The hunt had begun

Michael walked alone through the winding paths of the village, the fading light of the sun casting long, slanted shadows across the dirt road. The warmth of the day lingered in the air, but the cool fingers of approaching night brushed against his skin. Trees whispered in the breeze behind the houses, and the scent of firewood and early evening filled the air.

His steps were slow. Not because he was tired—though he certainly was—but because his mind was full.

"Torren. The White Mage. That name..."

The moment the elder had spoken those words, something had shifted in Michael. It wasn't just the revelation that Torren had been searching for the White Mage. It was the deeper connection, the emotion behind his words, the quiet fire that had burned in his eyes.

"What connects them?" Michael wondered, narrowing his eyes at the path ahead.

He tried to think back to everything he knew about Torren. Loyal, clever, strong—but always carrying something heavy in his chest, something unspoken. And that look, that voice, when he mentioned the Mage in White...

"Was it hate? Grief? Revenge?"

Michael rubbed his temples, trying to piece it all together. His thoughts jumped, fragmented like broken glass.

Then something darker crept in.

"What if... what if he's one of them?"

He stopped in his tracks.

Every night, the same nightmare. He would see them—dark silhouettes in smoke, figures of immense presence. And one of them, always in the center, was draped in white. Eyes like burning suns, voice like thunder in the void.

Michael's breath caught.

"Could it be the same person? Could the White Mage that Torren mentioned be the same as the figure in my dreams? Or worse... could Torren be one of them?"

"No," he said aloud, shaking his head. "That doesn't make sense. Torren's my friend."

But the thought had already embedded itself, a thorn that refused to dislodge.

He looked up. His house was just ahead, nestled quietly at the edge of the village. The sky above had turned to dusk, painted in hues of violet and ember. A single star blinked into view.

He stood at the threshold, hand resting on the wooden doorframe. The scent of home was calming—slightly dusty, a bit of firewood and old parchment.

But his thoughts were anything but calm.

"What's the truth behind the White Mage?"

"And why, of all people, does Torren want to kill him?"

Michael stepped inside and closed the door softly behind him, as if trying not to wake the questions that had already stirred too deeply to sleep.

That night, as Michael lay in bed and finally slipped into slumber, silence reigned over the small wooden home. But in the depths of his mind, not all was still.

In the farthest recess of his subconscious, a presence stirred. A figure sat in darkness, his shape cloaked in shadows—familiar, yet distinct. His posture was relaxed, yet something about his smile sent a chill through the void around him.

It was Demon Michael.

His lips curled into a thin smile—not one of joy or amusement, but something deeper, more knowing.

"So... that's where you are. I never imagined I'd glimpse him again—not through your eyes. And yet, here he is."

He leaned back against the void, arms crossed.

"Fate's a twisted thing. But I suppose I should've known better than to think our kind wouldn't cross paths again."

There was no anger in his voice. No hatred. Only a simmering recognition. A connection left unspoken, but deeply understood.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if savoring a memory. Then, with a quiet chuckle, he said, "I wonder how long it will take you to realize. How long before you see it... see him... for what he really is."

He opened his eyes—red, glowing faintly in the darkness.

"Enjoy your sleep while it lasts. Morning will come, and so will the truth."

And with that, the shadowed Michael faded deeper into the subconscious, leaving only the echo of his smile behind.

The sun had barely crested over the treetops when Michael awoke. He stretched, dressed quickly, and headed toward the arena, where today's gathering was to begin. The dust along the path was still cool beneath his boots, and a faint mist clung to the grass near the village center.

He arrived to find nearly everyone already assembled. Familiar faces filled the space—Torren, Katsu, Felix, Rob, Renald, Akatsuki, Elaira, Blitz, and a few of the others he hadn't yet spoken to. The elder stood off to the side, calmly observing the gathering group.

Only Zigrane was absent.

Michael shared brief greetings with a few of the others, though he kept his distance from Blitz. Something about the way the lightning wielder carried himself rubbed Michael the wrong way. His lazy demeanor, his smug smirk—it all screamed of arrogance.

Before long, Zigrane came, and his presence was anything but calm. His boots slammed against the ground with each step as he approached Blitz, eyes already narrowed in fury.

"You!" he barked, jabbing a finger at him. "Do you know what you did? Because of your idiotic stunt yesterday, my father nearly beat the life out of me!"

Blitz raised an eyebrow but didn't look particularly concerned. "You're welcome?" he offered sarcastically.

Zigrane's fists clenched. "Don't play dumb! He called it a disgrace—losing like that to a weakling. He made me train nonstop from sunset until dawn. I can barely move!"

"But we won, didn't we?" Blitz replied coolly. "That's what matters."

Zigrane looked ready to explode, but before things could escalate, the elder stepped forward, voice firm.

"That's enough," he said. The air immediately grew still. "You'll have your chance to let off steam soon enough. For now, listen."

Everyone turned their attention to the elder as he motioned for the group to follow him. He led them away from the arena, down a quiet path into the woods. After several minutes, they emerged into a small clearing Michael hadn't seen before—surrounded by thick trees and dappled with morning light.

"This is the setting for your next trial," the elder announced. "Somewhere in this forest lies a hidden sphere. Your task is simple—find it."

There was a buzz of anticipation.

"However," the elder continued, "just finding it won't be enough. The team that retrieves it must bring it back to me, intact. Only then will they be declared the winners."

Several heads turned to scan the woods behind them. The trees were dense, and the terrain uneven. Finding the sphere would be no simple matter.

"You may use any abilities or tactics you see fit. But remember, this is a test of strategy, endurance, and trust in your teammate."

Michael looked over at Torren, who gave him a nod. They'd faced worse.

"You may begin," the elder declared.

In a flash, the clearing erupted into movement. Teams scattered in all directions, diving into the woods like wolves on a hunt. Only Blitz and Zigrane remained behind for a moment, glaring at each other.

"I'm not working with you," Zigrane spat, before bolting into the forest.

"Perfect," Blitz muttered and walked off in a completely different direction.

Unseen behind the thick curtain of trees, two figures stood in silence, watching the contestants disappear one by one.

They wore heavy, hooded cloaks—the same kind Michael had once seen worn by a certain man named Billy. One of the cloaked figures was indeed Billy himself. He stood with arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the direction Zigrane had run.

"So full of pride," he muttered. "But it'll make him stronger."

His companion leaned on a tree lazily, smirking. "You sure about letting him get pounded again?"

Billy's lips curled into a shadow of a grin. "Just make it fun. Especially for him. Let's see what he's really learned."

With that, the two figures disappeared into the woods, blending with the trees like spirits.

And thus, the hunt had begun.