The path down from the mountains unrolled before Zed in a haze of dust and evening light. The wounds from the Nightstalker Wolf still throbbed, stiff and angry, but the ache no longer weighed on him the same way. His body had grown. His meridians pulsed with strength, his steps firmer, and his summon — now cloaked in rough brown cloth — walked beside him with a steady human gait. No longer the stumbling corpse it had once been, it carried itself with the presence of something becoming. But Zed kept its hood low; some truths were not meant for villagers' eyes.
By the time the roofs of the village appeared in the valley below, smoke was rising from hearthfires, and the sound of hammers on wood mixed with the bleating of goats. Fields of golden rice bent gently in the wind, and children ran barefoot along the dirt road, their laughter spilling into the air like birdsong. The smell of tilled soil and cooking stews hung everywhere.
It was almost jarring after so many days of blood.
Jiro was the first to see him. The boy barreled down the road, sandals flapping, hair sticking up in every direction. His cheeks were flushed from play, his tunic patched at the elbows, but his grin was bright enough to outshine the setting sun.
"Brother Zed!" he shouted, nearly colliding with him before skidding to a stop. His gaze flicked to the cloaked figure behind Zed, curiosity flashing, but he swallowed it quickly when Zed gave a small shake of the head.
"You're back! You really went up the mountains, didn't you? Did you fight beasts? What were they like? Did you—"
Before Jiro could smother him with questions, his parents appeared at the doorway of their modest wooden home.
Daro wiped earth from his broad hands, his tunic rolled up at the sleeves, sweat still shining on his brow from the fields. Lina followed, her braided hair gleaming in the dusk, her plain green dress tidy though worn at the edges. Her eyes softened the moment she saw Zed, but they sharpened when they found the fresh scars running along his arm.
"You've been gone for days," she said, voice stern but full of warmth. "Come inside before you collapse."
The couple's home was simple, yet neat. The floorboards were polished smooth by years of use, clay jars lined the shelves, and herbs dangled from the rafters, filling the air with a dry, earthy scent. A woven mat lay by the hearth where a pot of stew bubbled, sending up rich aromas of pork fat and wild greens.
That night, they ate together at the small table. Daro ladled stew into bowls, Lina served rice, and Jiro squirmed on his seat, eyes never leaving Zed as he recounted—sparingly—the beasts he had fought. He did not speak of the Nightstalker Wolf or the edges of death, but he described the gleam of fangs, the way claws ripped the earth, the ferocity of wild eyes. Jiro hung on every word, his spoon forgotten, his mouth hanging open in awe.
When the meal was finished, Zed pulled his satchel closer and untied it. He laid out trophies one by one: a cluster of sharp fangs, thick beast claws, a strip of scaled hide, and finally, a small pouch that clinked faintly. He opened it, and soft light spilled across the table. Beast Crystals, each one faintly glowing from the essence within.
The family stared in silence.
"These need to be sold," Zed said, his voice even. "They'll fetch coin."
The next morning, he went with Daro into the market. The village square bustled with life — vendors shouting prices, the smell of roasted chestnuts and dried fish mingling in the air. Women haggled over bolts of dyed cloth, children darted between stalls with sticky fingers, and somewhere a musician plucked a lute lazily.
At one corner, a merchant with gold rings on his fingers squinted at the fangs Zed laid on his stall. "Fine hunting," he said, rolling a Beast Crystal in his palm, the glow reflecting in his eyes. "Better than most men bring back in a season. You've done well."
Zed said nothing. By the end of it, he had exchanged his loot for a heavy pouch of silver. Without hesitation, he pressed a portion of it into Daro's hands.
"You gave me shelter. Food. Take it."
Lina protested, shaking her head, but Daro's hand closed over the pouch with quiet acceptance. Gratitude needed no words.
Later that afternoon, Zed called Jiro into the yard. From his satchel, he drew a small dagger — its blade carved from a serpent's fang, its handle wrapped in leather cord. The boy's eyes grew impossibly wide.
"For me?" Jiro whispered.
Zed crouched, holding the blade out hilt-first. "For you. But it isn't a toy. It's a promise. Grip it here, keep your balance low. Treat it with respect. If you wish to be an adventurer, begin with discipline."
He guided the boy's small hands, showing him how to hold it, how not to swing wildly but to measure his strength. Jiro nodded furiously, his excitement barely contained, then suddenly lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Zed's waist.
"I'll fight beside you one day! You'll see!"
Zed allowed the faintest smile to touch his lips, his hand resting on the boy's head.
The following days passed in a quiet rhythm. In the mornings, Zed helped Daro in the fields, pushing a wooden plow through damp earth, his muscles burning with each step. In the afternoons, he carried baskets of water from the well, or mended fences with rough-hewn wood. In the evenings, he shared meals by the fire, listening to Jiro chatter about his dreams, or sparring with him gently using sticks in the yard until the boy collapsed in laughter.
For the first time in years, Zed felt what it meant to belong — not as heir, not as disappointment, but as a man among simple, good people.
On the third morning, he prepared to leave. His satchel was packed, his cloak drawn tight, and the Vampire Apprentice walked at his side with its hood low. At the doorway, Lina pressed a loaf of bread into his hands, still warm from the oven. Daro clasped his arm in silent strength. Jiro clutched his new dagger to his chest, eyes shining with both pride and sadness.
"Come back," the boy said fiercely.
"I will," Zed promised, though he knew promises were fragile things.
He walked away as the mist lifted over the fields, the family's silhouettes fading into the morning light.
When he reached the clan's grounds, the air was different.
Banners hung from the high walls, their colors bold against the stone. Servants scurried to polish courtyards, to hang lanterns, to prepare food for guests yet to come. Young cultivators trained in the open squares, their strikes louder, faster, more eager, each one determined to shine in the coming days. Elders walked in pairs, murmuring, their eyes sharp with expectation.
Word had already spread: a great tournament would soon begin.
Merchants from the capital were traveling to witness it. Nobles from neighboring kingdoms had been invited. Overseers of villages and elders of allied clans would come to sit in judgment and admiration. It would not be a mere contest — it would be a declaration. Proof that the clan thrived, that talent burned bright, that they had a future worth fearing.
Zed passed through the noise unnoticed, his hood low, his presence swallowed in the bustle. He did not linger to boast or to preen. None of this mattered. His path was not theirs.
While banners unfurled and blades gleamed in the sun, Zed returned to the quiet of his secluded training ground. There, beneath the shadows of trees, his breath slowed, his meridians stirred, and his summon's crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
The world prepared for spectacle.
He prepared for truth.