Thwip!
The arrow sliced through the air and embedded itself in bark with a quiet thunk, just inches from the creature's shaggy ear. The massive beast flinched and reared back, snorting a heavy breath that scattered fallen leaves into the air.
"Dang it!" Gilian hissed under his breath, already knocking another arrow. "Tch! Too high!"
The forest around him swayed in the wind, golden sunlight piercing through a canopy of old trees that whispered as they moved. The Outer Crevtowood, as the locals called it, was one of the more peaceful hunting grounds in northern Estevania—sacred land protected by a pact between Humania, Beastia, and Forestra. That is, peaceful unless it was hiding a cranky, half-ton beary with a bad attitude.
And today? It was definitely hiding one.
The creature, twice the size of a normal bear, snarled and stomped through the underbrush, its obsidian-like claws gouging deep furrows into the soil. Coarse black fur rippled over dense muscle, and faint red lines—mana veins—pulsed under its skin. This wasn't just any beary. This was a forest-grown male in its prime.
Gilian ducked behind a tree as the beast sniffed the air and growled, eyes scanning. His heart thudded in his chest like a drum made of panic and poor planning.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
His hand trembled slightly, but his grip stayed firm.
Gillian. Fifteen years old boy. Apprentice hunter.
Already better with a bow than half the grown men in Huina Village—or so people said.
But those grown men weren't crouching ten feet from death, trying not to get turned into forest jam.
Stay low. Wait. Wait…
A shadow moved through the leaves. The beary turned its head.
Now!
He spun out from the tree, exhaled, and released his arrow.
Fwsssh—THUNK!
A perfect shot to the shoulder. Not enough to kill—but enough to stagger. The beary roared and reared up, swiping violently at the trees.
Gilian grinned, stepping back slowly, already reaching for the dagger strapped to his leg. He darted forward, low to the ground, preparing to strike the beast's exposed side.
And then—snap!
His foot caught on a hidden root. The world tilted sideways.
"Agh—!"
He hit the ground hard, rolled, and skidded to a stop just as the beary turned with a guttural snarl.
Too close.
Too slow.
The creature lunged, both paws raised. Gilian stared, eyes wide. Time stretched. His dagger was still in its sheath. No chance to dodge. Just—
TWANG!
A loud crack echoed through the trees. A glowing arrow struck the beary's left eye and exploded in a burst of red-orange flame.
BOOM!
The beast let out a muffled, broken roar before toppling over, smoke curling from its side. Part of its skull had burst open, scattering bone and scorched flesh across the forest floor. The sharp scent of burning fur clung thick in the air.
Gilian blinked.
And then he heard it—the familiar footsteps, deliberate and steady, crushing twigs and leaves beneath a heavy boot.
"Huff… You alright, boy?"
A tall man emerged from between the trees, lowering his bow. His thick beard was streaked with gray, and his left shoulder bore the old scars of past battles. His cloak fluttered gently in the wind, and at his waist, three more arrows glowed faintly—each tipped with a small chunk of red crystal.
Herman. Gilian's father. Veteran hunter.
"I… I almost had it," Gilian muttered, sitting up with a thud. "It slipped."
"It slipped," Herman repeated, dry as dust. He approached the beary's body, checked for movement, and nudged it with his boot. "It was about to make you slip. Yup… straight into the grave."
Gilian groaned and pulled himself to his feet. "You don't have to say it like that."
Herman raised an eyebrow. "How else do you want it? Sugar-coated and sung like a lullaby? What, something like, 'It's okay, even if you died, I'd still bring you to hunt with me'? No chance! Diana would kill me on the spot!"
Hearing his mother's name, the boy rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sheepish. His bow was still clutched tightly in his hand.
The wind rustled through the trees again, this time softer. A flock of pale birds burst from the canopy above, scattering into the golden light. The hunt was over.
The two of them stood quietly for a moment, surrounded by the ordinary magic of the outer area of Crevtowood. Unlike the deeper parts of the forest, these outer woods still resembled something out of a nature book. Tall trees with blue and purple leaves swayed gently, the colored leaves drifting down like slow-falling feathers. Moss-covered rocks lay scattered among roots and soil, mushrooms huddled in tight clusters around fallen logs. Occasionally, a glowing root or strange flower peeked from beneath the leaves, humming faintly with mana—but nothing too wild.
Not yet.
In the distance, the village bell rang once. Noon.
Herman finally broke the silence. "Your form's improving. Arrow was clean. Quiet steps too."
Gilian brightened. "Yeah?"
"But," Herman said, turning back toward the path, "you're rushing. Not watching your feet is fatal for hunters like us. Hunting Isn't just about skill—it's patience."
Gilian groaned again. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
They began walking, dragging the beary behind them with a rope Herman had packed after they dried the blood and salvaged the usable parts. Gilian glanced at his father's bow—the explosive stone arrows still faintly glowing.
"Those still amaze me," he muttered. "Have you ever taught me how to make one?"
"When you stop slipping on roots. I don't want to see my son's intestines scattered across the forest just yet."
"Ugh!" Gilian rolled his eyes.
They reached the outer forest trail as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows that danced between the trees. Gilian walked ahead, still full of energy despite the near-death experience.
"I think I'll go for deery next time. Maybe three. Bet I can land two in one shot!"
Herman chuckled under his breath. "Just try to survive until dinner, dreamer."
He ruffled his son's hair as they passed the final clearing and reached the outskirts of Huina—a quiet village nestled far from the capital, news arrived late, if at all—usually as half-truths carried by tired Merchant or warped into rumors by the time they reached the villager.
Today was the same quiet day as always.