Under the silent, watchful eyes of the hidden observers known as the Lantaws, Auren lay motionless on the thick carpet of moss and fallen leaves, feigning sleep. He knew. He knew this entire trial was being monitored from afar—every twitch, every move, every decision. This wasn't just survival—it was a performance.
As if responding to an internal alarm, Auren stirred and opened his eyes with a slow, deliberate blink. He sat up and immediately reached for the familiar shape of his water bottle, tucked beside his well-worn green adventurer's backpack. With practiced ease, he unscrewed the cap and took a swig, gargling to cleanse his mouth of the gritty forest dust that clung to his throat.
Spitting out the murky water, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and muttered coolly to no one in particular, "Alright. Let's get to work."
[FALCON FOCUS]
A magic glyph glowed briefly in his pupils as his eye skill activated. In a heartbeat, his vision sharpened. Every detail, every flicker of movement around him became vivid and precise.
He was surrounded on all sides by ancient trees—massive Velzar trunks that stretched skyward, towering more than twenty stories high. Their bark was dark as burned iron, veined with faintly glowing rune-like patterns. The branches above were as broad as rooftops, and so vast they wove into each other like natural bridges in the canopy. Despite their size, they moved ever so slightly, swaying with the breath of the forest.
Tiny, bioluminescent insects—Flaremotes—flitted through the air like drifting stars. The mana in the air was visible to his eyes now, dancing like silver mist among the leaves, thick enough to taste.
The Runewood Forest was unlike anything in the human world. Here, the concentration of mana was more than double—saturating every leaf, every stone, and every breath. And it showed in its residents.
There were Skitterbolts, lightning-fast yellow ants that moved faster than the human eye could follow. Glimmereyes, purple owls with moonlike eyes capable of weaving paralyzing illusions. Swarms of Needlewings, enormous red bees that could shoot foot-long stingers with deadly accuracy.
As for plants, Auren noted several Wispwillows, blue-leafed flora that shimmered and vanished from view when touched. Tangling around tree trunks were Velumbra Vines, pitch-black and nearly indestructible, known to reposition themselves in shadow. He even spotted a cluster of Gloom Sunflowers, their black-petaled heads bowed and dripping glowing nectar—prime material for poison crafting.
But the real threats weren't flora or insects. It was the predators.
Night Stalkers.
Unlike their weaker cousins in the human realms, the Runewood Night Stalkers were born from a deep well of ancient magic. They were bigger—some double the size of bears—more cunning, and infused with terrifying abilities: full camouflage, boosted strength, and paralyzing roars that could snap a man's mind like twigs.
And yet, even they were prey to something greater.
What Auren truly sought was the monarch of the forest—Vulkris, the blazing king of Runewood.
A creature out of nightmares and legends, Vulkris bore the body of a lion but with colossal, leathery bat-wings that trailed flame. Its mane, tail, and wings were eternally ablaze, igniting the air around it as it moved. According to tales told to him by Jeis, whenever Vulkris stirred from its slumber in the heart of Runewood, the forest would glow crimson—scorched by its mere existence.
The Vulkris hadn't been seen for three centuries. The last one to face it and live was the Elven Queen, a high sorceress said to have bound it in fire and song. Only she knew where the beast now slept.
Above, the night sky shimmered with two moons. Hayag, brilliant white, and Lagum, soft blue, bathed the world in a strange twilight glow. Auren inhaled deeply, grounding himself.
Seven years. He had survived here for seven years.
Under the mentorship of Robert and Marissa, Auren had absorbed everything—the languages of humans and elves, the behaviors of magical beasts, the changes in Runewood's weather patterns, the many cultures and histories of other continents across Kalibu.
To the south, Runewood bordered Austerra and Maalah—kingdoms Auren had occasionally snuck into with Robert to gather rare herbs. Each trip was dangerous, especially with King Aurelus's men scouring the forests for any sign of him.
Northward sprawled the cursed lands of Banthaya Marshland and Kugaw Wasteland—wide, treacherous tracts of reeds, dark mist, and toxic magical life. No humans dwelled there, only twisted beasts like bog serpents, swamp trolls, ghols, and the infamous Blighttoads—black frogs the size of carriages, their skin laced with venom.
And northwest...
The forbidden Dragon Mountain.
A sovereign land of dragons. From winged serpents to scaled insects, the entire region pulsed with draconic life. No humans dared enter, and those who did never returned.
At the peak of their hierarchy was Tharnak the Eternal Flame, the Dragon King. Said to be as large as a cathedral and forged from molten obsidian, Tharnak was infamous for razing an entire kingdom in under an hour. Even the Elven Queen was known to kneel before him.
The surrounding regions—Banthaya and Kugaw—were nothing more than scorched ruin because of Tharnak's wrath. A century ago, a human king had stolen a baby dragon. The response? A hundred years of retribution by fire.
Dragons in Kalibu were not pets. They were apex predators—territorial, proud, and disdainful of humans.
"I wonder what it'd be like to tame Tharnak," Auren mused aloud, adjusting his mouth and head cover like a seasoned forest ninja. The thought brought a mischievous spark to his eyes. "If that day comes, maybe I'll rename him... Toothless?"
A light chuckle escaped his lips, absurdity mixing with ambition. Taming the Eternal Flame himself? A suicidal idea for most—but for Auren, it was just another long shot to add to his collection.
With a confident push, he launched himself upward.
His lean frame rocketed from branch to branch, each leap empowered by the subtle pulse of mana beneath his feet. His enchanted boots—the legendary "MJ Shoes" he'd personally crafted at age four—flared with bursts of golden light, propelling him ten feet at a time with flawless momentum.
The forest responded to his movement with shifting winds and rustling leaves. His cloak, forest green and sleek, clung to him like a second skin, camouflaging him so perfectly that any ordinary observer would mistake him for part of the scenery. But Auren wasn't just hiding. He was gliding—dancing between ancient branches like a ghost of the forest.
Far away, hidden among the foliage, unseen observers—the Lantaws—watched in stunned silence. One of them murmured, "Is that... a human?"
Back at the Aetherthorn Outpost, deep in a monitoring chamber filled with arcane mirrors, Marissa leaned forward with gleaming eyes. "He's moving faster than last time," she whispered. Robert crossed his arms, nodding slowly. "He's mastering the terrain. He's almost too good."
Within moments, Auren landed atop one of the thickest branches of a Velzar tree. The bark felt warm beneath his boots, pulsing faintly with magical life.
He crouched low, careful not to disturb the delicate symbiosis of moss and glowing fungi. Drawing a breath, he pulled a folded parchment map from a waterproof leather tube attached to his hip.
"Judging by the wind's scent, the constellations overhead, and that river's melody..." he murmured, eyes scanning the stars above and listening to the faint rushing water, "...I'd say I'm in the southeastern quadrant. Close to the Maalah border."
He flattened the parchment against the branch and ran his finger across the faded ink, identifying river bends, cliff edges, and mana hotspots. Every landmark was carefully marked. He'd updated it himself dozens of times.
"If I had one of the Goldhair's blink skills, I could get home in an hour," he grumbled.
A wry voice echoed in his mind.
"You could always use that skill," said Bigbird, the golden phoenix whose spirit resided within him.
Auren rolled his eyes. "That drains too much mana. I only have three mana potions left. I'm not wasting one for travel."
He opened his backpack with practiced motion. Inside, every item had its place: compressed rations wrapped in wax paper, a flask of purified spring water, a collapsible elven blade, sturdy hemp rope, a compact bedroll lined with runewool, and his handcrafted magical tools tucked into nested compartments.
But something was off.
A small purplish orb lay nestled among his gear.
His brows furrowed. "What the—?"
He picked it up. It was about the size of a plum, smooth, yet pliable, with a strange shimmer to its surface, like oil in water.
"Bigbird... this wasn't here before."
"No, Master. It was placed there... likely by the Goldhair operatives during the last supply drop. But I warn you—there's something dark woven into it."
Auren narrowed his eyes, instincts sharpening. He lifted it closer and gave it a cautious sniff.
The effect was immediate.
His muscles tightened. His fingers trembled. A creeping numbness surged up his arms.
"Poison!" he snarled.
Focusing, he gathered his mana and channeled it deep into his bloodstream. A rush of heat surged through his body, igniting the latent fire in his Phoenix-infused bloodline. His skin shimmered faintly, golden veins lighting up beneath it.
The paralysis receded.
Auren gritted his teeth, gasping as the burn faded. He stared at the orb, fury rising.
"Advanced poison... and it nearly stopped me cold."
Thanks to his years of grueling herbal studies, venom sampling, and self-immunization trials, Auren had built resistance to dozens of toxins. But this one? This wasn't typical.
"Someone's seriously trying to kill me."
"Throw it away, Master!" Bigbird hissed. "It could contain more than you realize!"
Auren paused. Just as he prepared to toss the orb away, a glint from its center caught his eye. Something shimmered beneath its surface—something... fleshy?
He squinted. "Wait... this isn't just a poison bomb."
Carefully, he descended to a lower, flatter branch, placing the orb on a flat stone surface embedded in the tree's bark.
He took a step back and raised his right hand, focusing.
[FLAMESHOT]
A magic circle flared in the air, burning orange. A condensed fireball launched from his palm and engulfed the orb.
It sizzled violently, releasing a sickly violet smoke. The outer membrane cracked, melting like wax until the inner contents were exposed.
Auren immediately raised his left hand.
[WATERSHOT]
A blue glyph pulsed, and a jet of water burst from his palm, dousing the flames before they could consume the core.
Steam exploded around him, clouding his vision. He waved a hand through it, coughing.
And there it was.
Nestled in the center of the scorched stone was a lump of dark red flesh—about the size of a clenched fist, still twitching faintly.
He stepped closer, kneeling.
His fingers trembled as he reached out and touched it.
Warm. Elastic. Familiar.
His mind raced back to books, dissection tables, field missions.
He knew this flesh.
"Bigbird..." his voice quaked.
The phoenix's mental voice whispered, reverent and horrified.
"Master... that's the flesh of a baby Night Stalker."
Time froze.
Everything—the rustling of leaves, the whisper of wind, even the distant hoots of Glimmereyes—fell silent in Auren's ears.
He looked at his hand. Blackened ash now clung to his glove, the remnants of the burnt orb smearing his skin like a curse.
"Why would they... why would they place something like this in my bag?" he whispered, voice trembling between disbelief and fury.
"Master, stop standing there and start running now!" Bigbird's voice cut through his thoughts like a whip.
But Auren was already moving. His instincts had kicked in the moment he saw the flesh. He hurled the charred remains deep into a ravine between the tree trunks and spun around, his boots flaring with mana.
He darted forward, casting a water spell on his hands mid-motion.
[WATERSHOT - Palm Cleanse Variant]
A burst of cool, purifying mist enveloped his arms, scrubbing the poison-scent away. But he could already tell—it was too late.
The air was changing.
Something primal had stirred.
It hit him all at once, like a psychic tremor through the forest. The mana around him began to pulse erratically, as though nature itself was warning him.
The implications crashed over him like a tidal wave. Night Stalkers were the undisputed apex predators of Runewood. Fierce, territorial, and intelligent. Even high-ranking elven hunters dared not provoke them. The death of a baby—especially by an outsider—was a provocation the pack would never forgive.
To possess the flesh of a baby Night Stalker?
That wasn't just murder.
It was a declaration of war against the forest itself.
Back at the Aetherthorn observation post, laughter echoed through the shadowed halls. Rhiki and Kardel reclined lazily against enchanted glass, watching the chaos unfold through scrying panels.
"Look at him go!" Rhiki cackled, his shoulders shaking.
"I told you he'd sniff it," Kardel smirked, tossing a nut into his mouth. "No way he'd resist poking at something so suspicious."
They knew the stakes. That purple orb hadn't just been a joke—it was a deathtrap. A curse disguised as curiosity.
And now Auren was running for his life.
Meanwhile, just a few kilometers east of Auren's location, the forest stirred.
The silence fractured.
A single Night Stalker emerged from the thickets, its sleek obsidian fur bristling, nose twitching in the air. Its burning violet eyes narrowed.
The scent was fresh.
It let out a low growl, more felt than heard. Then it bolted away.
Seconds later, another figure streaked through the shadows beside it—then another. From all directions, more emerged. Silent. Swift. United.
It was a pack.
Each adult Night Stalker was the size of a fully grown bear, their muscular frames honed for speed and precision. Their clawed limbs barely touched the ground as they bounded between roots and branches, slipping between the dense forest with terrifying grace.
And they were angry.
They had smelled it—the blood of their kin.
And they knew it was not far.
Their fur rippled, shifting color to blend into the dusk. They moved like living shadows, indistinguishable from the creeping dark. Only their eyes remained—a seething violet glow that cut through the murk like embers.
Their bloodlust rolled through the forest like a storm.
Auren leapt from branch to branch, each breath sharp and ragged, heart slamming against his ribs like a war drum. The river glinted in the moonlight ahead, a silver ribbon of salvation cutting through the dark. If he could make it across, he might have a chance.
Might.
But fate had other plans.
Just as his foot touched down on a low-hanging branch near the water's edge, his instincts screamed.
"this...."
MOVE.
Auren dove into a roll without thinking, tucking his limbs in tight. A blade of wind cut through the space he'd just occupied.
WHIISSH~
A tree trunk behind him exploded in a shower of splinters, cleaved as if made of paper.
Auren skidded across the mossy ground, dirt clinging to his palms as he pushed up.
"Holy cat..." he muttered, eyes widening.
There, standing between him and the river—his only escape—was a beast born of nightmare and moonlight.
A Night Stalker.
It was massive—and silent. Its jet-black fur rippled like liquid shadow, catching streaks of ghostly blue under the moonlight. Intricate runes glowed faintly along its muscular frame, pulsing like living tattoos. And in the center of that inky form, its eyes—twin orbs of unnatural violet fire—locked onto Auren's with calculating precision.
Not just a hunter.
A tactician.
It had waited here.
It had known he was going to escape to the other side of the river.
The others may chase, but this one blocked the way.
Its lips curled, revealing ivory fangs glistening with venom. Its breath came out slow and steady, as if savoring the tension.
But Auren refused to be cowed.
His heart thundered, but his gaze didn't waver. He reached behind his cloak with one swift motion and drew his special weapon—a handcrafted device unlike anything in this world.
It was a cross between an elven flintlock and a dwarven arcane booster but basically looked like a magnum revolver, polished to a gleaming silver and blue while humming softly with stored mana.
He invented it himself and called it MK, short for Magnum Krakaboom.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the grip, the weapon came alive.
Ancient runes etched into the obsidian-like surface flared to life, one by one, glowing crimson like molten veins beneath its surface. The soft hum of charged mana deepened into a low, mechanical purr—steady, hungry, waiting for a command. The weapon vibrated faintly in his hand, its core reacting to the presence of a true threat.
Auren's face lit up with the eerie red glow, casting shadows across his cheeks and jawline, giving him a ghostly, battle-worn look. His breath slowed, eyes narrowing into a predator's focus.
He raised the weapon in one fluid motion, locking the barrel's aim on the Night Stalker's forehead—right between those burning violet eyes.
It didn't flinch.
"Get out of my way, cat," Auren muttered, his voice low and edged with fire.
But the beast didn't move.
It tilted its head slightly, as if amused.
Unblinking. Unafraid.
The runic markings along its body pulsed in response, reacting to the weapon as if it understood the language of war.
Then it took a slow step forward.
Deliberate.
Challenging.
The look in its eyes wasn't just confidence—it was contempt. A silent dare.
Shoot me. See what happens.
It was no longer just a beast.
It was an apex predator facing something it didn't recognize, and yet still refused to acknowledge it as a threat.
Auren's finger hovered over the trigger.
For the first time in years, he felt the edge of fear creep in—not the kind that made you panic, but the kind that made your instincts sharpen like steel.
One shot. One chance. And this wasn't even the worst part of the forest.