CHAPTER 25: THE HUNT BEGINS”

While the rest of Aetherthorn erupted in celebration, basking in the premature victory of their chosen candidates, two figures remained grim and focused: Rhiki and Kardel.

Though their lips wore smiles and their goblets clinked among the crowd, their minds were far from festive. They were scheming. And their target was crystal clear—Auren.

To them, he wasn’t just a human anomaly. He was a problem. A variable and a threat to their sacred elven culture.

They wanted to eliminate him now—quietly, cleanly. No witnesses. Not even their own men should know.

But alas, the ever-watchful eyes of the Royal Goldhairs, Queen-loyal elites with powers as quick as their judgment, were currently stationed around the grand hall. Some stood guard at the entrance; others mingled as part of the crowd, but their golden braided hair and stern demeanor made them unmistakable.

"If only..." Kardel muttered under his breath, fingers absently running over the polished wood of his staff. The crystal at its tip—an enchanted blue gem—pulsed softly, resonating with the mana he was unconsciously leaking. He was too agitated. If he wasn’t careful, even the crystal might betray him.

Across the hall, Rhiki stood near one of the rune-inscribed pillars, pretending to study a tapestry that depicted the founding of Aetherthorn. His eyes, however, were locked on the Queen and her circle of advisors. He tapped his fingers rhythmically on his sword hilt, his mind running through dozens of possible scenarios.

Then—it happened.

Their opportunity unveiled itself like a velvet curtain drawing back before a grand performance.

The Queen suddenly rose from her seat.

Though her movement was graceful and measured, it commanded immediate attention. Some Goldhair’s eyes subtly shifted toward her. Just standing alone, she exuded a quiet authority that needed no words.

Within seconds, Mathes—her most trusted enforcer—appeared at her side. He leaned in slightly, listening closely as she whispered something only he could hear. His expression darkened, brows furrowing as a quiet tension gripped the air like an invisible vice. Whatever the Queen had just revealed, it wasn’t part of the festivities.

Rhiki and Kardel’s ears twitched, instinctively honing in on the subtle conversation unfolding across the hall. They caught fragments of hushed words—Micha’el... danger... an unexpected complication. Whatever it was, it clearly demanded the Queen’s immediate attention.

Their eyes followed her as she moved with silent urgency toward the bark-covered archway nestled behind her throne—a living part of the ancient tree that formed the heart of Aetherthorn. After a few words to Mathes, she passed through it and disappeared from view.

Then came Mathes—the Queen’s right hand and trusted enforcer. Clad in gleaming silver armor etched with softly glowing runes, he rose to his feet, his very presence silencing the room without a word. After offering a solemn bow to the now-empty throne, he turned and exited the hall with quiet determination.

Nearly all of the elite Goldhair warriors followed at his heels, their synchronized, silent footsteps echoing with purpose. In their wake, only the Queen’s vacant seat remained—an unspoken signal that something serious was unfolding beyond the grand hall.

Seeing this, a grin crept across Rhiki’s face.

Kardel pretended to bend down near a bench, brushing imaginary dirt off his boots. His eyes darted subtly, confirming what Rhiki had seen.

The only Goldhairs remaining were the ones assigned to watch the two humans: Robert and Marissa.

It was the perfect time.

Kardel reached for a loose stone beneath the bench, a prearranged signal. Rhiki blinked—literally—and stepped through space to appear beside him.

"This is our chance," Rhiki whispered, low and sharp.

"Let’s go."

And just like that, both figures dissolved into the long, stretching shadows cast by the ornate chandelier above.

Their goal: Auren—the human cockroach that refused to die.

Far from the marble grandeur of Aetherthorn, deep within the mossy canopy of Runewood, another danger brewed.

A lone Night Stalker crept through the underbrush, its pitch-black fur melting into the shadows like smoke slipping between reeds. Every movement was silent, every step deliberate. It wasn’t wandering aimlessly—no, it was following a trail. A scent. One that carried a strange familiarity, but with an unnatural twist.

This time, the order came straight from the White Fang itself—an unusually precise command: hunt a particular creature, and only that creature.

The prey wasn’t typical. It wasn’t meat in the traditional sense. The scent it followed was laced with something odd—faint traces of elven magic, woven into the skin and soul of the target. It was familiar... but not truly alive.

A Lantaw.

Normally wild creatures, Lantaws had been tamed by the elves to serve as watchers—eyes in the trees. Their chameleon-like skin and natural stealth made them ideal for reconnaissance.

But this one had been found thanks to the faint trace of the tamer’s scent on its body.

With a final sniff, the predator leapt. Its body twisted in midair, claws extending with lethal grace. The Lantaw didn’t even have time to screech. One swipe. That’s all it took.

CRACK.

Flesh splattered across the tree trunk. The Lantaw’s body, once hidden by illusion magic, slumped down as a mess of wings, bone, and blood.

Back in Aetherthorn, the elven tamer linked to the Lantaw gasped.

His eyes rolled backward. He stumbled. Then he screamed.

"AARGH!"~

He clutched his head as his body convulsed. Blood streamed from his nose. The rune-stones mounted to his temples—relay devices for psychic connection—flared, then popped off from the sheer mental backlash.

Nearby elves turned, gasping.

"What’s going on!?"

"The feed—it’s gone!"

One of the mirrors in the center of the viewing hall flickered. Then blackened. Static lines shimmered before the image completely died.

A Goldhair officer stepped forward, recognizing the signs. "This... It’s a tamer disconnection," he muttered grimly. "But not natural. That was sudden and violent..."

One of the advisors paled. "Something killed the Lantaw?"

"Yes. And whatever it was—it knew what it was doing."

Elves clustered around the now-blind orb, their celebratory mood forgotten. Anxiety began to simmer beneath the surface.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Elsewhere in the forest, Micha’el stood atop a mossy rock, breathing steadily. The wind whispered warnings through the trees.

His instincts flared and he quickly activated his ability.

[FOREST GAZE]

Mana surged through his veins. His golden eyes glowed green as his perception was overtaken by a cascade of natural imagery. He saw what the forest spirits saw. Every rustle, every flicker of shadow—it all became visible to him.

And what he saw next made his heart seize.

Night Stalkers. And not just one but more than a dozen.

They moved with perfect coordination, forming a shifting perimeter of death. There were at least thirty that he can count. Their fur shimmered with shadow. Their claws gleamed with dark energy. Micha’el’s breathing shallowed.

Then, one shape rose above the others.

The White Fang.

Massive. Graceful. Death incarnate.

Its ghastly white fur and crimson eyes made it unmistakable. A legend even among monsters. The apex predator of Runewood.

And its gaze... was locked on him.

’No,’ Micha’el thought.

His blood froze.

RUN!

[WINDRUN]

Tiny tornadoes burst at his feet, launching him skyward like a missile. His body became a blur, hurtling from branch to branch, each movement a whisper of the wind.

Leaves scattered in his wake as he leapt toward the ancient tree lines.

Below, the White Fang chuckled before it left a deep, rumbling sound.

It just gave the command to its pack.

Three Night Stalkers leapt into the chase.

They didn’t attack immediately. No. The Alpha wanted sport. It wanted the prey to run, to fight, to fear. It wanted a challenging prey, not an easy, limpy one.

High above the forest floor, Micha’el pushed his powers to their limit. He twisted midair, using Forest Gaze to track his pursuers.

Three Night Stalkers, closing in from different direction.

The nearest one bared its fangs, leapt, and launched an attack.

[AIR CLAW WAVE]

A blast of compressed air in the shape of a crescent flew toward him.

He reached behind him, drew his sword—Vael’turein—and swung.

CLANG!

The impact burst into a shockwave of glowing embers, scattering through the air like fireflies. It felt less like compressed wind and more like a clash against a forged blade. Micha’el’s arms shook from the force as he absorbed the hit with his sword.

He landed hard on a thick branch, his elven boots sliding on damp bark. Without wasting a heartbeat, he rolled, pushed off, and launched himself into the air—just in time to dodge a second blast that tore through the space he had just occupied.

From below, the White Fang watched with quiet amusement.

Seeing its prey gain ground, the Alpha released a low, guttural growl—this one deeper, commanding.

The forest responded.

Dozens of glowing eyes lit up in the underbrush with excitement in their gazes. Not just a few anymore. The entire pack was moving.

Like shadows peeling off the trees, the Night Stalkers emerged and gave chase, slipping through the forest with deadly grace.

Meanwhile, the White Fang didn’t rush. He began to walk—calm, regal, confident. He had no need to run.

The hunt was underway.

SLASH!

WHAM!

Micha’el twisted, spun, and deflected another claw strike, barely avoiding a pounce.

"Damn these stalkers!" he growled.

He knew he couldn’t win—not alone. Not against the White Fang and its entire pack.

"I thought this test had protection," he gritted through his teeth. "Where the hell is the Watcher for this test?!"

No response. Not from the trees. Not from the wind. Only the sound of his own breath and the claws of monsters.

"If you’re watching," he shouted to the sky, "then HELP ME!"

Still—nothing.

The White Fang watched from below, its glowing eyes locked on the fleeing figure above. Slowly, almost lazily, it ran its tongue across its muzzle, licking away the last traces of blood. The elf it had devoured earlier—a scout meant to serve as its aid—had barely qualified as a warm-up. Just a snack to whet its appetite.

But Micha’el?

Thats a young blood. Better tasting than the hundred year olds.

It took a deep breath. Then roared.

[AIR CLAW WAVE]

A much larger wave—three meters wide—sliced through the forest.

Trees fell.

Branches shattered.

And Micha’el—still midair—had nowhere left to run.

His instincts screamed. He twisted mid-flight, eyes wide, and desperately reached for his sword—but Vael’turein was still embedded in the maw of a Night Stalker he had just slain. His hands grasped at empty air.

Too late.

The blast roared toward him, its edges shrieking with compressed power and violent intent. In a split-second reaction, Micha’el forcefully triggered one of his emergency defenses—a protective barrier stored within a silver ring on his right hand. A translucent dome of mana flared to life around him.

But it wasn’t enough.

The Air Claw Wave, fueled by the Alpha’s raw might, tore through the barrier like it was nothing more than parchment. The shield cracked, then shattered in a flash of light, the blast continuing forward with relentless force.

It was like trying to stop a hurricane with a curtain.

The moment he saw his barrier shatter—splintering into fragments of failing light—something inside Micha’el sank. All his instincts, all his training, everything he had poured into survival felt like it meant nothing before the overwhelming force bearing down on him.

In that split second, he lost hope.

Midair, defenseless, and with death just a heartbeat away, he closed his eyes and braced for the end.

But just as he surrendered himself to fate... his desperate plea was answered.

[GALE WALL]

A sudden barrier of swirling wind exploded into place behind him. The Air Claw Wave collided with it, erupting in a thundering crash of pressure and displaced energy. Micha’el was hurled backward by the shockwave, spinning through the air—but he was alive.

He had been saved.

Elsewhere, near a quiet riverbank...

The world was peaceful.

Auren lay on a bed of moss beneath a canopy of rustling leaves, the soft rhythm of flowing water nearby lulling him into a deep, steady sleep. His expression was calm, his breathing even—still recovering from the heavy toll of Mana Shock. Golden sunlight danced across his face through the branches above.

Just a few paces away, a familiar figure sat at the river’s edge, patiently fishing, completely at ease. The rod bobbed gently with the current, the occasional splash of water the only disturbance in the serene morning scene.

It was a striking contrast—a world apart from the chaos and bloodshed unfolding in the forests of Runewood.