Chapter 6: The First Reflection
The wagon ride was loud and jolting. The massive wooden wheels groaned over the ruts in the road, and the rhythmic plodding of the two draft horses was a constant, thudding percussion. Yuta sat in the back, the scent of dried, sun-baked hay filling his nose, watching the world scroll by.
For the first few hours, Silas left him alone. But as the sun reached its apex, bathing the road in a bright, warm light, the carter's curiosity got the better of him.
"So," Silas called back, not turning his head. "A kid your age... what in the world possesses you to go for a Hunter license? You lookin' for riches? Or fame?"
Yuta, who had been watching a hawk circle in the blue expanse, took a moment to answer. "My father was a Hunter."
This made Silas twist around on his bench, his eyes wide. "He was, was he? What's his name?"
"Kael Vance," Yuta said. The name felt strange to say to a stranger.
Silas thought for a long moment, then shook his head. "Never heard of him. But that's not surprising. They say there are thousands of 'em, and most keep to the shadows. Is he... waiting for you at the port?"
Yuta looked down, his hand unconsciously touching the purple hilt of the blade, which he'd laid beside him in the hay. "No. He... he died. Four years ago. On a mission."
Silas went quiet. The road sounds filled the silence.
"I'm sorry, kid," Silas said, his voice softer. "That's a hard thing."
"I don't really know anything about Hunters," Yuta admitted, his voice small. "My mother... she didn't want to talk about it. I want to become one... because I want to know what kind of person he was. I want to see the world he thought was worth... worth leaving us for."
Silas was quiet for a long time. "Hunters," he finally said, "are not simple folk. They're not just adventurers. They're people who have... stepped outside the normal rules. Some hunt treasures, some hunt beasts, some hunt other men. They're the best, and sometimes, they're the worst. They're driven by things most folk can't understand. If your father was one... he was a man of will, I'll tell you that much."
His words painted a picture of a world that was vast, dangerous, and steeped in mystery. It only made the fire in Yuta's chest burn brighter.
The road narrowed in the late afternoon, cutting through a dense, pine-dark forest. The trees grew close, their branches interlocking overhead, plunging the path into a green-tinged twilight. The air grew still.
"Hate this pass," Silas muttered, his hands tightening on the reins. "They call it the 'Tusker's Run.' Full of... un-natural beasts."
As if summoned by the name, a sound erupted from the woods to their left—a heavy, crashing, splintering sound, followed by a furious, guttural squeal.
"Hold on!" Silas roared, snapping his whip. The horses panicked, whinnying and pulling the wagon in a sudden, violent lurch.
It burst from the trees. It was a boar, but it was a monster. It was the size of Silas's wagon, with matted, filthy-black fur. Its eyes were two burning, molten-red coals, and its massive tusks looked like they were carved from charred, smoking wood. It stood in the middle of the road, blocking their path, and snorted a cloud of hot, gray ash.
"Ember-Tusk!" Silas shrieked, his face draining of all color. "We're done for! We're cooked!"
The creature lowered its head. Its massive chest inhaled, a sound like a giant's forge-bellows.
Yuta didn't think. He didn't weigh his options. His father's words echoed in his head: any attack that is not purely physical.
In one fluid motion, he was on his feet in the swaying wagon. His hand found the hilt. The polished purple stone felt warm, almost alive. He drew the Blade of Reflection. The mirrored surface flashed, capturing the dim, green forest light.
The Ember-Tusk shot its attack. It wasn't a stream; it was a cohesive, basketball-sized glob of molten fire, sizzling through the air.
Silas screamed and ducked. Yuta stood firm.
He didn't swing. He didn't try to cut it. He remembered Kael's letter: a shield that looks like a sword.
He held the blade's flat side out, a perfect, gleaming mirror angled directly at the incoming projectile.
The fireball struck the blade.
There was no explosion. There was only a dull, resonant THRUUM that vibrated up Yuta's arm, rattling his bones. The mirrored surface of the blade seemed to warp for a fraction of a second, like liquid silver. The fireball flattened against it, compressed, and then—with impossible speed—rebounded.
It shot back the way it came, twice as fast.
The Ember-Tusk had no time to react. The reflected fireball struck it square in the chest. The beast erupted in a sickening, high-pitched shriek. It staggered back, its own attack consuming it, its black fur catching fire in an instant. It thrashed, a roaring inferno of agony, before turning and crashing back into the forest, taking its fire and its terrible smell of burning hair with it.
Silence.
The only sounds were the terrified panting of the horses and the distant, fading crackle of the burning monster.
"By the... what... what..." Silas stammered, slowly rising from his seat. He stared at Yuta, his face pale and slack-jawed. "You... it... you..."
Yuta was breathing hard, his arm trembling from the shock of the impact. The blade was perfectly fine. It wasn't even warm. He turned it over, his heart hammering in his chest.
He saw his own reflection. His canary-yellow hair was a mess. His blue eyes were wide, electric with adrenaline. And as he watched, a slow, hot flush of pure, silent joy crept up his neck and into his cheeks.
It worked. His father's gift... it worked.
The rest of the journey was silent. Silas was too stunned to speak, and Yuta was too lost in his own thoughts. They arrived at Dolle Harbor as the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of deep orange and violet over the black, churning sea.
The harbor smelled of salt, fish, and tar. It was a rough, loud place, full of sailors shouting and gulls crying. Silas led Yuta to a battered-looking ship at the end of a long dock. A wiry, older man with skin like cured leather and sharp, restless gray eyes was overseeing the loading of crates.
"That's him," Silas whispered. "Captain Grem."
Silas, emboldened by what he'd seen, marched right up. "Captain! This boy's looking for passage. He wants to take the Hunter Exam."
Grem didn't even look up. "Not interested. I don't ferry children to the slaughterhouse. Get him off my dock."
"He's not just a kid, Captain," Silas insisted, his voice low. "We were attacked on the road. An Ember-Tusk. This boy... he stood his ground. He... did something with that sword of his. Drove it off."
This made Grem pause. His sharp, gray eyes flicked to Yuta. They lingered on the purple hilt of the blade, which Yuta was now wearing on his belt.
"Draw it," Grem commanded, his voice suddenly hard.
Yuta, sensing a test, slowly drew the Blade of Reflection. The mirrored surface caught the last rays of the setting sun, flashing a brilliant, blinding white.
Grem's eyes, which had been wary, now widened almost imperceptibly. His gaze locked onto the hilt. The purple stone. The inlayed lilac flower.
It can't be, Grem thought, his mind racing. He'd only seen a sketch of it once, in a redacted Association report. A blade of perfect reflection. The Mirror of Calamity... rumored to be lost with Kael Vance...
Grem's face became a mask. He coughed, a dry, barking sound, to cover his shock. "I see," he said, his voice now clipped and professional. "Well. He's still a child. But... rules are rules." He looked at Yuta. "Passage is three thousand Jenny. In advance. We sail with the tide, in one hour. Be on board, or be left behind."
Yuta's face lit up. He turned to Silas, digging into his pouch. "Silas, thank you. For the ride... I have to pay you—"
"You keep your money, kid," Silas said, clapping Yuta on the shoulder, his hand shaking slightly. "You'll need every bit of it where you're going. Good luck, Yuta Vance. You're going to need it."
Yuta paid Captain Grem the 3,000 Jenny, a painful dent in his small funds. The Captain merely grunted and pointed at the gangplank.
Yuta gave Silas one last, grateful wave, then turned. He shouldered his pack, his hand resting on the hilt of his father's blade, and stepped onto the dark, swaying deck of the Sea-Rat.
.
.
.