Jean's POV
Jean remained standing long after the wooden gate had closed.
Her eyes followed the place where James had disappeared, as though sheer will might allow her to see through solid timber and distance alike. The training ground had already begun to empty—parents slowly dispersing, elders returning to their duties, the air thick with lingering emotion—but she stood unmoving, rooted in place.
Worry coiled tightly in her chest.
She had escorted countless warriors to battlefields far more dangerous than the Hunter Apprentice Camp. She had watched men and women march toward near-certain death without flinching. Yet none of those moments unsettled her the way James's retreating back had.
Too gentle.
That was the word that haunted her.
James was polite to a fault. Soft-spoken. Considerate even when no one demanded it of him. In a world where bloodshed was commonplace and strength was the sole measure of truth, he was an anomaly—like a flower blooming untouched in the middle of a field of corpses.
Too clean. Too untainted.
As if he does not belong to this world at all, she thought bitterly.
This world was ruled by violence and power. Mercy was a luxury afforded only by the strong. Innocence was not cherished here—it was devoured.
Jean tightened her fists.
The camp he had just entered was no ordinary training ground. Calling it "harsh" would be a gross understatement. It was a crucible born from desperation, planned in secrecy for three long years following the catastrophic incident that had nearly crippled the tribe.
The higher-ups had not created the Hunter Apprentice Camp on a whim.
They were afraid.
Afraid of the future. Afraid of repeating history.
Afraid of what stirred beneath the surface of the sacred island.
The children selected for the camp all shared one critical trait—they had not yet undergone enhancement.
That was no coincidence.
Through fragmented records and forbidden histories, the tribe had uncovered a long-buried secret: unenhanced children possessed a latent evolutionary pathway. A terrifying one. If awakened correctly, it could push them beyond conventional limits—into monstrous potential unseen in generations.
But such evolution demanded brutality.
The camp would not merely test them.
It would break them.
Within those walls, brutality was not discouraged—it was expected. Bones shattered. Limbs severed. Pain used as fuel rather than a warning. The only absolute rule was simple:
No killing.
Anything short of that was permitted.
Jean exhaled slowly.
Can a fragile flower survive such soil? she wondered.
Or would James be forced to mutate—his innocence twisting into something poisonous, a rose armed with thorns sharp enough to survive?
Her throat tightened.
"I don't care what you become," she whispered under her breath. "Just come back alive."
She rubbed her temple and finally turned away.
The training ground was empty now.
With a heavy sigh, Jean adjusted her cloak and headed toward the stone path leading to the meeting hall. Each step echoed faintly, her thoughts still lingering behind the gate she had left behind.
---
The meeting hall was quiet when she arrived.
"Chief, I'm here."
Her voice echoed softly through the vast interior.
Moments later, footsteps descended from the upper floor. An attendant gestured respectfully and guided her up the stairs, leading her into a private chamber on the second floor.
Beyond the open doors lay a wide balcony.
Chief Odin and Madam Elizabeth sat side by side, gazing into the distance. The sacred island stretched endlessly before them—lush forests, ancient stone, and the faint glow of mana veins pulsing beneath the earth like a living heart.
"Oh," Odin said without turning. "Captain Jean. Come. Sit."
Jean inclined her head and took a seat slightly to the side, posture straight, hands resting calmly on her knees.
Silence settled for a moment, broken only by the wind.
Then Odin spoke.
"Jean," he said, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. "This mission we are entrusting to you… it is critical to the survival of the tribe."
She met his gaze without hesitation.
"Among all our hunters," he continued, "you have the highest probability of returning alive. Even compared to us."
Jean's jaw tightened.
"That is why only you can go," Odin said plainly.
She bowed her head slightly. "As you command, Chief. If this mission is necessary for the prosperity of the village, then I am willing to bleed for it."
Her words were firm—unyielding.
Odin chuckled softly, though there was little humor in it.
"Yes… only you," he murmured. "You possess something rare. A blessing of this world. Instincts sharp enough to border on prophecy."
His eyes softened.
"If only our tribe were stronger," he added quietly. "I would rather protect you like a daughter than send you into danger."
Jean felt a faint sting at his words—but she did not respond.
Odin sighed heavily, then shifted tone entirely.
"Tell me, Jean," he said with a sideways glance, "have you and Samuel still failed to find common ground?"
She stiffened.
"It has been a long time," Odin continued, grumbling. "You fell in love years ago. Yet still no marriage. No bond. Look at your age—most people your age already have children running around the village."
Madam Elizabeth smiled faintly but said nothing.
"Hays…" Odin shook his head. "Young people these days. Always chasing strange ideals."
Jean lowered her gaze.
Yes. Samuel was the current little-chief, who will someday inherit the tribe. And yes—they were lovers.
But love alone was not enough.
"We have different paths," Jean said calmly. "Different priorities."
Odin snorted. "Different stubbornness."
She allowed herself a small, tired smile.
Samuel wanted strength—but strength greater than hers. He wished to stand above his lover, not beside her. It was a pride born of tradition, of expectation.
But Jean had her own reason for pursuing power.
A reason she had never abandoned.
"That accident years ago," she said quietly. "I do not believe it was an accident."
The air shifted.
Odin's expression darkened.
"I sensed something wrong even then," Jean continued. "And the more I grow stronger, the clearer it becomes. There was an external hand at play."
Her fingers curled.
"I cannot accept ignorance," she said. "Not when lives were lost. Not when the truth remains buried."
Odin studied her for a long moment.
Then he exhaled slowly.
"Very well," he said. "Pursue your strength. Uncover the truth if you can."
He turned his gaze back toward the island.
"But return alive."