As I woke the next morning, the first rays of sunlight slipped through the wooden shutters and landed across my face.
The warmth pulled me slowly from sleep.
For a moment, I simply stared at the ceiling above me, listening to the quiet sounds of the house waking around me, the faint crackle of the morning fire, the soft movement of my mother in the kitchen, the distant rustle of wind brushing against the trees outside.
Then I sat up.
Today was different.
Today marked my first day of training.
I stepped toward the small mirror hanging against the wall.
Its surface was old and uneven, the reflection slightly warped around the edges, but it was enough.
I looked at myself.
I had grown.
More than I had realized.
My dark hair had become longer now, falling past my forehead in loose strands, just enough to curtain my eyes whenever I wanted it to.
Useful.
My eyes were still the same.
Dull.
Unreadable, for a reason.
The same eyes that never seemed to reveal what I was thinking.
The truth there is nothing beyond these eyes.
But my face…
If I compared myself to most of the children in the village, I had a certain sharpness to my features.
A quiet charm.
Something I knew I had inherited from my mother.
The traces of her elven beauty had found their way into me.
Softer lines.
Cleaner features.
Something almost out of place in a village carved from hardship.
I brushed my hair back quickly with my fingers and stepped outside.
The morning air was cool and fresh.
The scent of wet earth and woodsmoke still lingered in the village paths.
My father was already waiting.
Wooden swords in hand.
I had no real experience in fighting.
None at all.
No battles, no instincts, no natural talent.
But for now…
I had a mentor.
My father, Mika.
He was no master of daggers.
But he was a hunter.
A survivor.
And for someone like me, that was enough.
He could teach me the basics.
How to stand with a sword.
How to move on a battlefield.
How not to die easily.
We started with wooden swords.
The weather was unusually beautiful.
A clear blue sky stretched overhead, and sunlight spilled across the open patch of land beside our house where we trained.
The first strike came fast.
Then another.
Then another.
I was getting hit from every direction.
My arms barely had time to react before wood met wood with a sharp crack that echoed through the morning.
Sometimes I blocked.
Most times I failed.
The sting ran down my wrists every time our swords clashed.
Still… I was learning.
Every step backward taught me balance.
Every failed block taught me timing.
Every hit taught me what not to do again.
Sweat gathered along my forehead.
My breathing grew heavier.
Across from me, my father smiled.
Not mockingly.
Proudly.
Every time our wooden swords locked together, I could see it.
A small smile beneath the sweat on his face.
As though every clash was proof that I was getting better.
My mother once told me that a sword was how hunters spoke.
Each clash carried meaning.
Intent.
Power.
A conversation without words.
Today, for the first time, I was beginning to understand that.
By the time training ended, the sun had already begun to sink.
The sky had softened into shades of gold and orange.
My arms ached.
My shoulders burned.
Even lifting the wooden sword had begun to feel heavy.
But strangely…
I wanted more.
Alongside the sword training, I had started forcing my body to grow stronger.
Morning runs.
Push-ups.
Lifting whatever weight I could find.
Branches.
Stones.
Buckets of water.
My body was still weak.
Still small.
But pain had become part of the routine.
This time, pain that I chose to tolerate.
At least, it meant progress.
Later, my mother helped prepare the bath.
It was nothing luxurious.
Just a large wooden barrel placed in the corner of the house.
Big enough for me, for now.
Steam rose gently from the hot water they had heated over the fire.
The moment I lowered myself into it, the ache in my muscles began to soften.
Heat wrapped around my sore limbs.
The sting faded.
My mother knelt beside the barrel and gently cleaned the dirt and sweat from my skin.
Her movements were patient.
Careful.
Quiet.
I said nothing.
But I did not move away.
That evening, my father made an exception.
As a reward for my first day of training, he allowed me to sit with the hunters around the fire.
The gathering was held near the edge of the village where the jungle began.
A large fire burned at the center, its flames rising high enough to paint the faces around it in shifting shades of orange and red.
The hunters looked exactly as I imagined men who fought monsters would.
Broad shoulders.
Rough hands.
Faces marked by old scars and half-healed cuts.
Some had thick beards darkened by ash and smoke.
Others wore leather shoulder guards patched together from monster hide.
Their weapons rested beside them: spears, hunting blades, old swords with edges worn from use.
These were not just polished warriors.
These were also survivors.
I sat close to my father.
Close enough to feel his presence.
He was proudly telling everyone about my training.
How I held the sword.
How fast I learn.
How one day I'll become a hunter greater than even him.
The others laughed warmly.
Some ruffled my hair.
Others nodded with approving smiles.
I remained still.
Listening.
Watching.
This was the closest thing to pride I had ever seen directed at me.
As bowls of hot soup were passed around the fire, one of the hunters suddenly looked toward the horizon.
It was a clear night,
His name was Fury.
A tall man with a scar cutting across one side of his jaw and thick, fire-colored hair that explained his name better than words ever could.
He raised a finger and pointed into the darkness beyond the village.
Far away
a faint red light glowed.
Small.
Steady.
Almost like an eye watching from the distance.
Fury grinned.
"Listen, Ere."
"Since we're around the fire tonight, that means it's time for tradition."
My father chuckled beside me.
"Don't go scaring the boy."
But I felt nothing close to fear.
Only curiosity.
Fury leaned closer, letting the firelight sharpen the lines of his face.
"A hundred years ago, there was a dwarven village near here."
His tone shifted.
More serious now.
"They were strong."
"Strong enough that our village felt safer just knowing they were there."
"They traded with us."
"Armor."
"Swords."
"Tools."
"In return, we gave them cooked food and supplies from the jungle."
He paused.
"There was a chief named Dain."
"The kindest dwarf you could ever meet."
Even the hunters around the fire grew quieter.
Then Fury's voice lowered.
"One night, the village was attacked."
"A demon-class monster."
"They say its scales couldn't be pierced by ordinary steel."
"No mage."
"No powerful wielder."
"No way to stop it."
"They all were killed brutally."
Silence settled around the fire.
This was no ghost story.
This was a memory.
One passed generation to another
A wound the village still carried.
I looked around.
The men who had laughed moments ago now stared quietly into their bowls.
Faces heavy with fear and sadness.
Fury pointed once more toward the red light.
"You see that?"
"They say it was a signal."
"A spell used by the dwarves to call for help."
"But no one ever came."
"And somehow…"
"It still burns."
"One hundred years later."
"The kingdom investigated it before."
"But every morning there's nothing there."
I had stopped eating.
My soup had gone cold in my hands.
The others laughed lightly, assuming I had been frightened into silence.
But inside…
something else had taken hold.
Questions.
Why are there villages beyond the three kingdoms?
How could an entire dwarven settlement fall to a single monster?
If even the dwarves could die that way…
What chance did someone like me truly have?
Strength alone clearly wasn't enough.
Magic.
I needed magic.
I was still a year away from my poor chance to awaken as a mage.
But if nothing came,
then in this world, the choice was simple.
Hide.
Or die.
And neither sat well with me.