"Before one hunts, one needs to understand how it is to be hunted." The Last Scholar Of The School Of Cazatrism.
———
In a field of tall weeping-willow trees, a sea of needle grasses pointed to the bright sky, and misty haze surged from the dirt and blocked the setting sun.
Forty teenagers stood on a patch of land with their hands placed at their backs. Their clothes were made of animal hides adorned with colourful beads and feathers.
The yellow-shaded fur that covered their shoulders was of the highest quality. It was carefully selected by the best tailors selected for its softness and warmth—
—Each piece of clothing was adorned with gold trinkets, passed down from generation to generation.
In front of them was a muscular man, and unlike them, he wore a white version of the pelt. It glistened like snow from the Antarctic, and the clothing swaggered with the cool afternoon breeze.
The man glanced at them with pride and sadness. Because today was the day he would leave his students, both physically and figuratively. This mere fact hurt pulled strings in the man's heart.
Then! Years of discipline re-emerged in his mind, and a sense of duty descended over the instructor; his emotions switched off, leaving behind only logic and responsibility.
He steeled his gaze and said: "This will be the end of your training. Our time together has come to end.
"Today you all shall either leave this place… or leave this world"—the man paused, his heart began to hurt, but he continued—"And this is the last squad that will come out from this organization. Times have changed… We are no longer needed."
As they listened to his sermon, all the students felt nostalgic, and uncertainty lingered in their minds. They understood his words. In simple terms, what he meant was: "Your future is bleak; the path of the hunt has ended. This is your last chance to leave."
Yet, no one moved an inch, nor did they forfeit. No, they would rather die than give up now.
The man hawkishly scanned his pupils' reactions. After a few seconds, a smile made it on his face. Upon seeing their courage, he realized that they were no longer wet-behind-the-ears upstarts, no. They were now hunters, warriors. But sadly, the senior hunter also knew. Most of them would not make it out of this place alive.
He took a sad, deep breath, and he yelled: "From the far ends of this forest to this very spot. Each of you shall look for the red scrolls, 5 in total, placed in secure locations."
The man paused, getting his bearings, and he pointed up. "Use your skills, use your will, and move quickly. And as you know, they contain the cure that you need to suppress the poison coursing through your veins… You have till midnight."
And they sprinted, going into the deeper parts of the forest. The instructor looked at their backs in melancholy as he contemplated.
'What we do may be cruel…' He thought. 'but I know it's deeper than what words can express—it's our way of life, and this last game… will be the final goodbye.'
Then, the instructor clicked his tongue. The sound echoed, and time passed. In the distance, blood seeped into the deep crevices of the soil. Plans made, but destroyed by both force and will.
The dance continued. The ritual continued.
Screams reverberated through the night. Yet they sounded like prayers that would put most priests to shame.
Most of the students gasped for breath as they fought the poison from the haze. It clawed at their bodies and drilled into their brains; the recruits fought the pain and agony.
However after seeing they had lost, the poisoned contestants smiled and gave up, letting themselves unite with the earth. They sent their regards to the winners.
It was a bloody and exquisite night. A ceremony that would be recorded in the annals of history. It was a hunt like no other.
And from the corpses of their classmates, 5 hunters arose, returning to the spot bloodied, and torn up, yet, they were enlightened. Their arrival marked the end of Cazatrism. It marked the beginning of a legend.
The legend of the 5 huntsmen.