After surviving a brutal hunt against Kruug, a Feralblood Ogre, Jumong earns the respect of his squad. He plays a vital role in the kill, landing the final shot using a technique passed down from his forgotten past—[Hunter's Grace]. Though not yet officially promoted, he is no longer viewed as a mere Kindling. The fire is growing.
[A clearing beside the River Gholl, two days after the battle]
A pale crescent moon shimmered on the water's surface. Frogs croaked softly beneath reeds. The wind was cool, brushing through the grass like ghost fingers.
The hunters rested around a smoldering fire. No one spoke at first. Wounds still ached. Scars were fresh.
Jumong sat apart, back against a tree, tending to Ashwing—his hawk had returned with a broken wing. The creature nipped his fingers gently as he applied poultice to the joint.
"You're lucky," Jumong whispered. "So am I, I guess."
Ashwing clicked softly.
From the fire, Lira watched him. Her sabers were laid out in front of her, and she cleaned them in silence.
"Is it true what Torren said?" Jumong asked finally, not looking up. "That the Feralbloods used to be human?"
Lira didn't answer right away.
Then: "Some say they were. Others say they were born of the Earth's grief—monsters birthed from wars we lost control over. Doesn't really matter now."
He looked up. "It matters to me."
She exhaled. "You want to understand the world you're killing. That's rare."
"Is that bad?"
"No." She hesitated. "Just dangerous."
She stood, walked over, and crouched beside him. "You've got something in you, Jumong. But fire without control burns everything."
He didn't speak.
She nodded at Ashwing. "Keep your hawk alive. And keep something human in yourself, too."
Then she left him alone.
___
[The Hollow Wars and Birth of the Feralblood]
Centuries ago, when the Anima Deep stirred violently, the southern lands broke apart in what is now known as the Hollow Wars. Mortal kingdoms tore each other apart fighting for Embersteel and relics of the First Flame. Those who touched corrupted shards or bathed in wild Veinstorms were forever changed.
The Feralblood were born from that madness—once-human warriors whose bodies adapted to chaos Veins. They were neither man nor beast… and they still remember pain.
This is why the Lodge marks Feralblood kills differently. Each one slain is more than a monster—it's a mercy.
___
[Return to the Fangwood Lodge]
The trek back was slow.
Jumong walked beside Torren, who offered a quiet nod of respect now and then. Brenna limped with a new scar across her ribs and a grin that refused to die. Kirr said little, but he sharpened Jumong's arrows without being asked.
Lira rode ahead on her drakehound, hood drawn low.
The gates of the Fangwood Lodge creaked open at dusk.
Harken met them at the threshold.
"Well," he said, eyeing the bloodied trophies and bruised limbs. "Didn't think I'd see you all again."
Torren dropped Kruug's tusk at his feet.
"And the pup?" Harken asked.
Lira stepped forward. "Jumong lands the kill. His tactics bought us the opening."
Harken frowned at Jumong. "Still Kindling."
Lira's voice sharpened. "But not for long."
The old hunter grunted, scratching his beard. "We'll see."
[Emberlight Testing Chamber, Lodge Basement]
Jumong stood in the circular chamber, veins glowing faintly beneath his skin. Before him, a basin of still water, lit by emberlight candles. It was said the water could read the heat of one's spirit.
Harken watched.
"Drop your blood," he instructed.
Jumong did.
The droplet sizzled—and bloomed red, then orange. Not enough to ignite. But the ripple danced wider than before.
"Still not Cinder," Harken muttered. "But you're close."
He handed Jumong a token—Ashbadge of Merit.
"Not a rank," Harken said, "but proof. You've burned something worth remembering."
Jumong clutched it, unsure whether to be proud or disappointed.
"Next trial comes when you're ready," Harken added. "Not when you want it."
Back in his cot, Jumong stared at the ceiling. Ashwing slept beside him, wing wrapped tight. His bow hung over the door.
He touched the badge.
His hands still shook.
Not from fear.
But from something else.
Responsibility. Hope. Hunger.
Is this what becoming stronger feels like?
Not a moment.
But a slow burn.
And deep in the western wilds, beyond any charted path, something old stirred.
Not a beast.
Not a man.
But something that remembered both.