Gurion exhaled sharply, his breath fogging faintly in the crisp mountain air. His fists snapped forward in a final, clean punch before he lowered his stance, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. Sweat clung to his fur-tipped ears and dripped down his bare arms. Four hours of relentless practice had brought him to this moment—the satisfying ache in his muscles and the quiet pride that came from pushing his limits.
"Done," he murmured to himself, a small smile tugging at his lips. "This was a good day."
His fox tail swayed lazily behind him, betraying the satisfaction he tried to keep contained. Turning, he reached for the rough, hand-stitched rucksack lying in the grass. "Time to bring back those herbs the chief asked for," he said, tightening the strap across his shoulder. "Wonder what kind of medicine Ka can make with these…" His voice trailed into a thoughtful hum as he cast a glance toward the valley below.
Woodsmen Creek lay in the distance—a modest cluster of homes surrounded by sprawling woodland, its edges hugging a clear, fast-moving river. Not far from its northern edge rose a cavern rich in minerals, a resource that had quietly supported the village for generations. It was an ideal place for fox-kin to thrive, and though small, it had always been safe.
The sun was still high overhead, the afternoon light spilling gold across the treetops as Gurion made his way down from the cliff path. The forest around him stirred with life—deer flitted between shadows, squirrels darted along the branches, and somewhere deeper in the undergrowth, foxes barked to one another. Their voices were familiar to his ears, as common here as the wind through the leaves.
But then, amid the natural chorus, a new sound broke through. Low, mechanical, and utterly foreign.
The churning grind of an engine.
He froze for a beat, ears swiveling toward the noise. A steamwagon.
"What the…?" he muttered under his breath before breaking into a jog, weaving through the narrow trails until the trees began to thin.
By the time he stepped into Woodsmen Creek, most of the villagers were already gathered in the open square, their eyes fixed on the strange machine that had rolled to a stop at the village center. It was an impressive vehicle—polished brass fittings gleaming in the sun, its steam vents hissing gently as it settled.
The crowd was mostly fox-kin like himself, though a handful of humans from the fishing families stood near the back. Gurion spotted the village chief standing at the forefront—a weathered old man with graying hair, his tail still full despite the years.
"Chief," Gurion called as he made his way through the onlookers, "what's going on? Were we expecting someone?"
The chief shook his head, his eyes never leaving the steamwagon. "No, Gurion. We weren't."
With a hiss of pressurized air, the wagon's side door swung open. Three strangers stepped down.
"Look at this place—it's perfect!" declared the first, a tall man in his thirties wearing a sharp black coat and a high-crowned top hat. A well-groomed mustache curled upward over a smile that was far too satisfied for Gurion's liking.
"I told you so, sir," said the second, a woman in a finely tailored yet modest dress. She adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and cast a pleased glance across the gathered villagers.
The third, a broad-shouldered man clad in polished armor, rested a hand on the haft of the axe strapped to his back. His eyes moved slowly from face to face. "A lot of fox-kin here," he observed, his tone unreadable.
The chief took a step forward, his voice calm but edged with caution. "Who are you? Why have you come here?"
"Oh, how terribly rude of me for not introducing myself!" the well-dressed man declared with theatrical flourish, pressing a hand to his chest as if struck by sudden guilt. In one smooth motion, he swept the top hat from his head and dipped into an exaggerated performer's bow.
"I am Avaro Crassus, owner of the Crassus Mining Company. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. The name alone was enough to stun them—the Crassus Mining Company wasn't simply one of the largest mining enterprises in Aetheria; it was the largest, with operations spanning across multiple countries. To have its owner standing here in person was surreal, unsettling even.
"Si–sir, I… I am sorry for not recognizing you," the chief stammered, bowing his head with genuine unease.
Avaro chuckled, waving the apology aside with a casual flick of his hand. "Oh, no need for that. All very unnecessary. Now, let's get down to business, shall we?" His smile widened, gleaming in the afternoon sun. "What is your price?"
The chief straightened, his brow furrowed. "My… price?"
"Yes," Avaro said, as though discussing the weather. "Your price, my good man. At what amount of coin will you sell me this place?"
Confusion spread through the villagers like a ripple through still water.
"This village isn't for sale," the chief said firmly, his tone still polite but carrying steel beneath it.
The woman beside Avaro adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and spoke up, her voice calm yet cutting. "Well, it is now. We're a mining company, and we are well aware of the exquisite cavern nearby—brimming with rich minerals. We want to mine it. So, come now, state a price so we can pay you. Otherwise…" She gave a faint, dismissive shrug. "We will have to get violent."
The threat was delivered so casually it made the air feel colder. A few villagers instinctively stepped back, their ears pinned low, tails stiff.
"You cannot do this!"
The voice cut through the tension like a knife. From the crowd stepped Ka, the village herbalist—a fox-kin woman with vivid orange hair, her amber eyes blazing. She strode forward until she stood nearly chest-to-chest with the bespectacled woman.
"You cannot just come into our home, demand a price for it, and threaten harm when we refuse!" she snapped, jabbing a finger at the woman's chest.
"Oh, but my dear," Avaro interjected smoothly, his tone almost playful, "that is exactly what we are doing. So—chop, chop. Name your price… or my associate here can be very creative with his axe."
He gestured toward the broad-shouldered man at his side, the one who had yet to speak. The armored stranger gave a slow, deliberate tap to the haft of his weapon.
But before he could take a single step, Gurion was already moving.
"Gurion, no!" the chief barked.
Too late. Gurion surged forward, sprinting straight at the axe-wielder. He leapt, knee driving upward into the man's jaw with bone-cracking force. The stranger's head snapped back, and he toppled to the ground in a heap, unconscious before he hit the dirt.
"Like hell we're just going to listen to you!" Gurion roared, spinning into a roundhouse kick aimed squarely at Avaro—
—aimed, but never landed.
"Oh, now that is simply impressive," Avaro said in a tone of delighted admiration. Without so much as flinching, he caught Gurion's leg mid-swing, his grip like iron.
"Look at you," Avaro went on, almost in awe. "Toned, disciplined… you've clearly trained every day to achieve a body like this. You look like you were made for fighting."
And then—disturbingly—he let a gloved finger trace slowly down Gurion's calf, as though appraising a prize horse.
The entire village stared in stunned silence. Gurion's ears burned hot as the shock wore off, replaced by raw anger.
"Le—let go of me!" he shouted, thrashing against the man's grip. But no matter how he pulled, Avaro's hold didn't budge.
The mining magnate turned his head toward the woman—Emelia—who was watching with a calm, calculating gaze.
"Emelia," he said, a spark of inspiration in his voice, "I think I have an idea."
"Oh, I believe I know exactly what it is, sir," she replied, narrowing her eyes at Gurion in a way that made his stomach twist.
And it was in that moment that Gurion's fate was sealed—he would be forced to fight in the tournament, to protect his village.