Just outside the mouth of the cave, Ronan and Orin sat cross-legged in stillness, both immersed in meditation. The early afternoon sun filtered through the canopy overhead, slipping between tangled branches in scattered shafts of gold that painted shifting patterns across their bodies. Warm light rested against their faces while cool cave air brushed against their backs. Somewhere deeper in the forest, birds traded distant calls, and leaves whispered whenever a wandering breeze passed through.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Silence settled comfortably between them, the kind born after surviving something that should have killed them.
Then Orin cracked open one eye.
"Hey, Ronan..." His voice came out quieter than usual. "Do you think Sir Alden will be happy if we make it into the top five?"
Ronan didn't even move.
His eyes remained shut, his breathing steady.
A dry chuckle escaped him.
"Happy?" he repeated lazily. "I doubt he cares about rankings."
A pause.
"But if he finds out we fought a Rank Three mutated monster without permission..."
He left the sentence unfinished.
He didn't need to continue.
The rest filled itself in.
Orin's shoulders visibly tightened.
Images rose uninvited—Alden standing over them with crossed arms, expression colder than winter steel, while ordering impossible exercises with that terrifyingly calm voice of his. Endless laps. Combat drills until their limbs shook. Training sessions so brutal that sleep felt like ascending into heaven.
Orin shuddered.
"Don't remind me."
His face twisted.
"Just thinking about those sessions makes my entire body hurt again."
Ronan's lips curved slightly.
"You did just fight a monster that nearly ripped us apart." He opened one eye and glanced sideways. "Your body's allowed to hurt."
Orin frowned dramatically.
"Damnit, Ronan."
He folded his arms and leaned back.
"I was building a narrative here. Alden was supposed to be some terrifying instructor from the seventh circle of hell."
He pointed accusingly.
"And then you ruined it with logic."
Ronan stared at him for a moment.
Then he let out a sigh heavy enough to suggest disappointment in humanity itself.
"Drama queen."
"Tyrant defender."
The corner of Ronan's mouth twitched.
They fell silent again.
Time drifted lazily onward.
The sunlight shifted little by little as the afternoon stretched. Shadows lengthened beneath the trees, inching slowly across the forest floor.
Around four in the afternoon, Ronan finally opened his eyes fully.
The world seemed sharper after meditation—the rustling leaves, the scent of earth and moss, the dull ache pulsing beneath his skin.
He exhaled slowly.
"We need to move."
Orin opened his eyes.
Ronan rolled his shoulder once and winced slightly.
"The pain's manageable for now."
Both of them rose.
Immediately, reality reminded them that healing wasn't the same thing as being unharmed.
Their bones had been repaired by potions and spells, but every muscle still screamed in protest. A dull ache clung stubbornly to their bodies, buried beneath the surface like smouldering embers. Ronan's leg felt stiff. Orin's shoulder throbbed every time he moved.
The moment Orin stretched, his face twisted.
"Ah—"
He immediately lowered his arms.
"Nope."
Ronan snorted.
"Feeling better already?"
"Shut up."
Ronan tapped his storage ring.
A faint hum rippled through the air.
His sword materialised beside him, emerging in a shimmer of light before floating a few inches above the ground. He stepped onto it casually, like someone climbing onto a familiar staircase.
The blade dipped slightly, then steadied.
He hovered just above the forest floor.
"I don't think we can handle another monster hunt," Ronan admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "But rare herbs?"
He shrugged.
"Might as well salvage something."
Orin nodded before activating his flight artefact.
Light gathered behind him.
Then, two elongated Aether wings unfolded from his back.
They weren't ordinary wings.
No feathers.
No flapping.
Just sleek arcs of condensed energy stretching outward in elegant curves. Light-blue Aether pulsed through blade-like edges, thin streams of energy flowing across their surfaces like miniature rivers of lightning. The air around them shimmered faintly, crackling with restrained power.
The wings lifted him effortlessly.
No sound.
No strain.
Just a slight disturbance in the air as his feet slowly left the ground.
Ronan stared.
Then narrowed his eyes.
"...I really hate nobles sometimes."
Orin blinked.
"What?"
Ronan pointed.
"Look at that!"
He waved dramatically at the glowing wings.
"How much does something like that even cost? Millions?"
Orin shrugged while hovering.
"It wasn't free."
"My clan held a competition. I won."
Ronan stared.
"...You won?"
"Yes."
"...Against Elias, Serena, Amelia, and everyone else?"
Orin rubbed his cheek awkwardly.
"Well..."
Ronan leaned forward immediately.
"Well?"
"I beat Amelia fairly."
Ronan nodded slowly.
"Okay."
"But in the finals..." Orin coughed. "I won by default."
Ronan stared blankly.
"...Explain."
Orin sighed.
"Serena and Elias fought in the semi-finals."
Realisation slowly spread across Ronan's face.
Then his eyes widened.
"No way."
Orin gave a helpless smile.
"They knocked each other unconscious."
Ronan nearly lost his balance on his sword.
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
Ronan stared at him for a few seconds.
Then leaned even closer, eyes shining.
"Wait, wait—who won before they collapsed?"
Orin thought for a moment.
"Serena landed the final hit."
He scratched his cheek.
"But she collapsed a second afterwards."
"So technically..."
"It was called a draw."
"...And you became champion because you were the only idiot still standing?"
"...Essentially."
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then Ronan burst into laughter.
Loud enough to send a nearby bird flying from a tree branch.
Orin looked offended.
"Why are you laughing?!"
Ronan wiped at his eyes.
"You somehow won a prestigious clan competition through pure survival instinct."
"Victory is victory."
"Oh, absolutely." Ronan grinned. "That's legendary."
Still chuckling, he guided his floating sword forward.
Orin followed beside him, glowing Aether wings slicing silently through the air as they moved northeast through the forest.
Meanwhile, back at the main camp around five in the evening, three massive projection screens floated above the central platform.
Light rippled across their surfaces.
Different scenes flashed one after another—monster hunts, victories, teamwork, dramatic moments carefully selected for maximum spectacle.
But they were far from impartial.
Several instructors stood below, controlling the displays and choosing what the audience saw.
And unsurprisingly, most of the attention went toward noble teams and top-ranked competitors.
The hunt itself lasted three days and two nights.
Two days and one night had already passed.
Only one day and one night remained.
Every afternoon, from three to five, participants could submit loot at designated drop-off zones scattered throughout the hunting grounds, each supervised by instructors.
Current rankings were displayed prominently above the central platform:
First Place: Tavin Aldercrest, Serena Viridion, and Elenor Flamecrest.
Second Place: Elias Viridion, Andera Aldercrest, and Egan Flamecrest.
Third Place: Kairos, Liora Viridion, and Dain Viridion.
Fourth Place: Aurelia Viridion, Kellan Stormrider, and Selyra Stormrider.
The crowd's eyes remained fixed on those names.
Excitement followed them.
Admiration followed them.
Envy followed them.
But among the discussions, one team appeared for entirely different reasons.
Ronan and Orin.
Zero points.
Still.
Their footage had disappeared after a short morning appearance, almost as though someone had quietly erased them from relevance.
Rumours spread through the audience.
Some thought they had given up.
Some believed they had gotten injured.
Others assumed they had spent two entire days hiding.
No one knew the truth.
No one knew they had stood before a Rank Three mutated monster and lived.
But survival wasn't impressive in a world ruled by status.
Status itself was.
The horizon had begun turning orange.
Long shadows stretched over the arena seats as daylight slowly retreated.
Among the audience, Kael and Darius sat together, speaking quietly.
A gentle voice interrupted them.
"May I sit here?"
Both turned.
Kael blinked.
"Serenya?"
She stood there beneath the fading light, elegant as always. Her hair shimmered softly as evening sunlight brushed against it. In her hands rested a small box of delicate sweets.
Darius immediately stood.
His movements were almost too quick.
"Good evening."
He bowed with practised politeness.
Kael looked between them.
Then raised an eyebrow.
"Wait."
His gaze narrowed suspiciously.
"You two know each other?"
Darius rubbed the back of his neck and laughed awkwardly.
"I'm just a simple commoner from the countryside. How would I know a noble lady?"
He smiled.
"We met briefly at Hunter's Boutique a few days ago."
Kael stared.
Something felt strange.
Darius sounded... stiff.
Too careful.
Serenya smiled softly.
"Good evening, Darius."
Her eyes lingered on him.
"You don't need to bow."
"Yes... of course."
He sat down awkwardly.
She settled beside him and placed the sweet box on her lap.
"I brought these from a speciality store."
A small smile touched her lips.
"They're supposedly the best in the city."
Darius gave an apologetic expression.
"Thank you, but..."
He rubbed his nose.
"I'm not really fond of sweets."
For a brief moment, disappointment flickered through her eyes.
Small.
Quick.
Gone.
Then she turned toward Kael.
Before he could take one—
"Oi! These are hot!"
Garrick suddenly appeared, carrying a bowl of steaming fritters while already chewing on two of them.
He dropped himself beside Kael with zero elegance.
"Try these."
He shoved the bowl toward him.
"Those are the ones we haven't tasted yet."
The smell of fried spices immediately drifted through the air.
Darius took one.
Bit into it.
Crunch.
His eyes widened slightly.
"...Much better."
Serenya watched quietly.
Then after several moments—
"Darius..."
Her voice had softened.
"Can you tell me more about your village? About when you were young."
A small pause.
"And your parents."
Darius blinked.
Then nodded.
"Sure."
He looked out toward the darkening horizon.
"Though honestly, the village probably wouldn't fit your tastes."
A faint smile appeared.
"Too quiet. Too small."
"I still want to know."
Her eyes never left him.
Darius eventually sighed.
"Alright."
He looked down.
"I grew up in Windvale."
"My parents—Caelen and Lyrielle—raised me."
His expression shifted slightly.
"I wasn't their real child, though."
Silence.
"I think I was around nine or ten when monsters overran the city."
His fingers tightened slightly against his knee.
"Most of the children and elderly were evacuated to a nearby village called Duskwillow."
"I stayed there for a few years before coming here."
A weak smile followed.
"I got lucky."
Serenya leaned forward slightly.
"Did Caelen and Lyrielle have a daughter?"
Darius looked surprised.
"...Yes."
"And?"
Something tightened in her voice.
He shook his head slowly.
"I never met her."
"They rarely spoke about her."
His brows furrowed.
"Actually..."
"They never mentioned her around me."
Serenya lowered her eyes.
Her fingers tightened around the sweet box until the edges pressed lightly against her skin.
She looked away.
As the conversation drifted onward, her gaze quietly returned to Darius.
You remember everything... except me.
Did you truly forget?
Or are you pretending?
Why?
She stood.
"I should go now."
Darius rose immediately.
"It was a pleasure speaking with you."
She nodded once.
Then disappeared into the crowd.
Not far away, another pair of eyes had watched everything in silence.
Lady Ishulane sat motionless.
Thoughtful.
Watching.
Calculating.