"What's it like being a Hunter?"
"You ask?" Bill repeated, raising a brow.
"Yeah," Dren nodded.
Bill paused for a moment, scratching the side of his rugged face. They were just leaving the edge of the forest, the treeline casting long shadows behind them as they stepped into the outskirts of the town—Bill's home. His cabin was simple, small, and weather-worn, but it radiated warmth. Two modest beds filled the room to the right of the entrance, and a compact bathroom sat to the left. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
"To be perfectly honest, I've never really given it much thought," Bill said as he opened the door and gestured for Dren to enter.
He followed, still curious.
"But if I were to give my take on it," Bill continued as he shut the door behind them, "the Guild sees us as weapons—soldiers forged to face the darkness, to keep the balance in a world that's always tipping toward chaos. Whether it's beasts, monsters, or worse, we're the ones sent to stop it. To them, we're tools. Replaceable."
He tossed his coat onto a wooden hook and sighed.
"But to me..." He turned to Dren, a hint of fire flickering in his eyes. "Being a Hunter means freedom. Every hunt, every mission—it's a dance with death. A thrill. I don't live for glory, kid. I live for that edge. And I'm sure every Hunter has their own reason. No one walks this path without one."
Dren sat on the edge of the left bed, thinking.
"So… you're not in it to save lives? To protect the weak?" he asked.
Bill chuckled, the sound deep and low.
"Every creature I kill—every shadow I put down—it means someone somewhere lives another day without fear. I might not wear a cape, but I still save lives. Just not in the way you think."
Dren's face lit up, if only a little. A glimmer of hope, brief and delicate.
"You asked earlier what I was doing in the forest," Dren said. "I was training. Trying to become a Hunter."
Bill raised an eyebrow. The boy barely looked old enough to hold a blade, let alone dream of wielding one in battle.
"How'd a kid like you come to that decision? Someone in your family a Hunter?"
Dren shook his head, the faint smile on his face fading like morning mist.
"Not really. A man came to my village once… they called him a Hunter. He was strong—respected. Everyone admired him. Two things I've never had in my life." His gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders heavy with a weight Bill knew all too well.
And just like that, Bill saw him—not just a boy, but a soul born of rejection and silence. A child carved from years of scorn. The pain was unspoken, but it bled from his eyes.
"But after tonight..." Dren swallowed, his voice cracking. "I don't think being a Hunter is for me."
"Why?"
"Back there—when that thing attacked me—I froze. I couldn't move. Couldn't fight. If you hadn't shown up, I'd be dead." He clenched his fists. "And maybe… maybe that would've been better."
A long pause followed, thick with silence. Then, in a voice softer than usual, Bill said:
"Only the living can change their fate. Dead men don't dream. You think you're useless, but what about the lives you were meant to save? What happens to them if you give up now?"
Dren stared at the floor, breath shallow.
"I never thought about it like that," he murmured.
"Do you still want to be a Hunter?"
Dren looked up. And this time, his eyes burned.
"More than anything."
Bill saw it then—the spark. Determination sharpened into something more. Purpose.
"Then I'll teach you," Bill said. "Everything I know. Train you for the exams. Walk you through it all."
"Really? You'd do that for me?"
"Starting tomorrow," Bill smiled faintly. "You're one step closer to becoming a Hunter. The bed on the left is yours."
That night, Dren didn't sleep. His body lay still, but his soul danced. For the first time in his life, he felt it—hope. A future. A place to belong.
---
And so it began.
Bill trained Dren with ruthless discipline. He didn't go easy on him. Every day brought new pain, new tests—both mental and physical. But beneath Bill's harsh methods was something gentler. A presence. A father's patience, even if he never said the words.
And slowly, Dren changed.
He fell. He bled. He failed. But he kept rising. And with each stumble, Bill stood behind him, pushing him forward, molding the boy into something stronger.
Soon, Dren stopped seeing him as a mentor. He became something more. A father. The one he never had.
And in turn, Bill—lonely, hardened Bill—began to see Dren as a son.
Years passed.
By sixteen, Dren was almost unrecognizable. Gone was the frightened boy from the woods. In his place stood a young warrior—taller, broader, hardened by the grind of training and the will to survive. He had earned his scars. He wielded confidence like a weapon.
Even the Duskhollow that once petrified him—he now slayed it effortlessly.
Bill watched him with pride. Not just as a teacher, but as a man who had found a new purpose.
---
One night, under the pale gaze of the moon, Bill called him outside.
"The Hunter Exams begin in a month," he said. "Still want to go through with it?"
Dren didn't hesitate.
"It's too late for doubt now."
Bill nodded, the moonlight silvering the lines of his weathered face.
"Four stages over one brutal week. They test everything—your mind, strength, instincts. People die in these exams, Dren."
"Then let them," Dren said. His eyes were calm, but resolute. "If the reward is that great, the risk should be too. And if I die... then it was meant to be."
Bill smiled, though it ached.
A part of him wanted to ask Dren to stay—to forget the path of blood and danger. But he knew he couldn't. Dreams are not meant to be caged.
"I'll head out tomorrow and register you. It'll take me three days."
"Can I come?"
"No. You'll stay. Keep training. Sharpen your skills," Bill said, firm.
"Yes, sir."
They sat together in silence, watching the stars until the cold crept in. Then, without a word, they returned inside.
---
Bill left the next morning.
He journeyed to the Guild, completed the paperwork, and returned with Dren's exam ID