Now came the choice.
James stood at the edge of the field, his boots half-buried in trampled grass, his gaze drifting from one instructor to another as the remaining time bled away. Around him, the training camp pulsed with restless energy—voices overlapping, steel ringing against steel, instructors barking orders while veterans demonstrated techniques with practiced indifference. Some laughed as they spoke of scars and losses, others answered questions with blunt honesty that bordered on cruelty.
One hour.
It sounded generous when announced. In reality, it had been a tightening vice, squeezing thought and resolve until breathing itself felt measured.
James exhaled slowly, forcing the noise to fade. Panic would be useless. Emotion would only cloud judgment.
He had already spoken to several instructors, listening carefully, weighing every word. The hunter paths of the Root Tribe were not romantic ideals or ceremonial roles. They were survival doctrines—refined through generations of blood, failure, and extinction.
The sword hunter was the first path that surfaced in his thoughts.
Balanced. Lethal. Adaptable.
Sword hunters were masters of fluid combat, trained to weave offense and defense into a single, continuous rhythm. They thrived in prolonged battles, exploiting openings through precision and footwork rather than brute force.
The instructor—a scarred veteran missing two fingers on his left hand—had spoken with quiet pride, his remaining fingers tightening around the hilt of his blade as if it were an extension of his will.
"A good sword hunter doesn't overpower the enemy," the man had said. "He outlasts it."
James had felt the weight of that statement.
Endurance, patience, discipline. A respectable path.
Then came the shield hunters.
A living wall.
They were the backbone of every hunting party, the ones who stepped forward first and retreated last. Shield hunters drew a monster's attention, absorbed its rage, and endured punishment so others could strike freely. Their bodies were weapons as much as their shields—thick muscle, hardened bones, lungs trained to scream defiance even when crushed.
The instructor had struck his own chest as he spoke, the sound dull and heavy.
"You will be hit," he had said simply. "Again and again. If you cannot stand after the tenth blow, you will die."
The memory still sent a faint chill through James's spine. He knew his limits. Strength could be built, yes—but time was merciless, and monsters were not patient.
Knife hunters followed.
Silent. Patient. Ruthless.
They were predators in the truest sense. Knife hunters did not rush into battle. They stalked it.
They watched, waited, studied breathing patterns and muscle tension, sometimes for hours, until a single, perfect moment revealed itself. When they struck, it was decisive. Clean. Final.
The instructor's eyes had been cold, calculating—eyes that had seen too many throats opened in the dark.
"We kill with one strike," he had said. "Miss, and you don't get a second chance."
James had nodded, understanding the appeal, yet feeling an instinctive distance. He was not a creature of ambush and silence. His mind worked too loudly for that.
Then there were the ranged hunters.
Archers and crossbow users who relied on perception, control, and precision. They were often scouts, the unseen eyes of a hunting party, thinning enemies before blades ever crossed. Their lethality was undeniable, but so was their vulnerability. A single misstep, a broken line of sight, and death closed in swiftly.
Positioning was life. Awareness was survival.
Finally—
Magic hunters.
James's thoughts slowed, as if the world itself had leaned closer.
Magic hunters were versatile, capable of healing wounds, enhancing allies, wielding elemental forces, and altering the battlefield in subtle ways. Yet among all the paths, they were the most fragile. Limited mana, slower reactions, and an absolute reliance on preparation made them dangerously exposed—especially when isolated.
That was why most magic users gravitated toward safer professions: forging enchanted tools, brewing potions, inscribing runes for others to use.
In battle, they were healers.
Support.
Rarely the spearhead.
In a world ruled by monsters and brutality, magic hunters had the lowest survival rate when alone.
And yet—
James's eyes sharpened.
This is my path.
Not because it was safe.
But because it was limitless.
He came from a civilization that no longer existed, a world that had conquered nature not through strength, but through understanding.
Technology, systems, logic—these were humanity's true weapons. Cities had not been built by the strongest men, but by those who could see patterns others ignored.
Runes were not merely symbols etched into stone or bone.
They were logic made tangible.
Structure given form.
A language that bridged intent and reality.
If fully understood, rune inscription could transform everything—combat methods, tools, defenses, even the very doctrine of hunting itself. Where others relied on instinct and muscle, James saw equations waiting to be solved, variables begging to be tested.
Endless possibility, he thought.
Then reality intruded.
There was no rune instructor.
He had asked. Once. Twice. Again.
Healers. Shamans. Elemental casters.
No rune scriber.
James rubbed his temples as irritation flared, sharp and unwelcome.
"Damn it…"
Five minutes remained.
Around him, the field began to shift. Youths stepped forward, voices firming as choices were finalized. Names were recorded.
Instructors gathered their future trainees, forming clear divisions across the grass.
The camp was organizing itself.
If he waited any longer, the decision would be made for him.
James's gaze drifted toward the wooden gate at the edge of the field.
Old Chief Thor lay beneath the sun, massive frame unmoving, eyes closed as if in peaceful sleep. His breathing was slow, steady, deceptively calm. Beside him, the blood lion remained utterly still, its enormous body coiled like a sculpted nightmare, crimson mane rippling faintly in the breeze.
James's heart began to pound.
If I stay silent, I'll be forced into a path that isn't mine.
His fingers curled slowly at his sides.
If I speak…
A sharp breath cut through his hesitation.
Then I challenge authority on the first day.
Five minutes.
James straightened.
Resolve settled within him—not reckless, not emotional, but deliberate. He had not survived one world and awakened in another to live passively. Survival demanded initiative.
Growth demanded risk.
He stepped forward.
Then he shouted.
"Commander!"
His voice cut across the field like a blade.
For a heartbeat, the world froze.
Conversations died mid-sentence. Metal stilled. Even the wind seemed to pause. Every head turned toward him at once, hundreds of gazes crashing into him with suffocating weight.
On the far side of the field, Tony—one of Jerd's ever-present lackeys—burst into loud, mocking laughter.
"Has his brain finally snapped?" Tony sneered, making no effort to lower his voice. "Is he trying to get himself killed?"
A ripple of laughter spread through part of the crowd, sharp and cruel.
From another group, a girl whispered urgently, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Is he courting death? Even Hope doesn't dare look at her grandfather right now."
Another youth snorted. "This idiot is interesting. Let's see how he dies."
Hope herself stood motionless among the elites.
Her expression was unreadable—cold, distant, almost mechanical. For a brief moment, her eyes flicked toward James.
There was no curiosity in them, no concern.
Then she looked away, as if he were already beneath consideration.
James swallowed hard.
It's too late to turn back.
Behind him, Mike froze.
The color drained from the big boy's face, his massive shoulders stiffening as if struck by an invisible blow.
"Oh no… no, no, no…" Mike muttered, voice trembling. "James, what are you doing…?"
Tony's laughter grew louder, more venomous.
Something inside Mike snapped.
"Shut your filthy mouth, you coward!" Mike roared, fury exploding from his chest.
His shoulders sagged slightly, rage giving way to confusion and fear. "James… this isn't worth it," he whispered. "He'll kill you. The Chief will—"
"I know," James replied quietly.
At that exact moment—
The blood lion stirred.
Its massive eyes snapped open, glowing faintly beneath heavy lids. A low rumble rolled from its chest, vibrating through the ground and into the bones of everyone present.
Silence fell like a hammer.
Old Chief Thor's eyes opened.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The pressure in the air thickened, ancient and overwhelming, as his gaze settled on the lone youth standing at the center of the field—unbowed, unyielding, and very much alive.