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The two hunting parties departed from the rendezvous point, maintaining a deliberate distance as they headed eastward.
The location of the Dragon's Cave lay far beyond their current position. Even with the hunting groups moving at a swift and steady pace, the journey would span several days of travel through dense terrain.
More than thirty Asgardian hunters moved through the wooded paths with impressive momentum. Naturally, no wild beasts dared to cross their path, and for the first few days, the march was peaceful. However, as the Dragon's Cave drew nearer, tension thickened between the two teams. The air grew heavy at night, filled with silent suspicions and uneasy sleep.
"These guys are really shameless. We were the ones who scouted the dragon's trail first," Bart muttered in a low voice during one night's rest.
Rowe, seated on a fallen log beside the fire, replied calmly, "No one cares about pride when a dragon is at stake… The pressure on the two princesses must be even heavier than ours."
"Crack—click."
As he spoke, Rowe used the enchanted gauntlet Fist of Verrigan to shatter a large boulder nearby into smaller pieces. He picked up the stones and fed them to Root, the little stone creature who sat munching obediently beside him.
"Hey." Shilut, unbothered and undemanding, happily chewed the rocks. Though he had consumed rare gems before, he seemed content with common stone.
Heimdall sat nearby, wiping down his short blade, his expression solemn. "Tomorrow we reach the Dragon's Lair… Have any of you seen a dragon before?"
"No," several others answered, shaking their heads.
Heimdall nodded slightly. "My first time seeing one was during the last Great Hunt. Balder captured a dragon and offered it at the Cave of Time as a sacrifice. I witnessed the funeral of the beast with my own eyes."
Bart raised a brow. "Sacrifice? Dragons are caught just to be sacrificed?"
Heimdall responded, "Most of the dragons captured during the hunt are gifted to the Norn Spirit in exchange for a glimpse into prophecy… though, honestly, I've always found the practice strange."
"How can prophecy be meaningless?" one of the hunters asked, intrigued.
"My father used to say that the Norn Spirit is the greatest manipulator in all the Nine Realms," Heimdall replied. "Her prophecies are fixed, immutable. Knowing them changes nothing. It just makes you a prisoner of fate."
Hodr, who had been silent for most of the journey, spoke in a quiet voice, "Maybe prophecy isn't meant to predict fate… but to ensure it unfolds."
No one pursued the conversation further—Hodr's gloom usually discouraged prolonged talks. One by one, the hunters turned in for the night.
Rowe reached out and gently patted Root's rocky head. "Stick close to me tomorrow. Don't wander off, okay?"
"Huh," Shilut grunted while gnawing on another stone.
Rowe rubbed the top of the stone creature again. Root looked endearing, but lacked warmth—his texture was dry, rough, and a bit flaky.
The night passed restlessly. Sleep came and went, broken by murmurs and paranoia.
"Wake up! Now!" a voice suddenly broke through Rowe's dreams.
He groggily opened his eyes, blinking against the dim pre-dawn light. "What's going on?"
"They moved early. We've got to go, fast!" Bart replied, already pulling on his hunting garb.
Rowe turned his head and saw the rival Skadi hunting group disappearing into the trees at a jog.
Princess Hela immediately ordered their team to mobilize. Within moments, the entire camp stirred to life—hunters grabbed weapons, shouldered packs, and took off at a steady sprint.
Before long, they caught up to the Skadi hunting group.
Realizing they were being pursued, Skadi's team picked up the pace. Hela wasn't one to back down, and her group sped up to match. What began as pursuit turned into a full-on footrace through the forest.
"Watch this!" Heimdall suddenly cried, channeling his speed spell.
In an explosive burst, Heimdall flashed ahead of the rival group and planted himself right in their path. He began trotting slowly, swaying exaggeratedly from side to side, as if mocking them.
Skadi, leading her group, was momentarily stunned. "…"
With Heimdall blocking the trail, their pace dropped sharply. Hela's team rapidly gained ground.
"Damn it!" snarled one of Skadi's warriors.
The hunter was… unfortunate-looking. With no eyebrows, a face like a toad, and eyes as bulbous as broad beans, he nevertheless boasted a formidable physique and wielded a heavy black sledgehammer. This was Angler, known mockingly as the Venerable Sky Hammer, one of Skadi's trusted fighters.
Without hesitation, Angler launched a fleshy tentacle from his arm, snaring Heimdall's leg and yanking him off his feet.
"Whoa—!" Heimdall yelped, hitting the ground hard as the Skadi team surged ahead once more.
Just as Heimdall raised his blade to slice the tentacle, Hodr intervened. "Stop!"
Heimdall hesitated, then realized—the tentacle wasn't a weapon. It was part of Angler's body. Severing it would mean injury… and a serious breach of the hunting rules.
Angler sneered, refusing to release his grip.
"What kind of freak has tentacles growing from their arm?" Heimdall scowled and pretended to gag.
"He's a mutate," Hodr explained flatly. He drew a small vial, shook out some powder, and sprinkled it onto the tentacle.
Instantly, the appendage recoiled, trembling violently. Angler screamed, retracting it into his arm. His feet spasmed, face twisted with agony. Whatever organ had been struck seemed highly sensitive.
"You blind freak!" Angler snarled through clenched teeth. "Still lusting after your cousin's wife, Karnilla?"
Hodr's face went rigid. Even knowing it was bait, the words struck a nerve. He trembled with fury, nearly drawing his bow.
"Easy, easy," Heimdall said quickly. "Don't waste energy on a troll with a hammer."
Rowe, jogging up just then, raised an eyebrow. "What the Hel is going on?"
Hodr glared at Angler, his voice low and dangerous. "You'll regret that."
Angler only laughed harder. "Ha! The blind mutt goes rabid when you hit a nerve! Poor Karnilla—imagine being chased by someone like you. No eyes and a cursed face!"
Heimdall forcibly dragged Hodr away.
The teams continued their chaotic journey, trading insults and tricks as they neared the Dragon's Cave. Tension crackled like thunderclouds above them.
"Are hunting festivals always this insane?" Rowe asked a bearded hunter nearby—an experienced veteran.
"Not usually," the man replied. "This kind of hostility is rare. Wouldn't be surprised if someone breaks the rules before it's over—maybe even draws blood."
He paused, glancing ahead. "We're fighting for more than just a dragon. We're fighting over the integrity of the festival itself."
Suddenly, a thunderous roar shattered the air.
"ROOARRRR!"
Every head snapped toward the sound.
"It's a dragon!"
From the dark sky, a massive red beast descended. Wings spread wide, flames spiraling around its scaled body. Its eyes burned like molten lava, and its roar sent tremors through the trees.
"RAAAAGHH!"
Despite its formidable presence, dragons weren't invincible. These hunters were Asgard's elite, hardened warriors from royal bloodlines and seasoned families.
And yet…
Something was off.
Rather than fleeing, the dragon dove toward them, spewing fire and fury, as though it had been stirred from a tormented dream.
And the hunt had truly begun.
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