Bill returned after three days with Dren's exam ID. In his absence, Dren had done everything he'd been taught—every movement practiced until his limbs ached, every breath spent pushing his limits.
Bill rode in on horseback, his presence quiet but commanding. A sack bag hung at his side, a hoodless cloak flapping behind him in the breeze, and a worn-out hat shielding his tired eyes.
"Dren!" he called out as he dismounted, boots crunching softly against the dirt. "Dren! Where are ya?"
He searched the cabin and its surroundings, concern beginning to shadow his face. But the undisturbed condition of the house gave him a measure of relief—no signs of struggle, no forced entry.
The sun was dipping behind the trees when Dren finally returned from the forest, sweat clinging to his body, dirt smudged across his face and arms. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, his breathing heavy, but his eyes sparkled with quiet determination.
Bill, already dressed to search for him, paused as Dren came into view.
"Bill!" Dren called out, voice bursting with joy.
"Where have you been?" Bill asked as they embraced, half-scolding, half-relieved.
"Out training, just like you told me to."
Bill exhaled, pride curling his lips into a smile. "I see. Well, let's get you cleaned up then."
They stepped into the cabin. As Dren bathed, Bill reheated a pot of stew, the scent of herbs and spice filling the room. That night, they ate their fill and talked—about life, the forest, stories of past hunters, and dreams that lay beyond the coming trial.
A month of rigorous, relentless training had come to an end.
The Hunter Exams were now just a day away.
As night settled over the hills and the fire dimmed to a low flicker, Bill called Dren for one final talk. His voice was softer than usual, almost distant.
"You called me, sir?"
"Yes. Sit with me for a moment."
Dren sat beside him, eyes attentive.
"This year's Hunter Exams will take place in a labyrinth," Bill began, tone shifting into something graver. "Down south, in a place called Vardros Hollow. A cursed land, if you're superstitious. The candidates will be sealed inside the labyrinth for three days. No communication. No outside aid. No way out until the third day."
Dren swallowed. "Three days in a labyrinth…"
"And only those who survive till the end will be named Hunters and given the privilege to bond with a Hunter's Weapon."
"What's a Hunter's Weapon?" Dren asked, curiosity overcoming fear.
"It's more than a blade or a bow. It's a living extension of your will, forged through the ritual. Each Hunter can bond to only one, for life. Mine," he said, drawing a dagger from his boot, "is this."
It gleamed faintly in the firelight. Not ornate, but worn. Trusted.
They talked a little longer, until silence fell and only the chirping of crickets remained. As Dren rose to leave, Bill spoke again.
"I may still be asleep when you leave tomorrow… so let me say this now: trust your instincts. And make friends, if fate allows it. This exam isn't just about surviving monsters. Sometimes, it's the people you enter with that become the real threat."
Dren hesitated at the doorway, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thanks… Dad."
Bill froze. A warmth unfamiliar and powerful swelled in his chest.
"…Did he just…" he murmured. "Guess I unconsciously became a parent… You're welcome, son."
---
At dawn, Dren mounted the same horse Bill had used days ago, equipped with the essentials: food, water, a compass, and the two sharpened swords Bill had selected for him—light, balanced, perfect for Dren's dual-blade style.
By noon, he arrived at Vardros Hollow.
The valley brimmed with hunter aspirants—nearly a thousand in total. Some looked older, many younger, all carrying the same fire of ambition. They stood in lines, waiting for their names to be checked, IDs recorded.
Then came the instructions. A Vanguard official, cloaked in gray and crimson, stepped atop a raised platform. His voice, deep and emotionless, rang across the crowd:
> "This is not a test of strength alone. It is a crucible of instinct, will, and survival. You will enter the Labyrinth of Vardros and remain inside for exactly three days. There are no set rules. No allies. No guarantees. If you encounter another aspirant, choose: trust them or eliminate them. Your survival depends on that choice."
> "You may fight. You may run. You may hide. But at the end, only those who emerge on the third day will earn the title 'Hunter.' And only those still breathing will live to wield a Hunter's Weapon."
A murmur passed through the crowd. Eyes darted, trust dissolved, alliances frayed before they could form.
One thousand entered the labyrinth. Some with hope. Others with quiet rage.
---
Two days in.
Dren had barely made it this far.
The Labyrinth twisted like a living thing, its tunnels narrow and suffocating, some sections collapsing in on themselves. Creatures lurked in the dark, shadows whispering threats. Food dwindled. Trust was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Then, he ran into them—half a dozen aspirants, led by Dexter.
Dexter was taller, built like a wolf, and moved like he'd done this before.
Dren fought with all he had, blades flashing in the dim torchlight. He cut two down, dodged another—but they overwhelmed him. Dexter struck him down hard, boot pressing into his chest.
"You're done," Dexter sneered.
Pain clouded Dren's mind. He coughed blood and waited for the end.
But then—
A blur.
Steel flashed.
Dexter staggered back as Kael's sword slammed into his.
And beside him—Lyria, graceful and deadly, moving like wind in the darkness.
In seconds, the tide turned.
Kael didn't just fight—he commanded the battlefield. Every move was calculated, every strike forced fear into his enemies. Dren watched, breathless, as Kael single-handedly pushed back the rest of Dexter's group.
When it was over, the ground was littered with groaning bodies.
"You alright?" Kael asked, offering Dren a hand.
Dren took it, dazed. "Yeah… thanks."
That was where it began. The bond. The friendship. The admiration. As Dren walked beside Kael and Lyria deeper into the labyrinth, something shifted. He wasn't alone anymore.
---
Day three.
The final test came not with words, but with a roar.
A Jogganot.
A beast of flesh and fury, standing nearly 12 feet tall, armored with bones and pulsing veins of molten light. Ten were released—one per tunnel.
"Teamwork," Kael muttered, glancing at Lyria and Dren. "They want to see if we can fight together."
Dren's mouth was dry. The Jogganot's roar shattered stone. He wanted to run. But Kael's voice steadied him.
"Stay with me. Strike when I say."
They fought like cornered wolves.
Lyria danced around the beast, slashing its joints. Dren struck its flanks. Kael dove into the fray, taking hit after hit, blood streaming down his face—but never falling.
It took an hour.
An hour of hell.
And when it fell, the earth trembled.
They collapsed beside its corpse, shaking, bleeding, alive.
---
At the end of the third day, the gates of the labyrinth opened.
Of the thousand who entered, only fifty walked out.
Dren among them. Kael. Lyria. Scarred. Changed. But standing.
And waiting for them, in armor darker than night, stood a tall figure with eyes like steel fire—Garrik Veymar, A legendary hunter Kael's father.
He stepped forward, voice cutting through the silence.
"Congratulations. On behalf of the Twelve Vanguards… welcome, Hunters."
He paused, gaze sweeping across the survivors.
"You will rest. You will heal. Then… I will personally oversee your training and prepare you for the Weapon Bonding Ritual."
A hush fell over them.
Something about the way he said it… as though the true test hadn't even begun.