The hall of the Academy buzzed with life, filled with children around El Ritch's age. Murmurs and snippets of conversation wove through the air, creating a cacophony of excitement, nerves, and ambition.
"—I've been waiting for this—"
"—I'll be like my brother once I pass—"
"—There's a cute girl over there—"
"—I heard there's a man joining—"
El Ritch sat at the farthest corner of the hall, his back pressed against the cold stone wall. He listened intently to the chatter, not daring to join in. Most of the children had already formed groups, clusters of eager faces exchanging whispers and laughs.
A few sat alone, much like himself, but even then, El Ritch found it difficult to approach them. His shyness kept him rooted in place, content to remain an observer for now.
His gaze swept across the room. Unlike the adults, who often covered their horns—Julian being an exception—the children all lacked them entirely. The thought gnawed at him. Do their horns grow later? he wondered, his eyes darting from one head to the next.
For a moment, he felt more out of place than ever.
The hum of voices abruptly ceased as the principal-Lady Triva, entered the hall.
Her steps were slow and deliberate, each one echoing through the now-silent space. The children's eyes followed her as she ascended to the podium, her presence commanding the room with ease.
"Yes, hello, and good morning," she began, her voice raspy but firm. She paused, letting the weight of her gaze sweep across the crowd before continuing. She needn't need to introduce herself, for everyone knew her at a glance.
"'The newborn saplings should never hope to look toward what it wants to reach, for it shall fall and rot even though the sun grazes them.'"
Her words were measured, deliberate, as if etched into stone.
"This," she said, "is the first assignment I am giving you. And also the last. You will answer it after passing the Academy."
A ripple of intrigue passed through the crowd.
"Each year, this same assignment is given," she continued. "And your brothers, sisters, parents, all before you, have provided their own answers. But I assure you, I have kept record of them all. No one will cheat, nor can they."
She cleared her throat, her gaze hardening.
El Ritch's mind swirled with the words. A rough direction to start from, he thought, though their meaning eluded him.
"The tournament-The Rose Of Venus," the principal said, her voice carrying a grim weight, "is not for the weak. Because there is no place for the weak in the hunt."
The silence in the room grew heavier.
"It is either the prey or the predator. And the either always wants to be the latter." Her eyes scanned the room, her expression unyielding. "Therefore, if you are weak, you have no place here."
Her words struck like a hammer, driving home the severity of the challenge ahead.
El Ritch's grip on the rough leather of Aldric's old scabbard tightened. Tomorrow was no longer a distant concept; it was here, staring him in the face. The weight of her words settled in his chest, but it only made his resolve burn brighter.
This was what he had come for.
"The tournament will be of eight parts, divided into four sets," the principal had explained before leaving the hall, her words sharp and without embellishment. "Meaning there will be a total of four exams, each containing two qualification processes. You will be given detailed instructions only after passing each stage. There is no big speech that will be given for, motivation is for the delusory."
With that, she turned and left, her presence lingering in the stunned silence she left behind.
The participants were ushered out of the Academy to the west gate, which creaked open to reveal the dense and shadowy expanse of the Hornet forest. Guards stood tall, their spears upright, their faces cold and unreadable.
"Hunters always navigate through the great perils of life," began Garv, the square-jawed teacher whose voice, oddly soft and feminine, contrasted with his muscular build. El Ritch's mind flashed to their first meeting—the sensation of smashing into Garv's chest, a collision that felt more like hitting a wall than a man, when Julian had left him to tread alone through the Academy in the first day.
"And in such comes treats too," Garv continued. "What are the perils, and what are the treats?"
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
"The first exam of the first set is finding the golden treat. The golden treat, will, therefore, lead you to the second exam of the first set."
The tension was palpable as the children lined up, their faces a mix of determination, fear, and excitement. El Ritch gripped the worn leather scabbard tightly, his heart pounding in his chest.
Garv raised his voice, his words cutting through the anticipation.
"The tournament—The Rose of Venus—shall begin!"
The forest consumed the children as they swarmed through the gate.
El Ritch launched himself forward, his body moving instinctively in sets of three. His training had taken hold, guiding his every step and breath as he wove through the initial chaos of bodies scattering in all directions.
But soon, the sounds of the others faded. The forest swallowed him whole, the cacophony of excitement replaced by a suffocating silence. The dense trees loomed over him, their gnarled branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the dim light.
The realization hit him like a blow.
He was truly in the forest.
Without the witch's protection. Without Julian. Without uncle Aldric. Without Doctor Adeline.
He was alone. All alone.
A haunting screech tore through the silence, echoing in the stillness. El Ritch skidded to a halt, his breath hitching in his throat.
The sound was disorienting, bouncing off the trees and masking its origin. His heart slammed against his ribs, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
Cold seeped into his feet despite his movement, and he felt the blood drain from his face. His instincts screamed at him to move, but fear rooted him in place.
The screech faded, leaving behind an oppressive quiet.
The forest's silence was shattered by the violent rustling of the trees. El Ritch's breath caught in his throat, his fear spiking to new heights.
And then it emerged. His first ever beast in this exam.
The beast stood before him, its grotesque form unlike anything he had ever imagined. It was his size, but its presence dwarfed him. White fur matted with dirt and blood clung to its body, with black spots covering only up to its ribs. Its spine jutted out unnaturally, a streak of raw red flesh marking it like a scar, it's guts crawling through the ground.
Its hind legs were twisted in impossible angles, deformities that should have rendered it immobile. Yet it moved, each step unsettling, its jagged limbs defying nature itself.
The creature's face was a horror of contrasts. The right side was stripped of fur and flesh, leaving raw, deformed muscle exposed. The left side still held a semblance of its former self—a scrunched nose and a jagged mouth, lips curled back to reveal outgrown teeth.
It growled, a sound that reverberated through El Ritch's chest, and bent low. For a fleeting moment, he thought it was afraid.
But no—it was preparing to strike.
El Ritch fumbled with the scabbard, pulling free the worn blade within.
The sword was as broken as its scabbard: chipped, dull, and aged to the point of fragility. It inspired no confidence, and that lack mirrored in El Ritch's trembling hands.
The beast twitched violently, its movements erratic and wild, before it launched itself at him.
Pain exploded across El Ritch's face as the creature's claw swiped at him, its sharp edge raking over his left eye. His vision in that eye vanished instantly, replaced by searing pain and darkness.
He fell backward, clutching his face as the beast landed beyond him. The warm crimson liquid dripping, that made his feet cold.
El Ritch could see it clearly—its twisted frame, its menacing stance, the way it crouched again, preparing to pounce once more. But his body refused to obey him. His limbs felt like lead, his fear freezing him in place.
The pain, sharp and blinding, drove a single thought through the haze of terror: Run.
He scrambled to his feet, staggering as he turned and fled in the opposite direction. Behind him, the beast let out a screeching cry, its twisted form crashing through the underbrush as it pursued him.
Branches whipped against his face, brambles tore at his arms, but he couldn't stop. The sharp sting of the fresh wound on his leg barely registered as the beast's claw tore through the leg's flesh and fabric.
The forest blurred around him, his remaining vision narrowed to the path ahead. Fear drowned out everything—pain, logic, even the cries of the beast chasing him.
He ran until the world seemed to dissolve into the shadowy depths of the forest, where the trees grew denser and the air heavier.
He found refuge in a hollow tree, collapsing inside its cramped space. His chest heaved as he struggled for breath, his body trembling uncontrollably. Blood seeped from his wounds, soaking into the bark around him. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the dirt and blood.
He curled into himself, clutching his throbbing leg, his eye, his very soul.
He had never felt so alone. So helpless.
In that moment, nestled in the hollow of the ancient tree, the forest no longer felt like just a place. It felt alive, malevolent.
And El Ritch was at its mercy.
'Through the field. Down the lane.
Voices never heard again!
Silence grips the frozen path,
Marking every shadowed wrath.
Footsteps lost to ancient mud,
Trampled hopes and trails of blood.
In the twilight's somber gaze,
All that lived has turned to haze.'