Two gentle masculine voices echoed faintly in the dimly lit room. "Where
the hell did you get him from?" one asked, his tone cautious but curious. "There
was a village… it had been attacked by a dragon," the other began. "I couldn't
get there sooner….fear held me back. But something strange happened. After the
dragon laid waste to everything, it just… collapsed. I waited, then ventured
in. Amid the wake of destruction, I found him, unconscious, barely injured. I
don't know if it's even possible, but… I think he took down the dr…" "Don't
worry," the first man interrupted. "What matters is that he's alive. We'll do
our best to take care of him."
Moments later, Cest stirred. His eyes twitched, then opened fully. A
sharp pain shot through his skull as he clutched his head. "It hurts…" he
whispered. He sat up weakly, glancing around the unfamiliar room, confusion
tightening his features. "Where the hell am I? How did I survive?" Panic surged
through him. He bolted upright like a wounded animal escaping a fire. "Who the
hell are you? Where am I?" he demanded. The older man stepped forward calmly. "My
name is Val Doxer. I'm the head of this guild." "Guild?" Cest questioned, voice
precise. "What are you talking about?" Val sat down, resting his right hand on
his chin. His voice dropped to a more serious tone. "The Huntsmen Guild." Cest
let out a dry chuckle. "Huntsmen? What is this, some kind of joke? Are you
hunters or something?" Val smiled
gently. "You're not wrong. We are hunters. But not of animals, we hunt
monsters."
At the word monsters, Cest froze. His breath hitched as flashbacks of
his village burning filled his mind: the screams, the fire, the wings in the
sky. He dropped to his knees. "Monsters?" he repeated, barely a whisper. Then,
louder he spoke "Liar… You all are a bunch of liars. If you're really monster
hunters, then why haven't I heard of you, where the hell were you when my
village was destroyed?! Why didn't you save us?"
The younger man walked forward, crouched beside Cest, and calmly pointed
a finger toward his face. "Name's Belick. I'm a Huntsman too. You've never
heard of us because we hunt in the dark. We hunt them down before they strike.
That's how we've kept the world from falling apart… until now. But…"
"But..?" Cest asked, eyes narrowed, with a kin voice.
Belick stood and clenched his fist, looking toward the ceiling. "But
we've never seen a dragon for over five Centuries. They were nothing but just
fairy tails to make us huntsmen train for any eventuality. But am very sorry,
if the other ghouls weren't a myth I don't know why I didn't considered that of
a dragon . But either way it's not like I could have done anything to that
beast , with it's immense size and fire power I just stood there and stared at
it when I arrived. Am very sorry."
Cest shot up, fury overtaking him. He grabbed Belick by the collar and
pulled him in close. "Sorry? That's all you have to say? Sorry?! I lost my
family… my whole life… and you just watched it happen?"
His voice cracked as the anger gave way to grief. " I lost everything
and still… still I didn't give up and by the grace of the gods I took it
down.." Tears streamed down his face.
Val leaned back in his chair, folding his arms slowly. "And that," he said
quietly, "is what makes you special."
Cest released Belick, his body trembling as he looked toward Val.
Val's eyes were calm but intense. "You're special, Cest. But not like
the rest. You're more special than the rest we've recruited so far." He leaned
forward, voice now hushed. "That's why what I'm about to tell you… must never
leave this room." Cest froze. His hands stopped shaking. His eyes went wide.
Stepping out into the open, the sunlight warmed Cest's face. The air was
crisp, just cold enough to awaken the senses. All around, the sounds of
clashing swords echoed in the distance, sharp, rhythmic, and filled with
purpose.
"What was that all about…" Cest muttered, still thinking about Val.
"Anyway, I should find this guy. If I follow Val's directions, this should be
the place." He made his way to an open training field, where a few young men
were sparring. Fallen leaves danced with the breeze, and the smell of sweat and
steel filled the air. Cest raised his voice. "Pardon my intrusion, I'm looking
for Luke Grossmort?"
Before he could finish, a blade whistled past his ear and struck the
ground beside him. A sharp voice cut through the tension. "Grossmort… You
shouldn't go uttering that name around, boy! Who the hell are you?""
Cest turned sharply. A tall, lean man dressed in a brown silk shirt and
black woolen pants stood behind him. His sandals were worn, his expression
annoyed. He had brown hair, fierce brown eyes, and a strikingly handsome face
twisted in irritation. "Don't tell me that crybaby sent you," the man growled.
"If you're here to drag me back, forget it. Tell him it's just a little
misunderstanding."
Cest, unfazed, responded, "From the way you're acting, I take it you are
Luke Grossmort." He reached into his pocket and produced a small metal badge
marked with Val's seal. "I've been appointed a member of your squad by the
master."
Luke eyed the badge, his brow furrowing. He clicked his tongue, spat on
the ground, and scoffed. "The master again… When will that old bastard stop
bothering me?" He took a second glance. "And it's got the damn authentic seal
too… Figures." Luke shrugged and stepped aside. "Well, if he wants you here,
you're welcome to the team. But don't expect me to go easy on you. I don't know
what kind of influence or leverage you've got to get on my squad so easily, but
I don't like it." He walked towards a group of struggling trainees. "You see
them? They're all trying to get my approval. Weaklings, all of them. And if I
smell weakness in you, or worse—if you're dead weight—I'll make sure you stay
dead." Without another word, Luke turned and walked away, muttering something
to another young man nearby.
This one had white hair, jet-black eyes, and wore the same attire as
Luke. He looked to be around the same age. Luke whispered something to him with
a smirk of envy and sarcasm.
"Well, welcome the young lad, will you?" Luke muttered, then left the
field.
The white haired young lad grabbed two swords from the nearby armory
table and approached Cest. He tossed one his way. Cest caught it with ease. Pam's
eyebrows rose slightly. "Huh. He caught it. Not bad for a new guy." He raised
his sword lazily, pointing it at Cest. "Well, if you've been placed here,
you've got to prove yourself. Come at me. Show me what you've got."
Cest groaned. "I just woke up, for god's sake…" But there was no choice.
He charged.
Pam danced around his attacks effortlessly, dodging with practiced ease.
When Pam struck back, Cest barely managed to parry the blow. Their swords
clanged. Pam grinned. "You're leaving yourself wide open. Makes you easy to
read." Pam pulled back his sword, then drove a punch into Cest's gut. The blow
knocked the wind out of him. Cest dropped to his knees, groaning in pain. Pam
rested the edge of his sword against Cest's throat. "And you're dead." He
stepped back, retracting the blade, then offered his hand to help Cest up. "Still
up for another round?" Pam asked with a mischievous grin.
Cest wiped his mouth. "Yeah."
Pam jumped lightly, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. As he
stretched, his fluffy white hair fell over his eyes. He pushed it back with one
hand, leaving a single strand dangling over his brow. He dropped his sword with
a light clink. "You know what? Forget the blade. These monsters we fight, they
don't use weapons. They use claws, teeth, and rage. We use swords just for you guys to learn the basics of
using a sword. But screw that. I want to see your technique." He pointed at
Cest. "Here I come."
"If you're gonna attack someone, maybe don't announce it..." Cest
muttered.
But Pam vanished in a flash and reappeared directly in front of Cest. He
threw a fierce punch. Cest narrowly ducked. Pam flipped backward, landing
lightly on one foot, then twisted into a heel kick that delivered to Cest's
jaw. The sword flew from Cest's hand. He hit the ground with a grunt, clutching
his face with his hand. "You're really going for it..." he hissed.
Cest rolled and leapt back to his feet with a swift kip-up. Cest picked
up his sword and lunged at Pam again. Pam dodged every strike, moving with
rhythm and grace, as if following music only he could hear.
With a quick elbow to Cest's hand, Pam disarmed him again. Then he
delivered another gut punch that knocked Cest onto his back. "That's about it,"
Pam said.
He walked back to the armory, grabbed two water skins, then returned and
tossed one at Cest, who caught it while still lying down. Pam took a sip from
his own before splashing the rest on his face. He crouched next to Cest, his
tone more relaxed now. "You're quite tough. Most new recruits can't even hold
their sword upright." He gave Cest's shoulder a firm pat. "Go get some food. If
you want to hunt monsters you need to be healthy first."
A short walk from the training ground stands a large, creaky building
built into a shallow slope – half-stone, half-wood – with a dented iron sign
swaying above the door, engraved with the image of a boar's open mouth .
Inside, The Boar Keep is dimly lit but always warm, its air filled with
the smells of roasted meats, bitter ale, and pine smoke. Long wooden tables
stretch across the floor, many etched with carvings and deep gouges from years
of brawls and knife games. The tavern was filled with a mix of hunters, and
trainees. Cest walked in while holding his tummy, then he heard a familiar
voice. It was Pam calling him over , he heads towards him then sits on a little
space there. Jokingly Pam says " For a while I thought you were actually dead "
" You wish it's going to take a lot more than that to kill me " Cest
replied. " By the way I never caught your name, mine's Pam and yours ? " Pam
asked. " The name's Cest " Cest replied. Another male on the same table as them
which appears to be half-wasted by the ale he was drinking says " Cest? That's
a sweet name. So what's your story?? "
Cest paused for a while as he remembered what Val had said, then he
nervously runs his hand against his head and says " Story?? Well it's just like
everyone else's , stupid ghouls".
"It's ok if you don't want to talk about it, don't listen to him. You
can tell he's completely wasted. For now just feel at home and stop bothering
yourself " Pam said with a gentle smile.
They proceeded to discuss about other things while eating which lasted
for a while. After the meal, Pam proceeds to show Cest where he would be
sleeping. It was a small hut which felt warm due to the sunshine it had been
receiving since sun rise. It had a bed which could only accommodate a person a
basket close to it and a huge table covered with fur. Pam proceeds to leave
Cest alone. After studying the room for a little while, Cest sat on the bed and
leaned his back against it, stretching his hand towards the top, " am going to
kill every last one of them. I promise ". He whispered and slept.
*****
Meanwhile at the Kingdom of Skyfall, deep within its prison, barely lit
by candlelight, its walls crawling with mold, grumbling and gnashing of teeth echoed
from the darkness as prisoners banged on their cell bars. At the end of the
hallway, in a cell with no candlelight and only the moon's glow filtering in
through a small, barred window near the ceiling, sat Cole, miserably hunched
forward, hair dangling over his eyes. "They really believe I would kill my own
brother," he muttered. "Even though we're not blood, I'd never do such a thing…
Why would they think so?" A voice spoke from the shadows behind him, older,
gravelly, and calm. "Power." Cole spun around, startled. "Who's there?" he
demanded.
"My apologies' for not introducing myself," the voice replied. "Name's
Tarly Wort." "Tarly…?" Cole squinted through the dim moonlight. "Wait—aren't
you that madman sentenced years ago for speaking ill of the king?" The cell
behind Cole's was just barely lit by the moonlight. It revealed the face of an
older man, perhaps in his sixties, with long white hair, black eyes, and a face
gently worn by time. Dressed in filthy rags, he sat cross-legged. "I see they
still describe me the same way," Tarly said with a chuckle. "Bunch of cunts." "Cunts?"
Cole scoffed. "You're the cunt for speaking ill of the king."
Tarly shrugged. "King, eh? I assume you did the same. But tell me… what
exactly would drive a bastard to murder the Crown Prince?" Cole slammed his
fist against the stone wall in rage. Blood smeared his knuckles. "Don't you
dare mention that name." Tarly smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction. "Hit a
nerve, did I? But if an outsider like me can speak ill of the king… what
stops…" Another punch to the wall. Louder this time. The sound echoed.
Footsteps came rushing down the corridor. A pair of guards, clad in
black and silver woolen armor with long blue scarves that trailed down to their
knees, approached the cell. They wore black boots and carried long iron spears.
Without a word, they opened Cole's cell, dumped a bucket of dirty water over
him, and laughed. "Shut the hell up, you usurper!" one sneered. "What made you
think a bastard would be crowned prince, even if the prince died? There are
plenty more qualified. Hell, even the Grand Advisor's son has a better claim
than you." The other spat at Cole, then dragged the tip of his spear along the
bars as they walked off, the metallic screech piercing the silence.
Tarly listened quietly until the sound faded, then said, "You see?
You're just like me. Not everyone here was rightfully convicted." Cole slumped
to his knees, head resting against the wall. His voice was a whisper. "What do
you know?" Tarly let out a raspy laugh. "Believe me, I know more than you
think. If you listen close enough, even the walls can speak." He tapped the
wall lightly between their cells, drawing Cole's attention. "Everyone's got it
bad," Tarly added. "But yours? Framed for murder and Mother executed as
punishment. And still you ended up here
like a dog." Cole's eyes widened. His breath caught. "How do you know that?" he
asked quietly, eyes narrowing. "Who are you, really?" Tarly just smiled,
repeating the question. "Who am I?"
Over at The Red Horn's Tavern. A
bustling tavern lit by low lanterns and thick with smoke and gossip. Soldiers
and mercenaries filled the room, their armor clinking, laughter echoing over
clashing mugs and spilled ale. At one of the corner tables sat two of the
king's acknowledged bastards, Eeric and Podrick.
Eeric had short, lustrous brown hair and bold black eyes. He wore a
black shirt beneath a red-and-brown overcoat, his expression soured as he
clenched his tankard. Podrick, his dark hair falling to his jawline, wore a
blue shirt and black trousers. He looked relaxed, lazily refilling his cup with
more ale. "You really think Cole is capable of that, Pod?" Eeric asked through
gritted teeth. "Capable of what?" Podrick replied casually. "Killing the prince,
or helping that outsider?" "You really believe that story, don't you?" Eeric
asked, his voice sharp. He slammed his palm on the table. "I can't believe
you're so gullible." Podrick rolled his eyes. "No, you're the one who's naïve.
He had every reason to do it. He's an outcast. Looks nothing like us. He must
have envied the prince and decided to kill him as he couldn't take it anymore.
But he was quite stupid in doing so, as he left his only distinguishing feature
on the scene to the used as evidence against him. I'm surprised it didn't
happen sooner."
"And yet," Eeric muttered, dragging his finger along the rim of his mug,
"That's the point Cole would never the prince, even if he did he's not that
stupid to leave his sword, I believe he addresses it as a katana laying around.
Podrick let out a laugh and slammed back his drink. "Katana or whatever. He got
what he deserved. He stood up, staggering slightly, and wandered toward the
back of the tavern. Now alone, Eeric remained seated, face hidden behind his
hand. Through the spaces in his fingers, he stared at the empty mug in front of
him. "I can't believe everyone here is so dumb," he whispered.
At the Royal Council, the air was heavy, the atmosphere tense. The king
sat upon his elevated throne at the head of the long table, surrounded by a
semi-circle of the his trusted advisors, all dressed in the formal
black-and-gold attire of Skyfall's court. At his right hand stood the Grand
Advisor, Lord Lodre Xnorx. No one spoke.
Mourning hung in the room like a thick fog. The king finally broke the silence.
"Are none of you going to blabber, just because my son is dead?" he growled,
his voice echoing through the chamber like thunder in a crypt. A few murmurs
rippled through the council, but none dared raise their voice. His eyes
narrowed. "Are you really going to keep quiet now? For all I know, you lot have
been waiting for this moment."
Several lords shifted uncomfortably in their seats. A few looked away.
The air became suffocating. Lord Xnorx gave a faint cough and leaned forward,
his tone calm but wary. "Your Majesty, we all know what kind of man you are.
You make threats, and worse, you carry them out. Now is… not the best time to
fuel your flames." The king gave him a long stare but said nothing. Then Lord
Talin Bush, the Master of Coin, adjusted his velvet sleeves, cleared his
throat, and carefully spoke. "Your Highness… that seems to be the case indeed.
We assumed you needed time to grieve. We meant no disrespect by our silence." He
glanced around, then raised his hand halfway to cover his mouth, a nervous
habit. His next words cut through the room like a dagger. "But since you've
spoken… I believe it is time we discuss the matter of appointing a new Crown
Prince." The room froze Several nobles gasped. A few exchanged wide-eyed
glances. The silence that followed was more deafening than the king's earlier
outburst. "Talin…" Lord Xnorx said under his breath. But the damage was done.