in those wars, had branded him cursed. His name was struck from songs, his path declared forbidden. What scraps of his deeds remained were hidden here, in dust and silence.
Zed read with mounting awe, pages fragile beneath his fingers. One account spoke of Morvane entering a battlefield at dawn, only to march out by dusk with an army twice the size—half living, half dead. Another whispered that he sought not victory alone but transcendence, believing the forsaken dead carried a power more enduring than any beast of fire or fang.
And then, deeper in the scrolls, he found the diagram.
A jagged line, branching upward like the growth of a tree. At its roots: Zombie. Above it, written in a firmer hand: Ghoul. Then higher: Vampire's Apprentice. Vampire. Vampire Lord. Vampire King.
His pulse thundered in his ears. The words blurred as he read them again and again.
This was no ordinary beast lore. This was the truth of his summon—the truth buried by the clan.
Zed's hand tightened on the scroll. The lamp flickered, shadows leaping across the cavern walls. For centuries, the Latian clan had called his path worthless, cursed, forsaken. But here lay proof that even trash could rise.
A thrill rose in him, hot and fierce. He rolled the scroll tight, tucking it into his satchel.
When he returned to the upper floor, the custodian's eyes flicked to the satchel but said nothing. He only gave Zed a long, knowing look before turning away.
A week later, Zed left the fortified halls of the Latian compound. He did not look back.
The village awaited him beyond a sloping path where stone gave way to dirt, and banners of the clan gave way to simple fences of wood and rope. Houses of stone and timber dotted the meadows, their roofs thatched or tiled with clay. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the air carried the scents of baking bread, drying herbs, and goat's milk.
Children chased each other across yards, their laughter unburdened. Farmers hauled baskets of turnips from fields, women washed clothes in the stream. They glanced at Zed with curiosity, but no scorn.
An elderly couple noticed him lingering near the well. The man, broad though bent with years, wore a brown tunic belted at the waist, his beard thick and white. His wife wore a plain blue dress and apron, her gray hair braided neatly.
"You look weary, boy," she said kindly. "Come, eat with us."
Their cottage stood on the village edge, walls patched with plaster, herbs growing wild in the garden. Inside, the air was warm with the scent of bread and broth. A boy no more than seven darted forward, wooden sword in hand, eyes alight.
"Are you an adventurer?" he demanded. His tunic was patched, his sandals thin, but his grin was fierce. "One day I'll slay beasts bigger than houses!"
The couple chuckled. "That's Jiro, our son."
Zed found himself smiling. "Adventurer? Not yet. But maybe one day."
Days in the village unfolded differently than in the clan.
Morning came with the crow of roosters and the soft clang of buckets at the well. The smell of baking bread drifted through the cottage, the mother kneading dough with flour-dusted hands, humming softly as she worked. The father tended their goats, a wooden pail swinging from his arm, his boots muddied from the fields.
Jiro woke earliest of all, bounding from his straw bed with endless energy. He pestered Zed to spar before breakfast, swinging his wooden sword with clumsy enthusiasm. "Big brother, show me how to strike faster! Tell me how adventurers fight dragons! Did you ever see a knight in armor? Do they really shine in the sun?"
Zed humored him, correcting his stance, showing him how to breathe steady. At meals, Jiro chattered endlessly—about how he would one day leave the village, about the beasts he would slay, about the songs that would be written of him. The couple laughed gently, their eyes soft with pride, even if they knew their son's dreams were larger than their modest lives.
Zed listened quietly, but in that warmth, he felt something he had not known in years. Belonging.
The village itself was a living thing. A blacksmith hammered iron from dawn till dusk, sparks flying from his anvil as he shaped tools and the occasional blade. Women gathered by the stream, their laughter ringing as they scrubbed clothes against smooth stones, water glittering under the sun. Children darted barefoot through fields, their games loud and unending. Old men sat on porches, smoking pipes carved from wood, watching the world with patient eyes.
At night, the family ate simple meals—stew of root vegetables and goat meat, bread warm from the oven, milk still frothy from the pail. Firelight flickered across plastered walls, shadows dancing as Jiro begged for "big brother's" stories.
Zed did not tell him of the jeers of his clan or the pain of failure. Instead, he spun softer tales—of fireflies by the lake that looked like fallen stars, of the time he thought he saw a giant carp in the clan pond, of practicing until his hands blistered. Jiro listened wide-eyed, convinced each story was proof his brother was already an adventurer.
And for a while, Zed let himself believe it too.
The couple introduced him to the elder in time, and the map came to him with its warnings. Soon the mountain trials would begin. But in those brief days of village life—between bread and laughter, between chores and sparring with Jiro—Zed felt the faintest echo of what his father had once tried to give him: a home.
It made his vow sharper. He would not fail again.
The elder's map was detailed, inked in careful strokes. The village at the center, forests stretching outward, rivers drawn as silver lines, mountains like jagged teeth. Circles marked safe routes. Crosses scrawled over beast territories.
"Keep to the marked paths," the elder warned, his long gray beard trembling as he spoke. He wore a heavy cloak of woven reed, patched from travel, a knife sheathed at his side. "There are places even hunters won't tread. Remember, the stronger beasts guard their lands jealously."
Zed bowed, folding the map carefully into his satchel.
And so he stepped into the forest.
The first beast found him near a muddy clearing where oaks leaned heavy with moss. It was an Ashfang Boar, tusked and bristling with coarse black fur, its small red eyes glaring beneath a mane of dirt-caked hair.
It snorted, the ground trembling beneath its hooves. Then it charged.
Zed dove aside, the tusks slamming into a tree and splintering bark. He rolled, mud caking his cloak, dagger flashing as he struck its flank. The blade cut shallow, but it slowed the beast long enough for him to lure it between two trees where he had strung a rope snare.
The boar stumbled, bellowing, its tusks raking air. Zed pressed his shoulder against its neck, teeth gritted, forcing it down by sheer strength. "Now," he hissed.
The Zombie staggered forward, claws sinking into the beast's throat. Its jaw clamped, tearing, gorging. Blood spilled, black under moonlight. The boar shuddered, then stilled.
Zed fell back, panting, mud streaking his face. He watched as the Zombie devoured essence, gnawing on flesh, its cloudy eyes flaring faintly. He wiped his dagger clean and bound the shallow cut on his arm.
The second fight came at a stream where ferns grew thick, their leaves slick with mist.
A Verdant Serpent uncoiled from the water, scales green as moss, its fangs gleaming ivory. It struck like lightning, jaws snapping where Zed's arm had been a breath earlier.
He scrambled back, throwing a rock to draw its attention, looping a rope snare across the stream's stones. The serpent lunged, the line snapping taut around its neck. Zed slashed at its body, his dagger scoring shallow wounds that leaked green-tinged blood.
The serpent hissed, thrashing violently. Its tail slammed his ribs, pain exploding in his side. He grit his teeth, barely keeping his footing.
"Finish it!"
The Zombie waded into the water, clawing clumsily. The serpent wrapped around it, but the creature gnawed, tearing at flesh until its fangs cracked. Finally, its thrashing slowed.
Zed sank to his knees, breath ragged. A graze on his arm burned with venom, but he remembered the elder's warning and chewed a bitter herb from his pouch, spitting its juice onto the wound. The fire dulled, though pain still pulsed.
The Zombie fed, absorbing essence and swallowing the serpent's crystal. Its frame shivered faintly, but no change yet.
The third battle nearly killed him.
Deep beneath the canopy where sunlight barely pierced, he heard a growl.
Eyes glowed gold from the shadows.
An Ironclaw Panther emerged, black fur rippling, its spine ridged with bone-like armor, claws gleaming silver. It prowled in a circle, low and silent, its gaze fixed on him.
Then it pounced.
Zed barely raised his dagger in time. The impact threw him onto his back, the air punched from his lungs. Claws raked his chest, sparks flying as they struck his runic bracer. He kicked, rolled, slashing blindly, scoring a shallow line across its shoulder.
It snarled, stalking him as he staggered to his feet. Blood dripped down his ribs, his breaths ragged.
He reached into his pouch and threw dried meat to one side. The panther's head turned, just for a heartbeat. Enough.
Zed lunged, driving his dagger deep into its thigh. The beast roared, staggering. He threw his weight against it, pinning it just long enough—
The Zombie crashed into its back, clawing, biting. It tore into the panther's throat, ripping, consuming. The great beast struggled, then stilled, blood soaking into the soil.
Zed collapsed beside it, chest heaving. His vision swam, pain searing every limb. Yet when he looked up, he saw his summon hunched over the corpse, feasting. Blood essence burned into it, flesh swallowed whole, the beast crystal crushed between its teeth.
For the first time, Zed thought he saw its eyes flicker—not just with hunger, but with something sharper.
Not yet. But soon.
Zed dragged himself back to a clearing, binding wounds with strips of cloth, chewing bitter roots to dull the pain. The forest whispered around him, cicadas singing, fireflies glowing faintly.
The Zombie stood over the remains of its meals, sluggish still, but steadier than before.
Zed closed his eyes. They had survived three hunts. His beast had fed. His body bore the scars. The path forward would be brutal.
But it was theirs.
And when the time came, trash would rise.