The next morning broke with pale sunlight leaking through the gaps in Arin's worn-out roof. He stirred on his straw bed, back sore from the forge labor, muscles still stiff. But there was no time to rest. The moment his feet hit the cold floor, he moved with quiet precision—packing dried roots, a small water flask, and his newly repaired artifact blade.
Today's hunt would take him beyond the western ridge—an unregulated zone, technically off-limits for unregistered hunters. But Arin didn't have the luxury of following laws made for the rich.
A new job had floated around the local broker's alley: a Steel-Furred Wildboar sighted in the Silverthorn Thickets. Dangerous game, its hide could resist tier-2 spells, and the tusks were prized for alchemy. The reward was 120 silvers—almost two months of rent and medicine.
He couldn't say no.
At the broker's stall, a squat man named Berric scowled as he handed over a thin piece of parchment.
"You sure about this, boy? A regular boar could gut a man in seconds. This one's not regular. It's mutated. Not even registered teams are taking this one lightly."
"I'm not most men," Arin muttered. "You want it done or not?"
Berric grumbled but handed him the token. "You bring back both tusks and a strip of the hide. Then you get paid."
By midday, Arin reached the ridge. The forest here was different—older, darker. The trees were thick with creeping vines, and the air shimmered faintly with leftover mana—a sign of beasts that had lived and mutated for generations. Arin moved with caution, blade at the ready, eyes scanning the underbrush.
Hours passed. He spotted a bloodroot plant and harvested it—worth five silvers at the alchemist's shop. Then came a mana-leeching butterfly swarm, which he had to swat away with a burning stick.
Every step felt heavier.
Suddenly, the ground shook. A low snort echoed through the thickets. Arin crouched, heart pounding. From the underbrush, it emerged—the Steel-Furred Wildboar.
It was twice the size of a normal boar, with muscle rippling beneath metallic hair. Its eyes glowed faintly red, and the air distorted slightly around its tusks—proof of mana infusion. It charged without hesitation.
Arin barely dodged, rolling to the side as the creature tore through a thick tree behind him. He activated the blade. It hummed to life, glowing with unstable energy.
"Alright," he whispered, voice steady. "Let's see if the old man did his job right."
He struck.
The fight was chaos—Arin ducking and weaving, the boar slamming into trees, the ground tearing under their dance. He managed to slash its side, but the blade sparked violently—the artifact was still unstable under heavy strain. A second swipe glanced off its thick hide, and Arin was thrown against a rock by the boar's furious charge.
Pain shot through his ribs. He coughed, blood in his mouth.
But as the boar charged again, something strange happened.
A flicker of energy—dark, violet—sparked in his left palm. He hadn't activated anything. No command, no channeling.
The boar stopped. Its red eyes narrowed, uncertain.
Then it snorted and charged anyway.
This time, Arin didn't raise his blade. He extended his palm.
The air cracked.
A pulse of black light burst from his hand—not lightning, not fire, but something raw. Untamed.
The boar staggered, shrieking. One tusk shattered. Arin stood in disbelief.
What… was that?
The boar retreated, limping into the forest.
Arin collapsed to his knees, breathing hard. The glow in his palm faded.
Whatever had happened… it wasn't normal. It wasn't artifact-based.
And it wasn't human.