The air within Celestis Rise began to feel… different.
It was subtle at first—just a faint ripple in the atmosphere, an invisible shift that brushed against the skin like a cold breeze that shouldn't have been there. Yet everyone felt it. Every single person sensed it, even if they couldn't quite name it. The rising tension lingered like static, thick and expectant, setting nerves on edge. The calm of the free day, once peaceful and light-hearted, was steadily replaced by an unspoken heaviness—like the world was holding its breath.
After the meeting with Thadeus, Dren had slipped away, needing distance. The discussion had left a bitter taste in his mouth. His thoughts spun like a wheel stuck in mud, circling one worry: What will happen to Garrik if they refuse to send help? The idea of his friend facing danger alone clawed at his conscience.
He wandered aimlessly until his feet brought him to the training grounds.
The place was empty—eerily so. A rare quiet settled over the open field, broken only by the soft creak of wooden posts swaying slightly in the breeze. Dren walked slowly toward the barcher where training weapons were kept and reached for a wooden sword. It was old, worn smooth by countless hands. But one thing stood out.
A single letter K was carved into the hilt.
His lips twitched into a faint smile. That letter—simple and precise—reminded him of someone. Someone important.
He gripped the sword loosely and stood in the center of the grounds. His reflection in the moment stirred memories long buried beneath newer ones. Not long ago, he had been just a scrawny, frightened kid. A runaway. Alone in the wild, trying to survive in a world that didn't care if he lived or died.
He hadn't had much of a choice.
No one to feed him. No roof to shield him. He adapted—because he had to.
Each failure, each grumbling night of starvation, became a lesson. Each scraped knee and bruised bone taught him something new. He trained himself by watching the beasts of the forest. He learned how to stalk them, how to strike, how to disappear. Slowly, over months and years, he built strength and resilience. He learned to meditate daily, calming his thoughts, aligning himself with the pulse of the forest. It brought him peace, sharpened his instincts. And after enough time, he became something else entirely.
He was twelve now. Just a few days ago, he'd killed his hundredth Karnox—a savage predator native to the deeper parts of the wood. Vicious and territorial, Karnoxes were covered in dark, tangled fur and thick hides that resisted ordinary weapons. Each of their four feet bore four jagged toes tipped with claws sharp enough to tear through bark and bone. Their eyes—pale brown with slitted pupils—missed nothing. Their keen sense of smell was aided by exposed nasal cavities, constantly twitching and snuffling. When they growled, the sound rippled through the trees, paralyzing prey within a thirty-meter radius. Fast. Silent. Deadly.
And he'd killed one.
"I think I'm ready now," he had said aloud to the forest, still flushed with adrenaline. "I'm going to become a hunter."
He had no idea what that really meant.
That night, like most, he slept in the fork of an old tree. The moonlight poured down in silver sheets, painting his skin in cold hues. High above the forest floor, he nestled into the crook of two branches, arms folded behind his head. But sleep didn't come easy. He shifted constantly, something in the air prickling his senses.
Then, he heard it.
Whoosh.
A soft sound from below.
He stiffened.
Two years in this forest and never—never—had he heard that noise.
He held his breath. Then came another whoosh, closer this time.
His heart raced. Panic began to close in. He clutched a thick branch like a makeshift weapon and dropped to the ground in a crouch.
"Wh-who's there?" he called, voice cracking, eyes darting left and right. His hands trembled as he spun around.
The forest had gone unnaturally still.
No crickets. No frogs. No breeze. Nothing.
Then—a shadow fell over him from behind.
Cold washed over his back as he turned, slowly, breath caught in his throat.
A hooded creature hovered there. It had no legs—just a floating shroud of black cloth. Its hands were skeletal, bony fingers extended like scythes. From beneath its hood, two glowing yellow eyes pierced the dark. An aura of death clung to it, suffocating and real.
It raised both arms to strike.
This is it.
"Damn it… I'm too scared to move… too weak to fight back. Maybe Mom and Dad were right. I don't belong out here. I never belonged anywhere."
His teeth clenched. His body refused to budge. Tears pricked his eyes.
"Maybe this is my redemption. My way out. My freedom from weakness."
He closed his eyes.
Then—thunk!—a knife flew through the air, slicing clean through the creature's hands.
It shrieked, spinning toward the source of the attack.
Dren blinked, shocked to still be breathing.
"Over here, black devil!" a voice called.
The creature turned—and in a blink, it was torn to shreds. A blur of steel and fury ended it in seconds.
When the dust settled, a man stepped forward, twirling a dagger and brushing his coat off like nothing had happened.
"Hey there, kid," he said, voice relaxed. "What're you doing out here all alone?"
Dren stumbled back, still clutching the stick like a sword. "Wh-who are you!? Where did you come from? What was that thing?!"
"Easy there, tiger," the man chuckled.
"A-answer me!" Dren snapped, trying to sound braver than he felt.
"Stubborn, huh?" the man said with a smirk. "Name's Bill Gladwin. But you can call me Bill. That thing that nearly gutted you is called a Duskhollow. Nasty things. I was sent to hunt them down—along with some other troublemakers lurking around."
Dren's eyes narrowed. "You're not normal. What are you?"
"I'm a hunter."
"How do I know you're not lying?"
Bill reached into his shirt and pulled out a pendant—a crest of silver and iron, engraved with the symbol of the guild.
"Every hunter wears one," he said. "If it's broken or split, it means we've been exiled. No longer recognized. But if it's whole, like mine, it means we're still active."
Dren remembered the man he'd seen in the village not long ago. His crest had been whole too. That checked out.
Slowly, Dren lowered his stick.
"Any more questions?"
Dren hesitated. "No. I'm Dren."
"Nice to meet you, Dren. So… what are you doing out here alone?"
"I ran away," Dren said softly, eyes clouding over.
"Why?"
Silence.
Bill didn't push. "Fair enough. But I can't leave you out here. It's dangerous. Come with me."
Dren looked unsure.
"Just for now," Bill added. "Until I'm done with my hunt."
Dren nodded slowly. "Alright then."
They walked through the trees in silence. The stars above twinkled through the canopy, casting faint silver light along their path. Finally, Dren glanced at Bill.
"…What's it like? Being a hunter?"
Bill smiled. "Now that's a good question."