At the crack of dawn ,golden light spills over quiet fields as the town slowly stirs–bakers knead dough, shutters creak open, and the scent of fresh earth lingers in the cool air. Beyond, the forest hums with life;birds chirp through the trees, deer step cautiously through the mist, and the whisper of rustling leaves welcomes a new day.
From a building on the outskirts of town , a figure slips out, closes the door silently behind him. With a bow and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder, he sprints off towards the forest, his movements swift and deliberate with .
The forest was beginning to stir–birds chirping in the canopy, a cool breeze whispering through the trees, and tge musky scent of damp earth hanging thick in the air. The figure slips into the shadows, silently drawing his bow from his shoulder.
He nocks an arrow, pulling it taut, and moves forward with measured steps, eyes scanning for the slightest movement.
Then from the bushes to his left a small deer emergeswithout hesitation, the figure releases the arrow. It whistles through the air toward the deer, which, startled by the sudden noise, begins to flee. But before it can escape, the arrow strikes its neck. The animal stumbles forward a few meters before collapsing to the ground with a dull thud.
The figure approaches his catch, securing it with a vine from a nearby tree. With practiced ease, he hoists the deer onto his back, ensuring it sits firmly before moving on.
The sun had begun its slow ascent over the horizon, its gentle rays illuminating the boy's features –a medium build, a head full of golden hair, and striking blue eyes tinged with quiet maturity. He wore an olive green overcoat, it's fabric worn but sturdy.
With firm steps, he made his way back to town, heading toward the edge, where an old, run down building stood. Bits of roof tiles were missing, leaving gaps that hinted at years of neglect. But to him, it was home –the only home he'd ever known.
The orphanage had housed many before him, some who had left and never looked back, chasing dreams, seeking opportunities, or simply escaping the weight of their pasts. He had watched them go, and for a time, he had wondered if he would follow. Yet something had always held him back–perhaps the memories etched into the walls, the unspoken bond between himself and the quiet halls, or maybe the promise he had made.
The old caretaker had once dreamt of greatness–not just survival but legend. She had wanted to hunt monsters, to rise above the ordinary, to carve her name into history as one of the greatest warriors to ever walk the land. But fate had not just bound her to this orphanage–it denied her the talent she needed to chase her dream. She trained, fought, and struggled, but no matter how much effort she poured into mastering the art of combat, she had failed to awaken her class at the ceremony.
Even so she refused to let her dream die. Though she never stepped onto battlefield, she trained him in secret, passing down her knowledge–the sharpness of a blade, the precision of a strike, the unwavering will of a hunter. Before she passed, she entrusted her dream to him, asking him to wield his wepon not just for survival, but for conviction. He was not meant to be just another hunter–he was meant to finish what she had started, to stand where she never could, and to claim the destiny that had once slipped through her fingers.
And so, he stayed. Not out of fear, not out of obligation, but because of the skills he honed, to the fight he now embraced. Every battle was not just his–it was hers, carried forward with every swing of his blade, every strike that found its mark.
As he stepped inside, the familiar scent of aged wood and dust greeted him, mingling with the faint lingering aroma of old candle wax. The floorboards groaned beneath his boots, worn smooth from years of footsteps–children running,caretakers pacing, laughter echoing. Faint light streamed through cracked windows, casting long shadows across the faded tapestries that still clung to the walls.
The grand hall, once filled with life, stood in quiet stillness now. Rows of beds lined the far side of the room, their blankets frayed but neatly kept, as through waiting for someone to return. The shelves once stacked with books of distant lands and heroes long forgotten, sat mostly empty, their remaining contents coated in dust. At the center of it all, the caretaker's old wooden chair rested where it had always been, unmoved, as if preserving a presence that could no longer be seen but was still deeply felt.
He moved toward the small kitchen space, setting the deer down with practiced ease. With steady hands, he worked, skinning and preparing the meat–his movements swift, methodical, a routine he had long mastered. Soon, the scent of roasting venison filled the room, mixing with the comforting aroma of herbs he had gathered the previous day.
As he ate his gaze drifted to the wall near the doorway, where a worn, slightly curled flyer hung–its edges frayed, its ink beginning to fade. Hunter Assessment –One Week From Today .
But now, that week had passed. Tomorrow, he would take the test. Tomorrow, he would awaken. Tomorrow, he would step into the next stage of his life.
And he had no doubts. His awakening would be successful–he could feel it deep within him, in the strength he had honed, in the instincts that had sharpened over the years. He had prepared for this moment his entire life, and he was certain that the class he would recieve wouldn't just be good–it would be exceptional.
Yet beneath that certainity, there was a quiet longing.
Becoming a hunter was his path, his purpose, his duty–but what lay beyond it?The orphanage had been his world, but it had never truly felt like home, not in the way he wished it to. The town wa familiar,yet empty. The people were kind enough, yet distant. He had spent years watching others leave, searching for something greater–was this assessment his chance to find a place where he truly belonged? A place where he could not just survive, but truly live?
Finishing his meal, he grabbed his coat and stepped outside. There was still work to be done–his shift at the town bakery awaited. It wasn't glamorous, but it kept him moving, kept him grounded. Kept him waiting.
Waiting for the moment when he would finally become a hunter.
–——————————————————–
Dusk had settled over the town once his shift at the backery ended. The streets were quieter now, bathed in the soft glow of lanterns flickering in the windows. With a loaf of fresh bread tucked under his arm, he made his way home, his steps steady, his thoughts lingering on tomorrow.
The orphanage felt the same as it always did when he returned–quiet, worn, familiar. He sat by the wooden table in the dimly lit kitchen, breaking off pieces of the warm bread, savoring its simple comfort. The taste, the texture–it was nothing remarkable, yet it felt grounding,like one final moment of normalcy before everything changed.
Later as he lay in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling above, the weight of anticipation pressed against him. Tomorrow, the Hunter Assessment would decide his fate.
Tomorrow, he would awaken, recieve his class and rise.
And for the first time in his life, his future would be entirely his to shape.