James kept his elevated position, moving carefully along the ridge as the scout disappeared into the ravine below. The terrain shifted—thicker foliage, deeper shadows, and the distinct scent of damp earth mingled with something sharper… acrid, almost metallic.
A hidden camp? No, something bigger.
Pressing forward, he maneuvered around the rocky edge, keeping his profile low. Below, the scout had reached what seemed to be the entrance of a hidden cavern, concealed by natural overgrowth and jagged rock formations. James squinted—not just a hideout, but an operation.
Several figures stood guard at the mouth of the cave, each dressed in mismatched armor—stolen military gear, repurposed leather, unmistakable signs of a well-equipped raider faction. Supplies were stacked in crates near the entrance, marked with insignias James recognized—not merchant goods, but stolen shipments from high-tier hunters.
This wasn't just a bandit camp—it was a Black market hub.
His pulse quickened. If the Red Fang Raiders were dealing in stolen hunter supplies, weapons, and possibly 'forbidden artifacts', then their influence stretched far beyond simple highway raids. This meant someone was funding them, orchestrating something bigger than a handful of rogue criminals.
James steadied his breath. He had the confirmation he needed, but this changed everything.
---
James steadied his breath, keeping low against the rocks. Retreating would be the safest choice—but safety rarely led to answers. If these raiders were dealing in stolen hunter supplies and illicit goods, then someone above them was pulling the strings. He needed proof.
He scanned the guards, noting their rotations and blind spots. The eastern entry—just beyond the collapsed stone ridge—wasn't as heavily patrolled, likely used only for supply drops. If he could slip through, he might be able to overhear exchanges between the raiders and their suppliers.
His fingers brushed against the dagger at his belt, reassurance more than a weapon of choice. If infiltration went sideways, he'd need a fast exit.
A soft murmur carried through the air—a voice from deeper within the cavern, sharp yet composed.
"Payment has been processed. The next shipment arrives in three days. The hunters won't even realize what's missing."
James stilled. This was bigger than stolen goods—someone on the inside was leaking information.
He adjusted his grip on the rock ledge. No turning back now.
---
James moved carefully along the ridge, keeping low as he positioned himself closer to the cavern's entrance. His heartbeat remained steady, his breathing controlled—but something felt off. The air had shifted, carrying a faint vibration through the rocks beneath him.
A sense of unease crept in. Someone was nearby. Watching.
He stilled.
A guard, positioned just inside the cavern, had paused mid-step. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing toward the ledge above—right where James had stopped. The moment stretched unbearably long.
James tightened his grip on the stone. Had he made a noise? Had his movement drawn attention?
The guard's posture shifted—testing the silence, listening for the slightest giveaway. The tension thickened.
Then, a sudden shout from deeper inside the cave broke the moment. The guard turned toward the source, distracted.
James exhaled silently, releasing the tension from his muscles. That had been too close.
He moved back by inches, keeping his balance as he slowly pulled himself away from the ridge. Any further risk wasn't worth it—not yet. He had gained critical information, but now he had to retreat without leaving a trace.
With calculated precision, he withdrew into the underbrush, his form dissolving into the forest's embrace.
---
James moved swiftly through the underbrush, carefully avoiding any disturbed ground that might leave traces of his passage. The Red Fang Raiders' mention of an incoming shipment three days from now meant they had an established route—one that could be tracked.
He paused at a vantage point, scanning the forest for signs of previous movement—broken branches, disturbed soil, cart tracks. His sharp gaze caught faint ruts in the earth, partially concealed by leaves but unmistakable to a hunter's trained eye.
A supply route.
Following the trail, he noted the terrain shifting—a subtle path carved through the dense woodland, used frequently but concealed from common travelers. This wasn't a random operation. Whoever was supplying the raiders was careful, methodical, ensuring their shipments remained hidden from standard patrols.
Hours passed as James followed the route, leading toward a clearing just beyond the ridge. As he crouched behind thick foliage, his breath slowed.
There it was—the caravan.
Wooden carts lined with thick tarps, crates stacked carefully atop them. Two armed guards lingered at the edge of the clearing, keeping watch while others secured the goods. He could make out symbols on the crates—familiar insignias from high-ranking hunters, proof that the goods were stolen shipments meant for legitimate missions.
James tightened his grip on his bow. He had enough intel now, but he needed a choice—intervene now, or hold position until he learned who was in charge.
This was no ordinary raid. This was an orchestrated supply chain.
---
James steadied himself, keeping to the shadows as he observed the caravan. He wasn't here to make reckless moves—he needed to see who was in charge, the one orchestrating the stolen shipments.
The guards stationed around the carts moved with professional precision, not the usual disorganized chaos of common bandits. This was well-managed, structured, and that meant someone with authority was overseeing the operation.
Then, a shift.
A figure emerged from one of the covered carts, stepping down onto the forest floor with a deliberate ease. The leader.
The man carried himself with the confidence of someone accustomed to control, dressed in lightweight armor reinforced with dark plating—nothing standard issue, nothing recognizable. A short sword rested at his hip, but it wasn't the weapon that caught James's attention.
It was the 'crest' etched onto the bracer at the man's wrist.
James tensed. 'The town mayor's insignia'.
This wasn't just a rogue faction. The way the operation was handled—the stolen shipments, the careful concealment, the organization—it showed signs of the mayor being involved. Whether direct or indirect, this suggested ties to someone in town leadership, someone with the power to ensure that suspicion never fell where it shouldn't.
The leader exchanged quiet words with a courier, gesturing toward the crates before handing over a sealed document, thick with parchment and wax. Orders, logistics, payments—proof that someone higher up was pulling the strings.
James had what he needed, but this revelation changed everything.
His grip tightened around the edge of the rock he hid behind.
This report would shake the Mission Hall. And if this man saw him now, he wouldn't walk away unscathed.
----
James steadied himself, knowing he couldn't leave without getting a closer look. The stolen shipments were important—but if the crates contained something more valuable, something dangerous, then the true scale of this operation was far worse than he had anticipated.
Waiting until the guards turned their focus elsewhere, he slipped through the shadows, nearing one of the carts stacked with cargo. His fingers found the edge of a wooden crate, worn but reinforced, sealed with thick iron clasps. Carefully, he loosened one of the lids, tilting it open just enough to see inside.
His breath hitched.
Monster cores. Not just low-tier ones—intermediate rank.
Nestled among layers of protective cloth, the cores pulsed faintly, their energy not entirely dormant. These weren't simple spoils from minor hunts—these were dangerous, rare materials, extracted from beasts whose power exceeded normal hunting ranks.
James clenched his jaw. Why would raiders need cores like these? Who were they supplying?
The implications spiraled. Monster cores could be used for weapons, enchantments, experimental magic—but in the wrong hands, they could fuel forbidden practices, enhance individuals beyond natural limits, or worse—become catalysts for uncontrolled disasters.
The faint rustle of movement snapped him back to the present—a guard shifting nearby.
James eased the lid shut, retreating just as footfalls approached the carts. His cover was intact, but this revelation demanded action. This wasn't just stolen goods. This was something bigger, something dangerous.
Now, the real question: Did he retreat and inform the Mission Hall immediately, or attempt to track where these cores were being delivered?
The weight of his decision pressed against him—he couldn't afford to make the wrong move now.
---