Chapter: 12 Carrion Sky

[Foothills of Mount Kharôth, just beyond Ember Hollow]

The mountain loomed like a sleeping behemoth, shrouded in storm-wracked clouds. Dark birds wheeled overhead—carrion crows and dusk ravens with rust-colored eyes. Their cries echoed like broken bells through the wind-scoured foothills.

Jumong trudged up the incline, the emberforged blade strapped to his back with frayed leather cord. Each step tested his legs, still sore from the trial. The scar on his palm where he had first gripped the molten steel itched beneath the glove.

"Flame remembers," he whispered.

He still didn't know what that meant.

A sound—a low growl, deep as churning gravel—rose behind the next ridge. He froze, crouched low, and crept forward through ferns and thornbrush.

Beyond, three adventurers—young, armored, cocky—stood over a blood trail. Their torches flickered even in daylight. One of them jabbed a spear at the trail's edge.

"It's wounded. A Bristleboar doesn't bleed like this unless it's near death."

"Then we're close. We finish it, we take the tusks to Ferren's Pass. Easy coin."

Jumong's eyes narrowed. The blood trail was wrong—too wide. Too much.

He sniffed. Iron and rot. Not boar.

The ravens above shrieked, spiraling lower.

"Turn back," Jumong muttered. "You're walking into its nest."

He crept closer, staying behind brush, silently drawing his emberforged blade. The warmth pulsed faintly—not alive, but aware.

Then the growl turned into a roar—a bubbling, gurgled croak of death.

"Kkkhhrruunn!"

From the far slope, the ground burst open.

A massive hulking shape clawed its way into the open—a Corpse-Binder Warg, its fur matted with congealed gore, ribs half-exposed, and eyes glowing with sickly orange hate.

It spoke in broken Beast-Tongue:

"Flesh... not yet rotted... warm..."

The adventurers screamed.

"Run!"

Too late. One was snatched in its jaws, crunched, and thrown aside like refuse.

The others bolted.

Jumong didn't.

He stepped out of the brush slowly.

"You've eaten enough."

The beast turned, snarled. Its breath smelled of bone dust and spoiled meat.

"You... are alone. Weak. Die."

Jumong planted his stance. No flourish. No drama. Just focus.

"Maybe."

He ducked low as the Warg lunged. Its claws scraped the ground, carving a trench. Jumong slid under its swing and slashed—cutting a shallow line across its forelimb. Ember flickered along the wound, sizzling rot.

The beast recoiled.

"Flame... burns...!"

Jumong didn't let up. He ran along its flank, slashing again, igniting small bursts with each cut. The emberforged blade responded—not stronger, but clearer.

Then it howled—a psychic screech that stabbed his skull. His knees buckled. Visions flashed: mangled corpses, devoured souls, screaming fire.

"Nggh!"

He stabbed the blade into the earth, grounding himself.

The ravens screamed above.

"Hunter..."

The Warg lunged once more—wilder now, unthinking.

Jumong didn't dodge. He stepped forward.

"[Ashlock Counter]!"

He twisted, deflected the charge with a pivot of his blade and elbow, and drove his knee into its cracked jaw. The impact jolted him, nearly broke his leg—but it staggered.

A red glyph flared for a second in his mind. Not gifted. Learned.

He struck again.

[Ferren's Pass – Outskirts]

The surviving adventurer stumbled into the outpost, half-mad.

"A monster—big as a barn, made of death—ate Ren! And some boy—he fought it alone—flames in his blade!"

Ferren's guards looked at each other.

"Another fool hunter," one muttered.

But the story would spread.

A name whispered with unease.

"Jumong."

Jumong knelt beside the Warg's smoking carcass, panting. The blade was dim now. Spent. He wiped sweat and blood from his brow.

He didn't cheer. Didn't smile.

"That wasn't skill. That was desperation."

He looked toward the distant lights of Ferren's Pass.

"Still not enough. Still too far to go."

The ravens circled once, then flew off toward the mountains.

He followed.

High above, unseen, cloaked in shadow and storm, a cloaked figure watched through a crystal lens.

"So... the ember stirs. And the hunter walks."

___

Jumong moved through the trees with a hunter's caution. His blade, now nicknamed Flintfang, was sheathed across his back. The fight with the Corpse-Binder Warg left his shoulder bruised and his ribs cracked. Still, he pressed on.

Each footstep was deliberate. The dew still clung to the underbrush. His ears tracked every rustle, every shift in the wind. Birds had stopped singing.

That meant something was nearby.

He paused, crouched, and studied the ground.

A thick hoofprint. Split toe. Deep impression. Recently made.

He pulled out his pocket-bound Hunter's Beastiary and flipped to the index. Based on size and terrain...

[Species: Ember-Stalk Bull]

Classification: Class D – Dangerous but Predictable.

Traits: Aggressive when startled. Emits volatile body heat during rutting season. Weak under the jawline.

Habitat: Lower ridge forests and volcanic plains.

Jumong underlined the final note.

"Under the jaw. That's where I strike."

He moved ahead carefully. This wasn't just for meat or coin—he needed to prove to himself that the last victory wasn't luck.

And maybe—if rumors held—an Ember-Stalk Bull's core glands could be used in Embercraft.

The beast stood nearly twice his height, its antlers glowing faintly orange, steam rising from its fur. Its nostrils flared as it sniffed the wind. Scars crisscrossed its flanks.

Jumong hid behind a fallen tree. Slowly, he tied a bait pouch with crushed frost-moss and slung it under a stone. Ember-Stalks hated cold smells.

He drew Flintfang and wrapped a wet cloth around the hilt to keep the blade cool. Then, he readied his rope-hook and waited.

Minutes passed.

The bull snorted, pawed the dirt, then caught the scent.

It roared—a harsh, low-toned bellow. Not a battle-cry, but a warning.

"Throommrrhh...!"

Jumong circled, keeping low, waiting for the beast to charge the moss pouch.

When it did, he ran in from the flank. One quick swing—no delay.

"[Split-Jaw Draw]!"

His blade scraped under the chin. Not deep enough. The bull turned, blood dribbling down its neck.

Its eyes locked on him.

"Mistake," Jumong hissed, retreating behind a tree.

The bull charged. The impact cracked bark and sent splinters flying. Jumong rolled, slashed again—this time hitting closer to the gland.

Steam burst from the wound.

"Almost there."

He threw a rope around its rear leg, anchored it to a root with a spike, and pulled tight. The bull stumbled. Jumong sprinted forward.

"[Stagger Fang]!"

The blade pierced the weak point fully this time.

The Ember-Stalk screamed—high and gurgled—and collapsed.

Jumong knelt by the carcass, breathing hard. He cut away the gland, wrapped it in cooled ashcloth, and marked the location on his map.

"One fight at a time."

He looked at the mountains ahead.

"I'm still nobody. But I can hunt."

He packed his things and started walking north—toward the valley of Kharôth's Teeth, where darker beasts were said to roam.

Hunter's Beastiary Entry – Updated

Name: Ember-Stalk Bull

Classification: Class D

Danger Level: Moderate – Approach with bait or frost-smell diversions. Avoid frontal charges.

Known Weakness: Under-jaw Ember Gland.

Use in Embercraft: Early-stage flame channeling.