"Why do I have to do this again?" the boy whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves. His grip on the sword was unsteady, the blade trembling in his hands.
Hilm was a boy of the Kolashi tribe—or so he liked to believe. With ashen-gray hair and piercing blue eyes, he bore no resemblance to the others. No one in the tribe looked like him. He had been orphaned at birth, his parents nothing more than ghosts in stories he barely remembered. Now, he was here, trudging through the underbrush with the tribe's huntsmen, desperately trying to prove himself.
His ragged clothing betrayed his station. Brown, tattered fabric clung to his frame, marred by the countless skirmishes he had barely survived. The stains of dried blood, more his than any beast's, discolored the cloth. He was frail and wiry, a stark contrast to the Kolashi warriors who towered over him like living titans. By human standards, he might have been strong, but among the Kolashi, he was nothing—an anomaly in a tribe that valued might above all.
"Hilm, wake up!" A deep voice cut through his thoughts like a blade.
Jiruk stood before him, golden eyes sharp with irritation. His black hair was braided tightly, and his towering form was one of raw, effortless power. He was only thirty-five Miors - 70 human years old - yet already an elder among the Kolashi. The thought alone was almost laughable.
But there was no laughter in Jiruk's gaze, only expectation.
And failure was not an option.
"You'd do well to focus for once. You've wasted more medicinal herbs than the rest of the children, and you're the oldest," Jiruk continued.
He wasn't wrong. Hilm was 10 Miors old—20 in human years—yet he was still counted among the children, some as young as 3 or 4 Miors.
"Yes, sir!" Hilm saluted, tightening his grip on the sword. He was hungry and exhausted, but he had to fight. He had to get money for Losk, the man who had taken him in when his parents died. Losk was sick—some kind of plague.
Merchants from other kingdoms called it Orion's Gift. Less of a gift, more of a curse. The name came from King Orion, who was the first to have succumbed to the same disease. The merchants claimed they had the cure, selling it for a price so high that even a Kolashi could work for decades and never afford it. Some had tried to steal it—some had succeeded. But Hilm's honor forbade it. And if he was caught, he would be hanged, which would mean certain death for Losk.
His own death didn't matter. If anything, it would be a relief to the tribe that had ostracized him. But he couldn't leave Losk to suffer. Not after begging Jiruk to put him on the hunting team, boasting that he would be a great hunter.
"Halt!" Jiruk raised his left hand, shifting into a fighting stance. "There are thirty monsters coming this way. You know the rules. You kill it, you keep it."
It still amazed Hilm how he could do that. Kolashi people had extraordinary senses, capable of hearing conversations from the village while standing deep in the forest. Just another reason Hilm was certain—he wasn't one of them.
The others scattered, each leaping toward their prey with precision. Hilm rushed in blindly, knowing nothing of where the monsters were. Worse yet, he had to wield a sword more than twice his size.
Nevertheless, he was now face to face with a pile of bones.
Necromancers.
Hilm tightened his grip on the sword. Even among magic users, necromancers were despised—perhaps even more than those who rejected magic altogether. At least we have honor. They didn't. They killed and used people like tools, binding their souls so they could never cross over.
May Viray help them.
The bones looked like they belonged to a Vilut. Nasty little creatures. Small, but quick. One bite, and they could take a whole leg. Their venom-coated teeth snapped shut with the same ferocity as Jiruk's swings. They were the last thing a boy like Hilm wanted to face.
Whether it was courage or pure fear, he started swinging his sword wildly.
"Die!" he screamed, flailing his arms, hoping to hit something—anything. If he died here, he wouldn't just suffer as a necromancer's puppet. He wouldn't be able to cross over. His soul would simply cease to exist.
His cries were drowned by the distant clash of steel. The others had begun fighting.
The Vilut lunged. It shot through the air, aiming straight for his face. Hilm barely dodged, but in doing so, he lost his grip on his sword.
That was dumb.
His only weapon was on the ground. He rushed to grab it, but the Vilut was faster, snapping at his outstretched arm.
Too close.
The creature stumbled slightly, dazed. Hilm seized the moment, gripping his sword once more. Heavy as it was, it was all he had. He tried the same reckless tactic—swing wildly until something connected.
This time, he struck.
The sword crashed against the Vilut's ribcage, shattering one of its bones. It tumbled to the ground. But it wasn't dead—or at least, as dead as a skeleton could be. It staggered upright, now more cautious.
For a brief moment, Hilm felt something strange.
It acknowledged me.
No one had ever done that before—except Losk.
The Vilut advanced, slower this time, carefully avoiding another reckless swing.
Hilm tried again. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.
That was his mistake.
The Vilut dodged. As his sword reached the peak of his swing, leaving him wide open, the Vilut struck.
Hilm's heart pounded.
This is it.
I'm going to die.
And to an injured Vilut, no less.
A blur of motion.
Steel crashed down beside him, slamming the Vilut into the ground, shattering the earth beneath it.
Jiruk.
The Kolashi warrior withdrew his blade, eyes sharp.
"Boy," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I've told you before. Stop coming with us. Work in the forges. Become a tailor. This life isn't for you. You will die. Not because you aren't like us—but because you don't train. You don't work hard. You are weak. And I won't have another unnecessary death on my conscience."
Hilm stood frozen. Jiruk was right. He just didn't want to believe it.
He wanted to stop being weak.
His weakness was the reason he and Losk could never live a good life.
Jiruk exhaled, stepping past the broken Vilut bones.
"You can keep them," he muttered. "But think before coming with the hunters tomorrow."
He placed a heavy hand on Hilm's shoulder.
"I don't want you to die, boy. You're the only one looking after my dear friend. I can't—not with my duties to the tribe. If you die, Losk won't last long. Whether it's to the sickness, the grief… or to himself."
Jiruk's grip tightened, just for a moment.
"This isn't to discourage you. Hard work always beats talent. And there isn't anything that hard work and experience can't overcome."
Jiruk walked off, leaving Hilm behind with the bones.
It was surprising. He could've easily taken them—Vilut bones were valuable. Merchants would buy them for 20 Sil, maybe even 30 if you haggled well enough. Bones were always in demand—tailors used them for needles, craftsmen carved them into knife handles, and men often gifted women clothing adorned with bonework.
Hilm snapped out of his daze, stumbling forward to gather the remains. He placed them carefully into his bag. It wasn't large, but it could easily hold the bones of a Vilut.
He slung the bag over his shoulder and turned back toward the village.
Then, he heard it.
A low, guttural groan.
Hilm froze.
Golaxians.
The sound was unmistakable.
The Golaxians had hunted the Kolashi for as long as he could remember. Whether it was their size that made them an easy target or some deep-rooted hatred, the Golaxians despised the Kolashi.
And one was nearby.
The sudden thundering of footsteps grew louder.
The Golaxian was getting closer.
Hilm could almost smell his own imminent death.
Meanwhile, the rest of the Kolashi warriors regrouped. They were laughing.
Why were they laughing?
This was yet another thing that separated the Kolashi from other races. It was said that fear came from a bone in one's body—the Arik. The Arik was a double-edged thing. It helped identify danger, telling you when a fight was unwinnable. It helped prey recognize its place
in the food chain.
But there was an advantage to not having the Arik—you feared nothing.
Some believed this was foolish. A soldier who rushed into battle with blind overconfidence was worth nothing. A true warrior was a man who knew his place, entered a fight knowing he would win, and fought with conscious effort not to die.
The Kolashi disagreed.
They believed they were born without the Arik for a simple reason: they were too powerful to need it. If the Arik dictated one's place in the food chain, then the Kolashi had no use for it—because they already knew they were at the top.
Whether this confidence was justified, or simply the result of a race born without fear, no one could say. But they were good fighters. Smart… enough. Nine times out of ten, a Kolashi amateur warrior could fight the master of another race to a draw—or even a win.
Very rarely did they lose.
But Hilm had the Arik.
He could feel fear.
A lot of it.
His legs wanted to drag him backward. Away from the fight. Back to the village. Back to Losk.
But he stayed.
If I leave now, they'll never let me fight again.
Foolish as it was, he clung to a single thought—if he could land even one blow on the Golaxian, Jiruk would have to acknowledge him.
And so he puffed up his chest and readied himself. The Kolashi warriors got into a fighting stance as well. With one jump, they covered more than half the distance to the Golaxian. It still amazed Hilm—all that power.
He continued running, trying to make his way to the Golaxian. At this rate, he might not even be able to reach it before the other Kolashi did. As soon as he saw a clearing among the trees, he found himself face to face with the Golaxian.
The Kolashi were readying to jump towards the beast, grins stretching across their faces, eager for battle. It was almost unsettling. If someone didn't know about the Golaxians hunting Kolashi people, they would assume the Kolashi were the ones hunting the Golaxians for sport.
A hand grasped Hilm's shoulder.
"What are you doing here, son?" Jiruk exclaimed. A hint of his grin from the excitement of the fight shone through his otherwise clenched face, contorted with anger. "I tell you not to fight the goblins, and here you are, facing a blasted Golaxian. Do you have a death wish?"
"But—" Hilm started, but Jiruk cut him off.
"If you are under any illusion that you can so much as raise a sword against a Golaxian, you are sorely mistaken. Not only will I not let you fight that thing, but if you try, I'll personally make sure you never join the hunting team again."
A Kolashi warrior slammed down into the ground next to them, cracking the dirt beneath his feet.
"You see that?" Jiruk continued his rant. "You are never surviving that. You are not a Kolashi. Don't fall into false delusions. If these men—who are a hundred times stronger than you—can die fighting a Golaxian, then you have absolutely no chance. Now, I want you to go back to the village."
"But—" Hilm tried again, desperate to explain why he needed to stay.
"I said this once—don't make me repeat it." Jiruk's tone left no room for argument. "The only reason I'm not punishing you for disobedience against a commander is Losk. If you want to do him a favor—leave. I'll give you half a Golaxian bone if you go back right now."
Hilm was dejected. He wanted to fight. To represent his village. To show people Losk hadn't made a mistake taking him in. It was crushing.
But the promise of Golaxian bones was enough to console him. They sold for a fortune in higher-tier kingdoms due to how difficult it was to kill a Golaxian.
He slowly dragged his body back towards the village. The clanging of swords echoed throughout the forest. To him, those sounds were nothing more than reminders of his failure as a warrior. To not be on the battlefield. To not fight.
This is it. I'm never going to be a warrior. He had lost hope.
A horrid stench snapped him out of his thoughts. Most would assume it was just the feces of another monster and move on with their day, but this smell was different. Bad—but different. His body tensed. His heart pounded faster than usual. An eerie feeling settled deep in his chest. He picked up his pace, his steps turning into a pseudo-sprint.
Then, he saw them—the straw peaks of the Kolashi huts. Relief flooded him for a fleeting moment, but as he got closer, his heart sank. Thick smoke curled into the sky above the mass of huts.
His worst fears were confirmed.
What was once a lively village had been reduced to smoldering ashes. His eyes widened in horror. There were no tears. No sadness. Just pure shock—and hatred.
LOSK!
He's still sleeping. He must've gotten out, right? He must've gotten help from the other elders, right? They wouldn't leave him, right?
He sprinted toward their shabby hut with everything he had. The doorway was engulfed in flames.
At this point, nothing else mattered. He would burn trying, but he had to make sure Losk was safe.
If that was all his worthless life would amount to, that was fine.
At least he would have repaid Losk for taking him in.
At least he could die knowing that the only man who had ever cared for him—who had ever seen him as more than a burden—was alive.
His arms were burning. He didn't have the pain tolerance of other Kolashi people, but in this moment, it felt like he could be cut open and still run for multiple miors.
"LOSK!" he called out.
No response.
"LOSK!" he called again, this time deeper into the hut. You could hear the desperation in his voice.
He rushed towards the bed and felt a wave of relief. The bed was empty—at least, as much relief as someone could feel in a blazing fireball of a hut. He sprinted out towards the main street in front of their home. As soon as he exited, the hut collapsed in on itself.
Hilm fell onto his knees, gasping for air. He had unknowingly been holding his breath the entire time he was searching for Losk. Other thoughts began racing through his mind. How did this fire start? It didn't look like a normal house fire—it had started in multiple places.
The only possible explanation was an attack. More thoughts followed. Who would be dumb enough to attack the Kolashi? It was already agreed that the Kolashi were one of the strongest races on the land.
An arrow suddenly swished past Hilm's face. He flinched backward.
"There's another one here!" a voice shouted. It wasn't Kolashi—it was a dialect of Anceo.
It was an Apsy.
Apsies were distant relatives of ancient Brojilians. Like their ancestors, they had horns jutting from their chins, but they differed in that they were more human-like—only slightly green compared to their predecessors, who were a bright lime color.
Why were they here? The Apsies would never be bold enough to attack the Kolashi on their own. That would be plain suicidal.
Hilm didn't have time to think. More soldiers joined the one who had spotted him.
He ran.
Back toward the forest. Back toward the Kolashi warriors. If he reached Jiruk, he could survive.
The soldiers loaded their arrows in unison. The air filled with the whistling of projectiles. Luckily, Apsies weren't known for their aim—but one arrow found its mark, striking Hilm in the heel.
It hurt.
A burning pain shot up his leg and into his skull like a searing blade. He collapsed, rolling onto the ground, screaming in pure agony.
The warriors cheered as they advanced toward him. This was it. He was dead.
But luck was on his side.
Jiruk, thanks to his Kolashi senses, had already smelled the smoke and rushed back toward the village. As another barrage of arrows rained down, Jiruk dropped from the sky, slicing through every single one in an instant.
"You always seem to cause us trouble, don't you, kid?" Jiruk muttered. His eyes never left the enemy. If he lost focus for even a moment, he was as good as dead.
Jiruk was a leader not just because of his strength—he was one of the few Kolashi who were truly intelligent. But even among them, Jiruk was something greater. A prodigy. He could calculate the most optimal outcome in a battle and instantly guarantee a victory. He didn't need to rely on his brain alone—his skills were god-given.
A grin crept onto Jiruk's face.
His men saw it and gained confidence.
His enemies saw it and felt terror.
Legends spoke of Jiruk of the Kolashi: "If you see his smile, it'll be the last bit of happiness you'll ever see."
The fear was clear on their faces.
An older man, their leader, barked, "He may be Jiruk of the Kolashi, but we are one thousand strong! We have nothing to fear! No man alone can stand against us! Calm yourselves!"
The warriors steadied, reassured by their leader's words.
"Besides," the man continued, smirking, "they can't do anything to us… not when we have a show for them first."
Jiruk remained expressionless, readying himself to attack.
A soldier wheeled a large iron cage forward.
Inside, three men sat bound—Firus and Givos, the twin elder brothers of the village. And one more.
Hilm's breath caught in his throat.
Losk.
"Losk!" Hilm cried out.
"Quiet," Jiruk snapped.
That was a mistake.
Hilm had just revealed Losk's importance. Any soldier with half a brain would now see him as leverage.
"Oh? So you two are acquainted." The enemy leader smirked. "You know, we caught him running toward the woods when we started the fires. Smart man. I could use him as a hostage… but we both know that the great Jiruk wouldn't waver, even for a hostage."
The man raised a hand. "So, to save us the trouble—"
A soldier standing beside the cage drew his sword.
In a single swing, Losk's head fell to the ground.
"LOSK!!" Hilm screamed. "I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY! I'LL MAKE SURE YOUR BLOODLINE NEVER CONTINUES!"
Tears of blood dripped from his eyes. The sheer strain of his rage had burst a vessel.
Even Jiruk seemed momentarily shaken. He quickly hid it.
The enemy soldiers laughed.
A mistake.
Because now, Jiruk knew that not a single one of them would live to see their families again.
Their leader chuckled. "So, you see, we have the hostages, we have the numbers, and we have the—"
He never finished his sentence.
In an instant, Jiruk leapt forward.
The clang of steel rang out. The leader barely managed to block. But his sword—
It dented.
This was the first time Jiruk had ever fought with pure emotion. He hacked at the leader again and again, a merciless storm of steel. The fight was entirely one-sided. The other soldiers stood frozen, gripped by fear.
This was no man.
This was a monster.
By the time Jiruk rose from the leader's broken body, his face was unrecognizable. A pulpy, flattened mess.
Blood dripped from Jiruk's hands. His breathing was steady.
He turned toward the soldiers.
His pupils had narrowed into slits. His face was splattered in the general's blood.
And then, he smiled.
The other Kolashi warriors readied themselves.
Jiruk turned his back toward the Apsy soldiers, his confidence in his men absolute.
And then, the Kolashi attacked.
It was a massacre.
Not a single Kolashi died that day. All one thousand enemy soldiers fell. None even had time to draw breath, to brace themselves, to fight back. The moment they caught a glimpse of a Kolashi, they were already dead.
The battle was over before it even began.
Jiruk walked over to Hilm.
Tears were still streaming down Hilm's face as he looked up at him. He tried to wipe his eyes and smile.
"At least… his torment is over," Hilm murmured. "At least he died quick."
He kept trying to convince himself. Excuses. Justifications. Anything to dull the pain.
Jiruk knelt down and began tending to his leg. But before he could finish, Hilm's body suddenly started to spasm uncontrollably.
His breath grew heavy. His veins turned a sickly shade of purple.
"He's been poisoned," Jiruk said grimly. He turned to his warriors. "Get a doctor."
"There's no use," a voice called out.
Firus, climbing out of the cage where he'd been imprisoned, looked down at them with sorrow. "They killed all the doctors."
Jiruk clenched his jaw.
He turned back to Hilm, his expression unreadable.
"We'll find help. Just don't die on me."
Hilm let out a weak chuckle. "It's fine." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm going to see Losk. At least… at least you've gotten rid of a burden."
He paused, his breathing slowing.
"I just have one request." His eyes met Jiruk's. "Murder any Apsy you see."
A small, broken smile formed on Hilm's lips.
And then, he was gone.
He had died smiling.
A single tear rolled down Jiruk's cheek.
He pulled Hilm's lifeless body into an embrace, holding him close.
"I'm sorry for being so tough on you, boy," he murmured.
"You lived like a warrior."
"And you died like one."