The morning after Ryoma paid his fee and signed up, a subtle shift had taken place within him as he made his way back to the Wildborn Guild; the dawn's first light barely pierced through the dense canopy, casting long shadows that danced across the forest floor. Gone was the hesitant uncertainty that marked his arrival—today, his steps moved with a quiet resolve, a determined clarity driven by newfound purpose rather than raw confidence. As he navigated the winding paths lined with ancient trees and whispering leaves, memories of his past battles and the secrets he sought to uncover intertwined with his determination to forge a new path. The guild's towering gates finally loomed ahead, and with each step closer, Ryoma felt the weight of his journey settle into a steady rhythm, ready to face whatever challenges awaited, not just as an adventurer, but as someone finally beginning to understand his true purpose in the wilds.
As Ryoma approached the guild hall, the familiar silhouette of its dark wooden beams, stained by countless fires and years of use, greeted him with a quiet nostalgia; the towering ceiling vanished into shadow, creating an atmosphere thick with history and unspoken stories. Inside, the flickering glow of a hearth fire cast a warm but subdued light across the room, illuminating a handful of adventurers scattered about—some meticulously oiling their weapons, others hunched over maps with furrowed brows, lost in their own worlds of strategy and survival. The air was thick with focus, wariness lingering beneath their calm exteriors, a silent reminder that this was no place for idle chatter or frivolous talk but a sanctuary for those who understood the weight of their choices and the dangers lurking beyond the walls. Ryoma paused at the threshold, feeling the silent recognition of a community hardened by experience, each member quietly preparing for the adventures that awaited beyond the shadows.
Ryoma's gaze settled on the familiar figure behind the front desk—the same young woman from the day before, her sleeves rolled up and her face an unreadable mask that betrayed little emotion. As he stepped closer, her sharp eyes quickly caught sight of him, and almost instinctively, she reached beneath a towering stack of papers, her hand emerging with a neatly pulled form in her grasp. Without a word, she extended it toward him, her expression remaining neutral, but her steady gaze hinting at a silent acknowledgment of his return. The moment hung in the air—a quiet bridge between past uncertainty and the journey ahead—marking the beginning of a new chapter in Ryoma's path within the Wildborn Guild.
"Ryoma's heart pounded slightly as the young woman's voice pierced the quiet of the guild hall, her tone flat yet commanding, carrying the weight of authority that brooked no argument. "Form's approved," she announced, sliding the neatly filled-out paper across the counter with mechanical precision, as if her words had been rehearsed countless times before. "You're officially registered under the special-tier membership. Training starts today." The moment settled over him like a spark igniting a hidden fire—her words confirming that he had taken the first true step into a world far beyond mere participation, into a realm of serious challenge and opportunity. As he reached out and accepted the form, a surge of anticipation coursed through him, mingling with a deep resolve to prove himself, to endure the tough trials ahead, and to carve out his place among the seasoned adventurers who had long called this guild home. This was more than a registration; it was the beginning of a new chapter—one filled with danger, discovery, and the relentless pursuit of purpose amid the shadows of the wilds.
Ryoma nodded once.
The woman tilted her chin toward the far end of the hall, her gaze unwavering as she subtly signaled Ryoma to look in that direction. There, standing with an air of quiet authority, was a man whose presence seemed to fill the space around him. Tall and broad-shouldered, his arms thick as ancient tree trunks, he bore a face etched with the marks of wind and war—features hardened by countless battles and hardened resolve. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, locked onto Ryoma with a silent but intense scrutiny, as if weighing the very worth of the young recruit before him. In that steady gaze lay a thousand unspoken questions and expectations, signaling that Ryoma's journey was about to take a serious turn, and that this man—the seasoned veteran—would be a key figure in shaping his path forward.
"The woman's voice cut through the quiet hum of the hall as she gestured toward the imposing figure at the far end. "That's Tralen," she said, her tone tinged with a mixture of respect and caution. "He'll be your instructor. He chose to take you on personally—that's rare. Lucky you." Her eyes flicked briefly with a hint of warning. "Just… don't let it go to your head. People don't come out the same after training under him." The weight of her words sank in as Ryoma's gaze fixed on Tralen's stone-hard expression, sensing that beneath the veteran's stoic exterior lay a tumult of experience and relentless discipline. It was clear that this was no ordinary mentor, and that the path ahead would demand more than just skill—it would test his very resolve, shaping him into someone entirely new.
Ryoma's eyes held steady with Tralen's across the room, a silent exchange that needed no words. In that fleeting moment, something unspoken passed between them—neither warmth nor menace, but an honest, unvarnished recognition. It was as if a stone rested quietly at the bottom of a river, unmoving yet weighted with unseen depths. The gaze lingered just long enough to convey a shared understanding: both knew the road ahead would be arduous, but neither doubted the strength it would forge in him. In that silent connection, Ryoma felt a quiet resolve settle within him, anchoring his purpose as he prepared to face the formidable instructor and the trials that awaited.
Tralen moved with deliberate purpose, each step echoing softly on the wooden floor until he was just a step away from Ryoma. Up close, the man seemed even taller—his frame rugged and massive, as if he had been carved directly from the wilderness, every muscle telling stories of survival and battle. Despite his imposing presence, he said nothing at first, studying Ryoma with a piercing gaze that seemed to see through to the very core. Then, with a voice calm yet commanding, he finally spoke, not loud or rough, but carrying an undeniable weight of authority that made it impossible to ignore. "You've got potential," he said simply, each word deliberate, "but potential means little without discipline. If you're serious about this, I'll push you to your limits. If not, you'll fall behind—and I won't be gentle when that happens." The challenge hung in the air, clear and unspoken, as the weight of Tralen's words settled on Ryoma's shoulders.
"Tralen's voice remained steady, each word resonating with unwavering authority. "You have until sundown to gather your gear," he said, eyes locking onto Ryoma's with a piercing intensity. "Tomorrow, before sunrise. Meet me at the south gate." His gaze hardened slightly as he continued, "Bring three things: your own knife, a full canteen, and cloth suitable for making bandages. Miss even one… and you're out." The finality in his tone left no room for argument, emphasizing that this was no ordinary test, but a definitive step into the brutal discipline that would shape him into an adventurer of true resilience. As Ryoma absorbed the challenge, he felt the weight of the task settle within him, knowing that failure was not an option if he wanted to prove himself worthy of the journey ahead.
Ryoma's lips parted as he opened his mouth to respond, perhaps to ask a question or express a resolve, but Tralen was already turning away, his massive form moving with a quiet, relentless purpose. In an instant, the veteran had vanished through the side entrance, leaving behind only a whisper of wind and the lingering echo of his commanding presence. It was as if he had been a passing wind—here to deliver a stark warning and then gone, leaving Ryoma alone with the weight of the challenge. The silence that followed felt heavy, yet beneath it burned a newfound determination; he understood that this moment was a test not just of his skills, but of his will to endure whatever lay ahead.
From behind the desk, the woman's faint, dry smile flickered briefly, a subtle acknowledgment of the moment's gravity. Her expression held a mixture of amusement and quiet respect, as if she recognized the resolve burning behind Ryoma's eyes. Without a word, she simply inclined her head, her gaze steady and knowing. "Welcome to Wildborn," she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of countless stories and unspoken challenges that awaited beyond these walls. In that simple phrase, there was an unspoken promise: here, every adventurer was tested, and only those with true grit would survive.
/ Time skip / the training and tutorial.
Ryoma stood silently at the southern gate, the first light of dawn barely piercing the pre-dawn gray that cloaked the sky. Behind him, the city lay still in slumber, its usual clamor replaced by the soft symphony of crickets and the gentle rustling of leaves in the cool morning breeze. The road ahead wound into a thick, shadowy woodland, shadows dancing between the trees as if hiding secrets within their depths. A chill bit into his cheeks, sharp and invigorating, reminding him that this was the beginning of something far greater than he had imagined—an uncertain journey into the wilds, where only discipline, courage, and resilience would see him through. With a steadying breath, Ryoma tightened his grip on his gear, steeling himself for the trials to come.
Ryoma's hands trembled slightly as he checked his pack one last time, ensuring he had everything Tralen had demanded for the grueling day ahead. From a small, battered leather pouch, he retrieved his cherished hunting knife—its handle worn smooth by years of use, a silent witness to countless hunts and lessons learned in solitude. The blade gleamed faintly in the early morning light, sharp and ready for whatever trials awaited. Next, he reached for his canteen, a sturdy leather vessel that had been with him since he was young, now filled to the brim with cold, pure water from a mountain spring—an essential for survival in the wilderness. Finally, he unfolded a torn strip of cloth ripped from his old, faded cloak, its frayed edges and faded colors a testament to battles fought and days endured. He had carefully repurposed it into a makeshift bandage, knowing well that in the wild, every resource counted. As he tightened the strap on his pack and slung it over his shoulder, Ryoma felt a mixture of pride and unease—prepared for what was to come, yet aware of how fragile each item was in the face of the unknown. With a deep breath, he turned toward the south gate, ready to face the dawn and the challenges that awaited beyond, carrying the weight of his resolve and the lessons of years past.
Ryoma stood silently at the edge of the path, the cool morning air swirling around him as he took in the quiet stillness of the dawn. For a moment, he was lost in thought, feeling the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders. Then, almost as if the forest itself had whispered a message just beyond his awareness, a subtle flicker appeared at the edge of his perception—more a sensation than a sound, like a gentle nudge from the environment. The message manifested in his mind as an ethereal whisper: *[Environmental Suggestion: Shelter available 300m northeast. Low elevation, sparse cover.]* followed by a second line: *[Target Proximity: Tralen – Approaching from southwest, ETA 43 seconds.]* The information was fleeting but precise, guiding him to potential refuge while alerting him to the approaching presence of his instructor. Ryoma's heart quickened—a sign that the wild was already beginning to test him, and that the moment of confrontation was near. With a steadying breath, he prepared himself, muscles tense but focused, knowing that every second counted in this unpredictable wilderness.
It wasn't clear how Ryoma knew this—these whispers from the environment—yet it had become an instinct he trusted implicitly. Since the moment of his Awakening, the world around him seemed to breathe and shift in subtle ways, offering glimpses and hints that only he seemed to notice. Bits of information, hazy and incomplete, flickered at the edge of his perception—more a feeling than a certainty—like the environment itself was trying to communicate, to guide him through the chaos of the wilderness. These messages, elusive and fleeting, had saved his life more times than he could count, guiding him away from danger or toward safety when he needed it most. They were a quiet reminder that he was learning to listen not just with his ears, but with a deeper sense—an awakening beyond sight and sound, a connection to the world that would become vital in the trials ahead.
Ryoma's senses sharpened as he heard the faint crunch of footsteps behind him, the sound subtle yet unmistakable in the stillness of the dawn. Turning slowly, he faced the direction of the noise, heart pounding softly in his chest. From the shadows of the trees, Tralen emerged like a silent predator—his massive form barely making a sound as he stepped forward, the gravel beneath his boots whispering with each deliberate stride. The veteran's expression remained unreadable, calm and composed, as if he had been part of the forest itself. There was no need for words; the quiet confidence in his presence told Ryoma that his instructor was already assessing him, watching for the faintest sign of hesitation or weakness. In that moment, Ryoma understood that this was only the beginning—an unspoken test of resolve and resilience, and that the wilderness had already begun to shape him.
The older man said nothing at first. He glanced at Ryoma's gear, eyes narrowing as if calculating weight and balance.
"Good," he said finally. "You listened."
Ryoma gave a curt nod.
Tralen turned and started walking without waiting. "Keep up. No talking."
The journey stretched on for nearly an hour, but it was far from a straightforward march; Tralen's movements were deliberate, calculated—each step purposeful. He guided Ryoma through a maze of terrain, crossing shallow creeks where the water's gentle flow masked the sound of their passage, over rocky slopes that tested balance and caution, and beneath thick canopies where dappled sunlight struggled to reach the forest floor. Every twenty minutes or so, Tralen would halt abruptly, turn sharply, and scrutinize Ryoma's actions with a piercing gaze. His words cut through the silence, precise and pointed: "Your footing just gave your position away," he'd say, voice calm but firm; then, "Had this been wet, you'd have slipped and broken your leg," or, "Too loud. Try again." Each correction was a lesson in patience and awareness, honing Ryoma's senses and instincts. The trainer's method was relentless but effective, pushing Ryoma to adapt, to listen, and to move with a quiet confidence that would be vital in the unpredictable wilderness ahead.
There was no praise, no encouragement—only cold facts and the unyielding truth of survival. Tralen's tone was clinical, every word a lesson in the harsh reality of the wild: a reminder that in this world, instinct and awareness meant life or death. At one point, the older man crouched, reaching down to pick up a small, broken twig from the ground. Holding it up to Ryoma's gaze, he pointed with a steady hand. "This," he said, "wasn't snapped by us. Notice the fibers. Fresh. Clean break. Within the last hour." Ryoma squinted, focusing intently. The details hadn't registered before—how the fibers were pale and sappy, a subtle sign of recent trauma. It was a revelation that made him realize how much he'd been missing. "Don't memorize paths," Tralen muttered, voice low but firm. "Learn patterns. Nature has a language. Most people don't listen. You will." The words sank in, a stark reminder that understanding the environment was crucial—listening to the whispers of the wild was the difference between survival and oblivion.
Tralen held up the broken twig, his voice steady and unyielding as he explained, "This wasn't snapped by us. Notice the fibers. Fresh. Clean break. Within the last hour." Ryoma squinted, trying to see what the veteran saw—at first, he'd have missed the subtle clues, but now, with Tralen's guidance, he could make out the pale, sappy fibers that marked recent damage. "Don't memorize paths," Tralen muttered contemplatively. "Learn patterns. Nature has a language. Most people don't listen. You will." The words settled into Ryoma's mind as they pressed on, deeper into the forest's shadowed depths. Every step was deliberate, every detail a lesson. The wilderness was alive with signs—clues to danger, opportunity, or safety—and if he listened carefully enough, he would begin to understand its silent, unspoken dialogue.
As they pushed deeper into the forest, the canopy gradually thinned, revealing a quiet clearing bathed in soft, dappled sunlight. On one side stood a weathered hunting post, its wood scarred and faded from years of exposure—long-abandoned but still standing as a silent testament to past survival. Tralen finally halted, turning to face Ryoma with a steely gaze. "This is where you start," he said, voice steady and unwavering. "You'll spend the day alone." Ryoma blinked in surprise. "Here?" he questioned, glancing around at the open space and the remnants of the old shelter. Tralen nodded, a hint of sternness in his expression. "You'll scout this clearing. Catalog any creature prints, food sources, or dangers. Then find three safe spots to sleep if needed. You've got until sundown. I'll find you before dark. If I can't, you're not worth finding." The gravity of the task settled over Ryoma—this was his first true test of independence in the wild, an essential step in learning to survive on his own, with only his instincts and what he had learned so far to guide him.
And with that, Tralen turned sharply on his heel, disappearing into the dense forest with a silent grace that seemed almost supernatural. His figure quickly blended into the shadows, leaving Ryoma standing alone in the quiet clearing. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on him as the distant rustling of leaves marked the departure of his instructor. There was no farewell, no words of encouragement—only the unspoken challenge that now rested entirely on his shoulders. The wilderness around him seemed to hold its breath, waiting for him to prove that he could listen, observe, and survive. As the sounds of Tralen's footsteps faded into the trees, Ryoma took a deep breath, steadying himself for the first true test of independence in the wild.
/ Time skip /
The forest was a different place when one was alone.
Ryoma stood in the middle of the clearing, the echo of Tralen's last footstep already gone. No birds sang. No wind stirred. Only the crackle of dried leaves beneath his boots reminded him he was still grounded.
He took a slow breath.
> [Ambient Scan: Animal presence — possible deer, fox. No predators detected.]
[Suggestion: Begin at northern treeline. Soil disturbed — potential trail.]
The message came to him like a foggy memory—not with certainty, but as a pull, a nudge. At Level 1, his ability gave him more questions than answers.
Still, it was better than nothing.
He began walking north, crouching low as Tralen had done, scanning the soil. And there—yes. Something had passed through. The pattern wasn't human: narrow hooves, slightly staggered gait. Deer, maybe. Light, fast.
Ryoma knelt beside the prints, touched the edge of one with two fingers.
It was subtle, but the ground was still damp underneath. Within the last few hours.
He pulled out a small leather-bound notebook and jotted down what he saw.
> "Northern edge. Three tracks. Moving west. Light pressure."
It felt small. Insignificant. But it was the first time he had gathered information that wasn't told to him. He had seen it himself. Not a test. Not a simulation. The real thing.
He moved on.
The underbrush was dense near the eastern edge of the clearing. He took his time, pausing to listen for movement, watching for snapping branches or shifting shadows. Every so often, his mind stirred with faint messages—
> [Caution: Uneven terrain ahead. Loose stones.]
[Vantage point — slight elevation. Visibility: moderate.]
Not always helpful. Sometimes too vague to act on. But they reminded him to stay alert, to think like the wild.
By midday, he had found a shallow dip in the ground near a fallen pine. It offered some cover—low profile, limited visibility from three sides. Not ideal, but usable.
He marked it in his notes.
> "Potential rest point. Dry. Concealed. Exposed from east side."
Two more hiding spots followed. One under a ridge of tangled roots, the other near a mossy stone outcrop. Not perfect, but options.
Time passed strangely in the wild. It stretched and warped without bells or people to guide it. Ryoma lost track, relying only on the changing light and the length of his own shadow to measure the hours.
Eventually, hunger crept in. He sat at the base of a tree and pulled out a piece of dried meat from his pack, chewing slowly.
And that's when he heard it.
Not a loud noise. Just a soft snap. A branch. Behind him. Close.
He froze.
Another whisper:
> [No human presence detected. Movement pattern: cautious, low to ground.]
[Possible: Fox.]
Still, he didn't move. Not until the sound faded again, swallowed by distance.
He exhaled—slow and steady—and wrote another line in his notes:
> "Sounded at 6th hour. Behind southern tree line. Non-human."
It wasn't much. But it was something real. A piece of the wild, now captured in ink.
By the time the sun had begun to dip toward the horizon, Ryoma had cataloged everything he could: animal trails, fresh prints, edible berries he recognized from training, three sleeping spots, and two blind spots in the clearing's perimeter.
And then he waited.
Time dragged.
He nearly fell asleep watching the treetops when a familiar voice cut the silence like a cold blade.
"Tell me what you've learned."
Tralen stood where Ryoma had started that morning, arms folded, eyes unreadable.
Ryoma stood, dusted himself off, and opened his notebook.
He didn't embellish. Didn't guess. Just read the facts as he saw them—exact locations, tracks, times, sounds. Tralen didn't interrupt once.
When he finished, the older man stared at him for a moment longer than was comfortable.
Then he gave a single nod. "You didn't get lost. You stayed aware. And you didn't die. That's a start."
Without another word, he turned and began walking back into the woods.
This time, Ryoma followed without hesitation.
/ Time skip /
Morning sunlight filtered through the large, slatted windows of the Wildborn Guildhall, casting strips of golden light across the worn wooden floors. The building smelled faintly of leather, pine resin, and the smoke of the early morning hearth. Unlike the more refined guilds in central cities, Wildborn had a rough charm—functional, utilitarian, lived-in.
Ryoma had been given a simple room for the night—bed, chest, a table, nothing more—and after a light breakfast of black bread and dried fruit, he was instructed to wait in the main hall.
He didn't wait long.
The guild doors creaked open, and a familiar voice reached him.
> "So this is the one who paid for the special entry. Let's see if it was worth the gold."
The voice belonged to a tall man with a weathered face and sharp, assessing eyes. His cloak was patched but well-maintained, his boots caked with old mud, and a large hunting knife hung from his belt—not ceremonial, but clearly used.
Beside him stood Ana, arms crossed, watching Ryoma with quiet interest.
The man didn't introduce himself immediately. Instead, he approached Ryoma and circled him once, as if inspecting a weapon.
> "You don't smell like the forest yet. That'll change."
"Name's Tralen, field instructor and survival lead. You bought your way in. That means you skip beginner orientation. But it doesn't mean you're ready."
He pointed to a door behind the guild counter—reinforced oak with iron hinges.
> "Training ground's out back. Come on."
Ryoma followed him through a short corridor into a walled courtyard behind the guild. The air was cooler here, shaded by a partial canopy of trellises and climbing vines. Several training dummies, rope stations, and an archery line filled the space. A few guild members were already training—stretching, sparring, or practicing knotwork drills.
> "Today's not about fighting," Tralen said. "It's about seeing. Thinking. Moving with the world, not against it."
He tossed Ryoma a small leather satchel. Inside: a compass, a short blade, flint, three feet of twine, and a thin waxed notebook.
> "Lesson one: you don't survive out there because you're strong. You survive because you notice what others don't."
He pointed at a nearby climbing structure—a wall shaped like part of a cliff face, with ledges, gaps, and handholds marked in chalk.
> "Climb it. But don't just get to the top. While climbing, I want you to tell me everything you see—exactly—as if your life depends on it. Because someday, it will."
Ryoma looked up, scanned the structure, then nodded once.
His mind immediately triggered that subtle flicker—his innate ability feeding him fragmented impressions:
> "Loose stone (upper right)."
"Weakened vine—do not trust grip."
"Bird droppings—indicates overhead nest."
"Route recommendation: left path safer."
But he didn't follow them blindly. He paused, judged each one, checked with his own eyes.
Halfway up, he stopped.
> "There's pressure marks on the ledge—someone climbed recently. Might've loosened it."
"Top branch has been snapped inward. Something fell from the roof—animal, maybe."
Tralen, watching from below with arms folded, narrowed his eyes slightly. He said nothing—but for the first time, his expression wasn't dismissive.
By the time Ryoma reached the top, sweat was on his brow, but his breath was steady.
He looked down.
> "I could've taken the fast route. But something felt off. I trusted the slower path. Seemed safer."
Tralen gave a single nod.
> "Good. You're cautious. You verify. That'll keep you alive."
Then he turned and walked away without another word.
Ana, who had watched the entire thing, grinned faintly as Ryoma climbed down.
> "Not bad for a first day," she said. "But he'll push harder tomorrow."
Ryoma just nodded. He wasn't here for comfort. He was here to learn.
And learning in Wildborn didn't mean books or theory. It meant sweat, risk, and dirt under your nails.
////Day Two — Beneath the Canopy
The forest greeted Ryoma not with menace, but with silence—a thick, damp hush that pressed in from all sides. Every step he took sank lightly into the leaf litter, muffled and soft, but not invisible. The light here filtered through old pine and crooked oaks in broken columns, and every shift in the canopy above sent long shadows writhing along the ground.
The path—if it could be called that—soon disappeared. Only vague indentations remained: a broken leaf here, a patch of compressed moss there. Ryoma knelt near a bent shrub, fingers brushing against a snapped twig.
It had broken clean. Recent. Still damp.
"Direction: Southeast, slight descent. Compression angle: left wing dipped—unstable flight."
His ability offered vague threads—suggestions, not answers.
But Ryoma didn't follow blindly.
Instead, he turned his gaze upslope for a moment, gauging wind direction again. Consistent. Same angle as this trace. That matched. His breath stayed slow, his mind focused.
> "Don't trust your instinct until it's been tested under pressure."
That had been one of Tralen's first lessons—delivered bluntly, without ceremony.
So Ryoma didn't run. He moved like a hunter—not chasing, not fleeing, but reading.
After nearly twenty minutes of careful progress, something caught his eye. Not on the ground—above. A few dark feathers stuck awkwardly between two thorny branches. Caught mid-fall. Around it, the tree bark had light claw-marks. Not from a bird.
He stepped back slowly.
This wasn't just a fall. Something had taken the hawk down.
His mind narrowed around that fact. What kind of predator would attack a messenger bird mid-flight, drag it out of the sky, and then vanish? Most forest beasts went for meat, not parchment.
Unless...
Unless something else wanted that message.
He crouched again. The ground here had been disturbed, faintly—he couldn't see prints, but there was a wrongness in the moss, a slight compression in the soil.
And a smell.
Not rot. Not blood.
Just... wrong. Bitter, damp, like old iron and wet fur.
Then his ability pulsed—barely a whisper:
> "Recommendation: Avoid confrontation. Probability of hostile fauna in proximity. Unknown classification."
He froze.
It hadn't given him much—but the fact that it had triggered at all meant something. This was the edge of what he could interpret. Beyond this? He'd be walking blind.
But Ryoma was no coward.
He didn't retreat. He simply changed posture—no longer a tracker, but an analyst. He marked the location mentally, noted the wind again, and shifted higher ground, circling quietly. If he couldn't outmuscle what was down there, he'd out-think it.
His goal was still the same: find the hawk, retrieve the message.
But now, the forest wasn't just a terrain.
It was an opponent.
And somewhere within it… something was hunting.
)Day Two — The Howl Beneath the Pines
Ryoma had barely shifted to higher ground when the forest went dead silent.
No birdsong.
No breeze.
Even the insects stopped.
He knew what that meant.
A predator was near.
A big one.
Just as he began to retreat into a denser thicket, a gust of wind slammed through the trees, kicking leaves into the air—but it wasn't wind. It was movement.
Then, it landed.
A heavy thud on the mossy ground a few paces ahead. Twigs cracked like bones.
From between the trees, it emerged—first the front paw, claws digging into the soil. Then the glint of pale fur.
Then... the eyes.
Six of them.
Two locked on directly.
The other four blinked in sync—two on each side of its massive lupine skull. Its fur shimmered with an unnatural sky-blue tone, streaked with white across its underbelly. Its breath fogged the air with heat, though the forest was not cold.
"Identification failed... No database match."
"Recommendation: Flee."
Ryoma didn't move.
Because he couldn't.
He was already staring.
And the creature's six eyes blinked — simultaneously.
A cold paralysis shot through his limbs like iron pins jammed into his nerves.
He fell to one knee — not from impact, but pure muscular lock. His fingers twitched uselessly, his body responding only in fragments.
The creature prowled closer, slow and confident. It didn't rush. It didn't need to.
One massive paw came down next to a stone Ryoma had marked earlier. Its claws carved through the granite like cheese.
Then it growled—low and deep, like thunder muffled beneath the earth.
[Status: Movement Impaired — 3.2 seconds remaining]
Ryoma's eyes moved. Barely.
And that was enough.
He'd marked his surroundings, just in case.
There—behind the beast's flank, three meters away—a ledge with loose earth. If he could move, even stumble, he could bait it, draw it forward—
[Movement Restored — Partial]
Without thinking, he rolled sideways, breaking the stare. The paralysis lifted like a shroud torn off.
The wolf roared—not barked—roared, an unnatural guttural sound. It leapt forward, swiping where Ryoma had been.
The claws grazed his shoulder, tearing fabric and skin alike, and sent him crashing through underbrush.
Pain seared in.
His left arm went limp.
"Analyze later. Survive now."
He grabbed a stone with his good hand, flung it—not at the beast, but at the ledge.
The rock hit.
The earth gave way.
The cliff crumbled.
The Six-Eyed Wolf lunged again—just in time to have its front paw sink into loose soil.
Ryoma pushed himself to the side again, and the creature half-slipped, letting out an angry, strangled growl as its balance broke. It didn't fall—but it staggered.
And that was enough.
Ryoma pulled a throwing blade from his hip sheath and slashed across the beast's side—not to kill, but to mark. Bright red splashed the ferns.
Then he ran.
Not blindly—diagonally, using the terrain, banking through narrow gaps where its bulk couldn't easily follow.
Branches slapped his face, his lungs burned, and blood ran hot down his side.
Behind him, the howl rose—a long, shattering that made the trees tremble.
But he was alive.
For now.
)Return to the Wildborn Lodge
By the time Ryoma stumbled through the outer perimeter of the Wildborn Guild's woodland grounds, dusk had settled into the sky. The trees stood like quiet sentinels now, casting long shadows across the moss-covered stones and rope bridges connecting the platforms above.
His cloak was torn, his left sleeve soaked with blood. His eyes, though alert, carried the weight of something older than the day behind him.
No one stopped him as he passed the outer posts — his steps were determined, and his wounds did all the explaining.
At the center of the lodge's wooden compound, lit by hanging lanterns and soft torchlight, Tralen stood by the weapon racks, checking inventory. A seasoned figure with shoulders broad from years of hunting and eyes sharp as cold iron, he looked up the moment he heard Ryoma's boots scrape across the wood.
His gaze locked onto Ryoma's condition in an instant. He didn't shout. Didn't gasp.
He just said, quietly, "You're early."
Ryoma didn't speak right away. He dropped to one knee at the edge of the platform, catching his breath. "Ran into something," he muttered. "Big."
Tralen crossed the distance in three strides, crouched beside him, and placed two fingers gently on the edge of the torn cloth. Blood. Fresh. Deep claw marks. But no venom.
"Did you fight it?" he asked.
"Barely escaped," Ryoma replied. "Six eyes. Sky-blue fur. Size of a lion."
Tralen's hand froze. Then his voice lowered. "A Six-Eyed Wolf... and you're alive?"
Ryoma didn't nod. He just met the man's eyes and said, "It saw me. Froze me. I made it trip and ran."
For a moment, Tralen said nothing. Then, without warning, he let out a quiet chuckle. "Hah. You used the terrain. You thought."
Ryoma furrowed his brow. "You knew about these things?"
"Only by reputation. They don't hunt this close unless something's stirred them," Tralen said. "But never mind that. You made it back. On your feet. That counts for more than you realize."
Tralen stood and offered a hand. Ryoma hesitated, then took it, letting the older man pull him upright.
"You chose the special service," Tralen said as they walked toward the medical wing of the lodge. "That means you don't just learn how to swing a blade. You learn how to not die in a forest where everything smarter than you wants to eat you."
He paused, glancing at the dried blood. "Lesson one: Never assume you're the hunter."
Ryoma didn't speak for a long while.
But as the lodge's doors opened before him, letting in the scent of herbal poultices and warm firelight, he murmured, "Then I want the next lesson."
Tralen smiled without warmth, but with approval. "Good. Because after tonight, they'll come looking for you."
.
Wounds of Wisdom
The lodge's infirmary wasn't lavish, but it was clean, quiet, and smelled of pine and crushed herbs. Ryoma sat on a low wooden bench, shirt off, as a guild healer examined the claw marks across his ribs. Bandages soaked in bitter-smelling salve were pressed against the wounds, and though he gritted his teeth, he didn't flinch.
From the nearby archway, Tralen stood watching, arms crossed.
"Pain's the best instructor," the older man said. "And lucky for you, it doesn't charge extra."
Ryoma glanced at him but didn't speak. His mind was elsewhere — replaying the moment all six eyes locked on him… the paralysis... the cold snap of terror that followed. And how he survived, not because of brute strength, but by choosing the right move under pressure.
When the healer finished, Tralen gave a small nod and motioned him to follow.
They left the warm chamber and stepped into the crisp morning air outside. It was early — the sun still yawning behind the eastern treetops, casting soft light over the high wooden walkways of the Wildborn Lodge. Tralen led him up one of the main platforms, where various training equipment lay scattered: weighted packs, mock traps, monster-hide dummies, and bows strung tight as steel cables.
He turned to Ryoma and spoke simply:
"Now, training begins."
Ryoma raised an eyebrow. "I thought that was yesterday."
Tralen smirked. "That was your welcome gift. Now I teach you how not to die next time."
He motioned toward a rack of gear — lighter armor, training knives, survival tools, each marked with scars from use. Then, with deliberate pace, he circled Ryoma.
"You have something most recruits don't," he said. "You observe. You don't flail. You didn't let panic make your choices. And," he added, tapping Ryoma's temple lightly, "you've got that sense. I've seen that look — like you're reading the forest like a map."
Ryoma nodded, cautious. "I can feel things sometimes. Fragments. Warnings."
"Don't trust them blindly," Tralen said sharply. "Your instincts are only as good as your judgment. That's what we're going to sharpen."
He tossed a short wooden blade to Ryoma, who caught it awkwardly with his bandaged hand.
Tralen grinned. "Lesson two: Use your wounds. A real hunter doesn't fight when he's strongest — he fights smart when he's weakest. That's when your choices matter."
Then, without another word, he stepped back and tapped the wooden floor twice.
Ryoma narrowed his eyes. The platform beneath his feet shuddered — a pressure plate?
Too late. The plank dropped suddenly, and Ryoma fell five feet into a narrow pit of tangled ropes and swinging sandbags.
"Welcome to Wildborn," Tralen called down. "Let's see how fast you learn to climb out — with one arm."
///Training : Learning to Fight While Wounded
Ryoma lay still for a moment after falling into the pit, catching his breath. The pain from his wounds pressed into his consciousness, but his strategic mind remained sharp. He knew that brute strength alone wouldn't save him; he needed to rely on his instincts and the environment around him.
His ability allowed him to sense vague clues—rough shapes of footholds, faint patterns in the wood grain—but details were incomplete. Still, it was enough to help him plan his next move.
Slowly, he reached out with his right hand, gripping a rope swinging lightly overhead. Each pull was calculated, conserving energy while testing the strength of the ropes. His injured left arm throbbed, forcing him to adjust his grip and balance carefully.
Tralen's voice echoed from above:
"Don't rush. Every choice you make right now costs you. Think before you move."
Ryoma scanned the pit walls. The ropes swayed unpredictably, some weighted sandbags threatened to knock him off balance. Using his partial perception, he found a series of small notches along the wall—worn by years of training—that offered footholds.
Step by step, he climbed out of the pit, focusing on minimizing unnecessary movements, his breathing steady.
As he reached the top, Tralen helped pull him out and said, "Good. Now, learn to keep your mind as steady as your body .
Training time: Precision and Patience
After catching his breath and wiping the sweat mixed with dirt from his brow, Ryoma followed Tralen toward the training courtyard. The morning light filtered softly through the towering pine trees surrounding the Wildborn lodge, casting long shadows that shifted with the gentle breeze.
Before them stood a row of wooden dummies swinging from ropes—each designed to mimic unpredictable, erratic monster movements. Tralen handed Ryoma a well-used bow, its surface scratched from years of service, and a quiver with several arrows.
"Now," Tralen said, his voice steady but firm, "this isn't just about strength. The Six-Eyed Wolf you faced is fast and powerful, but it's predictable in its chaos. Your job isn't to out-muscle it — it's to out-think it."
Ryoma nodded, drawing an arrow and nocking it with precision. His ability flickered in the back of his mind — faint sensory suggestions, fragmented glimpses of how the dummies would swing, the weight shifts, even the slight variations in the air currents caused by their movements.
He ignored the urge to trust these partial impressions blindly. Instead, he observed the dummies' patterns carefully, timing their swings and learning their rhythms.
Taking a slow breath, Ryoma released his arrow. It flew true, striking the center of a swinging dummy with a satisfying thud.
Tralen allowed a small smile. "Good. But you'll need more than one clean shot to survive out there. Patience and timing — those are your best allies."
He gestured toward a more complex setup — dummies swinging at irregular intervals, some faster than others.
"Try hitting the faster one next. And remember, your ability can hint at danger, but it can't see everything. Rely on your eyes and your mind."
Ryoma readied another arrow, focusing on the faster target, determined to make every shot count.
Training : Precision and Patience — Wrapping Up
Ryoma's arrow cut through the air, narrowly missing the faster dummy as it swung wildly. He adjusted his stance, eyes narrowing to track the unpredictable patterns. His partial perception buzzed faintly—a whispered hint of a moment to strike—but he resisted the urge to rely on it fully, focusing instead on observation and timing.
After several attempts, the rhythm became clearer. Each shot found its mark, one after another, and sweat dripped down his temple under the rising sun.
Tralen watched silently, arms crossed, then finally nodded approvingly. "Enough for today. You're learning to listen to the forest, not just your instincts. That's what separates hunters from the hunted."
He clapped Ryoma on the shoulder. "Tomorrow, we push further — endurance, tracking, survival. For now, rest and let your body heal. The real trials are just beginning."
Ryoma exhaled deeply, muscles aching but mind sharp, ready to face whatever challenges awaited him next.
/Suddenly, a tribe that seemed to have been ambushing him attacked him and knocked him unconscious.