Chapter 1: The Unexpected Guest

The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed down the winding, rugged road.

It lay neither close nor far from the village, often trodden by farmers' ploughs and rarely used by travelers.

At the ridge's edge, a dog barked sharply, alert to something unseen, while a cat, sensing the same disturbance, arched its back and vanished in a blink of an eye.

Animals had always been sensitive to magic and enchantments.

The sound of the hooves belonged to a weathered, half-starved horse carrying a young man on its back.

Lane gripped the reins firmly, guiding his mount with care.

Willen, a remote province in the northern kingdom of Temoria, was the poorest of all.

Though its vibrant, overgrown landscape might seem inviting at first glance, anyone with half a brain would know that beneath the beauty lay something far darker—something more insidious.

Underneath the dense vegetation were swamps and deadly miasmas. The abundant water and foliage supported an array of creatures, but they offered no comfort to humans.

In fact, the creatures that thrived here were often far more dangerous than the treacherous land itself.

Swamps no one dared visit, poor villages inhabited by surly, unwelcoming peasants, and monsters lurking just beyond sight—this was the true face of Willen.

The weary farmers working in the fields would pause only to observe the occasional stranger passing through, a rare spectacle in their bleak lives.

One such farmer now fixed his gaze on Lane, studying the traveler intently.

The boy's face was pale, betraying exhaustion, yet he still radiated a quiet energy.

His features were different from those of mainland humans—his eye sockets not deep enough, his nose too slight—but he was clean, his skin unmarred.

Clearly human, yet distant, unfamiliar.

Still, that was better than the inhuman races that roamed these lands—the elves, dwarves, and other rejected folk, who were always regarded with suspicion, if not outright hatred.

At least this one is human, the farmer thought, from some far-flung place so remote the king can't even bother to piss on it. Better that than a murderous non-human.

The farmer, his hands rough and worn from years of work, snorted twice and spat a thick wad of phlegm into the dirt.

Lane wore cheap, blue cotton armor, worn to a shine and patched where the seams burst at his waist. His cracked leather boots, though lacking proper soles, still managed to carry him across the rough terrain.

And he had a sword, a common enough sight in Willen.

But the sword was strapped across his back—a strange choice. Even a simple farmer knew no one carried a sword that way. How would he draw it in time to defend himself?

The farmer was about to laugh, mocking the impracticality, despite his own ragged state.

Then, in a fleeting moment, the boy's eyes met his.

Cat eyes—yellow and slitted.

Mutant freak!

The farmer's sneer twisted into panic. He stumbled back, shouting as if he'd seen a deadly plague, retreating as if the very sight of the boy might curse him.

Even as he fell back, the farmer's hands and feet scrambled frantically, trying to retreat.

A pair of cat-like eyes—that was the unmistakable mark of a demon hunter.

Long ago, ancient human mages had created these mutated warriors to rid the world of monsters. What began as a noble mission had, in modern times, become a curse. Demon hunters were now feared as much as the beasts they hunted.

Lane sighed softly, barely audible, as he reminded himself: Even a magical Middle Ages is still the Middle Ages.

Ignorance always walks hand in hand with fear.

His amber eyes flickered toward the fallen farmer.

With a gentle tug on the reins, Lane guided the horse, an old creature past its prime. Though docile, the animal was weak and famished, having carried him for over a week without rest.

The poor beast had learned the hard way, with a few lashes, to stay upright even when exhausted.

Lane sighed again.

The farmer's dog, a loyal black-and-white mutt, barked fiercely despite the danger. It darted between the hooves of Lane's horse, determined to protect its master at all costs.

Lane held his breath, keeping the horse steady, careful not to trample the brave dog.

The dog, panting with hunger but relentless, bounded toward its fallen master. But just as it leapt, a dark blur whipped past Lane's legs.

Whoosh!

Thud!

The sharp crack of air split the silence, followed by a pained yelp. Blood sprayed through the air as the dog's body twisted mid-leap, an arrow buried deep in its chest.

The dog's lifeless form slammed into the farmer's feet, twitching violently before falling still.

The farmer froze in shock.

Lane's expression, once soft, hardened instantly. His entire body tensed, as did the weary horse beneath him.

A towering figure on horseback approached leisurely, passing Lane without so much as a glance.

The man was built like a bear, with thick hair and a frame to match. But his face was cold, devoid of emotion, as frozen as a block of ice.

Two swords hung across his back, while his body was encased in a finely crafted suit of armor—chainmail, leather, iron, and cloth layered intricately into a coat that draped to his calves.

A pendant of a snarling bear's head swung from his neck, its teeth bared in a perpetual growl. And his eyes—just like Lane's—were a sharp, piercing amber.

The man bent low over his horse, effortlessly yanking the dog's corpse from the ground, retrieving the crossbow bolt in one fluid motion as he rode past the farmer.

It was astonishing to see someone move with such ease, especially while wearing what must have been thirty kilos of armor.

The dog's body twitched in its death throes, its last whimpers pitiful and heart-wrenching.

But the man didn't even glance at it.

With a grunt, he pulled the bolt free, wiping it clean on the dog's fur before slipping it back into his quiver.

Then, without a word, he tossed the lifeless dog at Lane.

The young hunter barely reacted, catching the limp body with practiced hands. He felt the life ebbing from the creature, still warm but rapidly fading.

Lane wasn't used to it. He refused to become desensitized, to let this life, this weight in his hands, mean nothing.

But outwardly, his reaction was barely a twitch—so subtle it was almost imperceptible.

His expression, like the man's, quickly turned to stone.

"What do you plan to do with it, Borden?" Lane asked, his voice calm but cold.

"That's our lunch," Borden replied, his tone as flat as his expression.

"Dogs. Good eating."

To most people, a dog was more than just an animal. Whether cherished as pets or valued as loyal workers, dogs held a special place in the hearts of humans.

But to Borden, it was nothing more than a slab of meat.

Lane's face remained impassive as he glanced at his companion. "We should stop drawing attention, Borden. You know what's at stake."

His hands trembled slightly, but that didn't stop him from hooking the dog's body onto the saddle. It hung like a butcher's prize, lifeless and still.

Borden's amber eyes, cold and calculating, shifted toward the farmer, who remained paralyzed in the field.

Suddenly, the farmer's trousers were soaked with fear.

"You're right," Borden muttered. "I'm a wanted man, after all."

He dismounted, the clink of his composite armor breaking the silence. Instead of drawing one of the swords on his back, he reached for the dagger at his chest.

Lane knew instantly what was about to happen.

Borden intended to kill.

Lane knew all too well that for a hunter like Boldon—someone who had long since shed any trace of emotion, whose life revolved solely around money and survival—taking a human life meant nothing. Killing to cover his tracks was a decision that wouldn't cause him a moment's hesitation.

Lane's own face remained expressionless.

With an awkward stumble, he dismounted from the old horse and moved quickly toward Boldon.

The farmer, still clutching his hoe with trembling hands, looked devastated. His courage, if he had any left, barely kept him from collapsing entirely. He didn't even attempt to stand, though the raised hoe was a weak semblance of defiance.

"Wait, Boldon!"

Lane's voice cut through the tense air as he closed the last few meters between them.

He kept a careful distance from Boldon, remembering too well what happened last time he'd touched the older hunter's armor. Boldon had snapped three tree branches over his back in punishment, warning that if it happened again, Lane would lose a hand.

To Boldon, his Bear School armor was far more valuable than a young apprentice's life.

"We can't just kill him," Lane continued, his voice cold and calculating. "Killing leaves a mark. We don't need that."

Though Lane's expression betrayed no concern for the farmer's life, his reasoning was practical, focused solely on their mission.

Boldon hesitated, his dagger hovering in the air. Though the mutation had drained him of emotion, it hadn't robbed him of his ability to think.

With a grunt, he sheathed his blade.

Lane allowed himself the slightest, unseen sigh of relief.

After a moment's thought, Boldon's sharp amber gaze flicked from the farmer to Lane. He broke the silence with a question. "How's your progress with the Axii sign?"

Axii, one of the five signs in the witcher's arsenal, was used to manipulate minds, bending them to the caster's will.

Lane's cat-like eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second before returning to normal. When he looked back at Boldon, his expression was unreadable.

"I haven't been practicing. You're the one who sets the training schedule. You'd know," Lane replied, his tone steady, neutral.

Boldon scratched his thick beard. "Hmph. You just need to focus on Quen for now."

Quen, the protective shield sign, was crucial in warding off physical harm.

Without another word, Boldon walked past Lane, and this time, the boy didn't move to stop him.

From behind Boldon, a faint ripple of magic stirred in the air. The farmer's tense, fearful expression shifted into a blank, vacant stare.

"You didn't see anyone today," Boldon murmured in a monotone, his lips barely moving. "Your dog ran into the woods, and you're too scared to follow."

The farmer's head nodded slowly, eyes glassy and distant.

Satisfied, Boldon continued walking without looking back. Lane followed a moment later, though his clumsy attempt to mount the horse caused a slight delay.

Boldon, well aware of Lane's struggles with riding, paid no mind. He had no reason to watch.

But in that brief window, Lane's amber eyes flicked toward the dazed farmer. With a subtle gesture of his left hand, a faint shimmer of magic danced in the air.

A perfect Axii sign—a flawlessly formed triangle—materialized in the space between Lane's fingers.

The farmer's once-clouded eyes sharpened for a moment, the confusion lifting ever so slightly.

"Good luck, unlucky man," Lane muttered under his breath, too soft for anyone but himself to hear.

"Heh, no."

Lane's gaze shifted as he finally mounted his horse with a smooth, practiced motion. His amber eyes narrowed against the light, a predator's focus settling in, calm yet resolute—like a tiger ready to strike.

"Good luck to both of us."