" Grassland Hunt"

A year later…

“Ori! Wake up... wake up,” Elara’s voice cuts through the quiet, lilting like a songbird but laced with relentless urgency. Her tiny hands press insistently against my shoulder, shaking me with surprising force for someone so small.

I groan and burrow deeper into the blanket’s warmth, its wool scratching gently against my cheek. “Leave me alone,” I grumble, voice muffled beneath the cocoon of fabric, tinged with irritation and sleep. The scent of old wood and smoldering embers fills the room, soothing and familiar.

Elara huffs beside me, and I can practically feel her eyes roll.

“You’ve been sleeping all afternoon! Don’t you want to sleep at night?” Her tone dances with mockery now, and I can hear the grin forming in her voice.

She leans in close, her breath tickling my ear.“Wake up already! Uncle Darius will be here any minute.”

One eye cracks open, squinting against the amber light of the hearth crackling in the far corner. The gentle fire casts flickering shadows that stretch across the stone walls like lazy spirits.

Outside, faint wind howls beyond the frosted windowpanes, muffled by thick curtains. Inside, the world feels still—safe.

“Children should take afternoon naps,” I mutter, slowly dragging myself upright, limbs protesting every movement.

“It helps develop their minds.” The words tumble out in a sluggish slur, the tail end of sleep still clinging to my thoughts.

Elara beams, victorious. “La la la,” she mocks, mimicking my voice in a sing-song rhythm, pitching it higher to exaggerate the grogginess. She twirls dramatically, her hair spiraling like a silken ribbon, and darts out of the room in a blur of giggles and energy, feet thudding softly against the wooden floorboards.

I sigh.

The drowsiness clings like a wet cloak, but the spell of sleep is broken now. The late afternoon sun bleeds through the windows, golden shafts painting long trails across the rug, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the still air.

The scent of pine resin and baking bread wafts faintly from the kitchen.

Stretching, my muscles crack and protest. I shuffle toward the door of my room, the polished wood cool beneath my bare feet. The warmth of the fire lingers on my back as I leave it behind.

“Go and wash your face. It’s time,” Anara says from the hallway, voice soft but resolute, the kind that leaves no room for argument. She stands near the coat rack, brushing a hand over the long sleeves of her robe, pale blue like winter skies. Her eyes meet mine—gentle, but observant.

I nod silently and turn down the hallway, my footsteps echoing faintly against the stone tiles. The bathroom door creaks open, revealing a mirror clouded slightly with condensation from earlier use.

I twist the faucet; cold water rushes out with a hiss, and the metallic scent of stone-filtered groundwater fills the air.

I splash it on my face.

The cold slaps the sleep from my bones. I blink at my reflection—tousled hair, faint circles under my eyes, but something sharper underneath.

The memory of training sessions rise like smoke: the sting of splinters from a wooden blade, the tension in my arms from holding a stance too long, Mother’s steady gaze, Uncle Darius’s stern voice correcting every minor slip.

“After receiving the gifts for our birthday, we started going outside the village to train with our weapons,” I remind myself. “Sometimes with Mother, other times with Uncle Darius.”

I lean closer to the mirror, droplets running down my jaw. The steam from the basin fogs the bottom corner of the glass.

Sparring circles in the forest clearing flash behind my eyes. The scent of wet earth, leaves crunching under foot, the subtle hum of mana in the air like static before a storm.

Uncle Darius, eyes sharp and movements sharper, corrects my posture with a gruff, “Again.” There’s no leniency in his training. Ever since the Blessing Ceremony, he’s taken my progress personally.

Every strike, every breath, every moment in those sessions feels like being measured and reforged.

I splash more water on my face, breathing slow and deep, grounding myself. My body still lags behind—sluggish when I try to draw on the deeper wells of mana. I dry off with the towel and stare once more at the mirror.

My reflection looks determined now, jaw tight with frustration I don’t bother hiding.

“Even though I want to train harder, this body isn’t cooperating with me. Its limitations still hold me back at the mana heart level. I wish I could attempt the advanced mana breathing technique too.”

The water drips into the sink. Outside, the muffled thud of Elara’s footsteps echo again, and the distant creak of the front door hints that Uncle Darius has arrived.

And I’m still not ready.

With a final deep breath, I reassure myself, “It will take time, but I need to keep at it. Just two more years.”

The words echo in my mind like a silent vow as I step out of the bathroom, drying the last droplets from my face. The hallway is dimly lit now, long shadows cast by the setting sun stretching across the stone floor.

“Uncle Darius is waiting outside. Get your sword and cloak, quickly,” Anara’s voice calls out again from the front door, firm yet warm, urgency hidden behind her calm tone.

I nod without answering and stride to the rack by the door, grabbing my cloak and slinging it over my shoulders. The familiar weight settles around me, a comforting pressure. My fingers close around the hilt of my sword—smooth, worn leather warm from frequent use—and I step out into the open air.

The cool breeze hits immediately, crisp and clean, tugging at my cloak and brushing against my cheeks. I glance up and spot him—Uncle Darius. He stands like a statue carved from steel, tall and steady, one hand resting on Elara’s shoulder. His other hand is gently holding hers. Aria stands beside them, bouncing lightly on her heels, her eyes lit with anticipation like a match ready to spark.

Uncle Darius catches my gaze. His eyes—sharp as drawn blades—meet mine, and with a subtle nod, he signals. Time to move.

I take another breath, letting the scent of pine sap and fresh earth flood my lungs, and walk forward to join them.

Together, we cross beyond the stone fence that borders our village. It’s a low wall, moss-covered and old, the kind built generations ago more for habit than defense.

We pass through a wooden gate that creaks slightly as it swings back into place behind us. Ahead lies a vast expanse of grassland, rolling hills stretching toward the edge of a dark forest in the distance.

The sky overhead is streaked with hues of orange and purple, the last light of day painting everything in a golden wash.

The grass underfoot is ankle-deep, peppered with small gray stones and bursts of color from tiny wildflowers—bluebells, sunflares, and the occasional rare glowpetal that pulses faintly with residual mana. The landscape feels like something out of an old adventurer’s tale, like one of those classic RPGs where fledgling heroes take their first steps into the unknown.

"Alright, kiddos! Today’s target is to kill 20 slime balls!" Uncle Darius announces, his grin wide, the scar along his jaw twitching slightly as excitement flickers in his eyes.

“Yeah!” Aria and Elara shout in perfect sync, the air vibrating with their energy.

“This time, I’ll be the first to kill 20 slime balls!” Elara beams, puffing out her chest and drawing her short sword with dramatic flair. Her eyes shimmer with fierce resolve.

“We’ll see about that, loser,” Aria snaps back, smirking as she pulls up her hood and bolts into the field. Her cloak flutters like wings behind her as she vanishes into the waist-high grass, already scanning for signs of movement.

I linger a moment, taking in the view. The breeze makes the grass dance in waves, whispering softly as it brushes against the stones.

In the far distance, the forest stands like a wall of secrets, tall pines clustered tightly together. Mana hums faintly in the air—barely detectable, but there. This field isn’t just a training ground—it’s a threshold. The space between safety and struggle. Childhood and power.

Slime balls.

The name sounds harmless, almost ridiculous. But these gelatinous creatures, usually the size of a melon, have surprised more than a few overconfident novices.

They’re mostly docile, feeding on decaying leaves and dew-slick moss. But when provoked, they tense into near-spherical shapes, bouncing with unpredictable speed. Some spit tiny acidic globs that sting like fire ants and eat through leather.

They’re not dangerous. Not really. But careless adventurers have limped home more than once, pride and shins bruised.

Uncle Darius’s voice slices through my thoughts. “If you just stand there, you’re going to be a loser today like always. Go on, show me what you’re made of, or you’ll be training with me in the morning!”

“Okay, okay, don’t be so harsh on me,” I mutter under my breath, adjusting my grip on the sword. My fingers tighten instinctively around the hilt. Its familiar weight grounds me.

I step forward, deliberately choosing a direction opposite from where Aria and Elara ran. Let them battle it out. I need focus, not noise.

“If I’m not harsh, how will you ever become strong?” Uncle Darius shouts after me, not unkindly. His voice carries across the field, half challenge, half promise.

I glance back for a heartbeat. He’s watching, arms crossed now, the wind tugging slightly at the hem of his coat. His presence looms like a storm cloud—constant, intense, impossible to ignore. But it also anchors me.

Every word, every spar, every correction—he doesn’t do it out of cruelty. He sees something in me. And he’s not letting me off the hook.

I inhale deeply. The air is cooler now, brushing across my skin like whispers. My boots press into the soft ground with each step, grass crunching lightly underfoot. I scan the horizon, eyes searching for that subtle shimmer that marks a slime ball sliding through the weeds.

The sword in my hand feels heavier somehow—less a weapon, more a reminder. Of expectations. Of goals. Of the promise I made to myself: Two more years.

The day is just beginning. And this battlefield, this open stretch of grass and monsters, is mine to conquer.

I spot a slime ball gliding across the grass, its gelatinous body shimmering faintly under the sunlight. It leaves behind a slick trail, bending the blades as it slides, each one glistening like it’s been kissed by dew.

The creature looks harmless—almost cute in a strange way—but I know better. Beneath its wobbly exterior lies acidic potential strong enough to burn through leather and skin alike. Underestimating these things gets you hurt.

To my left, Aria is already ahead, moving like a shadow over the grass. Her bow is already in her hands, the string drawn tight with a silver-fletched arrow nocked.

Her eyes, narrow and focused, track every twitch of movement with the intensity of a hawk. That bow—slim, curved, engraved with light runes—was a gift from Master Wyn, the Wind Cleric of the northern monastery. Blessed by the god of wind, her arrows don’t just fly—they cut through the air, faster than anything I can dodge.

She looses the arrow.

It vanishes with a whisper and a streak of light, striking a slime across the field before it even realizes it’s been targeted. It bursts like an overripe fruit, dissolving into puddles of sticky goo.

Her rate of fire is ridiculous. Elara has never matched it.

Elara, though—Elara’s different. She’s standing to the far right, a few paces from Uncle Darius. Her palm is outstretched, glowing faintly as ripples of blue energy swirl above it.

She’s a mage, down to her soul. Her robe flutters slightly with the wind, the silver trim glinting in the sun. The pendant at her neck—shaped like a crescent moon—glows in sync with the pulse of her mana heart. I can see it now, that subtle radiance as she channels magic through her body.

Her spell is slow, but elegant. She gathers water into a dense, swirling orb, vapor already curling at its edges. She’s heating it—classic second-circle technique. Not flashy, but efficient. Enough to rupture a slime clean if it hits directly. Her brow furrows slightly, lips pressed together in focus.

I focus on my own target.

My mana heart pulses in my chest, faint and rhythmic like a second heartbeat. I breathe in slowly, syncing my breath with the rise and fall of that internal flow. Mana breathing engages, and I feel the familiar sensation—warmth spreading from my core, crawling into my limbs. Ten minutes. That’s all I can maintain right now before the fatigue kicks in.

The slime in front of me freezes. It senses me.

Its surface ripples—like a pond hit by a pebble—then it compresses into a tight sphere. A low hum builds as it launches a glob of acid my way.

Time slows.

I pivot sharply, the wind brushing my cheek as I narrowly dodge the sizzling glob. It splashes into the grass beside me, smoke rising immediately as the blades hiss and curl inward. Acid. Real stuff. Not lethal on contact, but enough to scar.

No hesitation.

I draw my sword back. The weight is familiar—an extension of my arm. I hurl it forward with a sharp breath, the blade spinning as it sails through the air.

It cuts clean through the slime, slicing it in half with a wet squelch. The creature trembles, splits, and melts into puddles of twitching goo.

I exhale. My boots squish slightly as I step into the remains, walking forward to retrieve my blade. Steam rises faintly from the grass where the acid fell.

“Amateur, total noob,” I mutter under my breath, disgusted with myself.

“Throwing a sword and calling yourself a swordsman… Idiot.” The words bite harder than any critique from Uncle Darius. I grab the hilt, shake off the sticky residue, and stand upright again, shoulders squared.

A sound.

Rustling—fast, behind me. I spin on instinct, grip tightening.

Another slime. It’s smaller, faster, darting forward with jerky hops like it’s on fire. My body reacts before my thoughts catch up. Sword raised. Breath steady.

It lunges.

I sidestep cleanly, twisting my body to avoid a head-on hit, and bring my sword down in a tight arc. The blade bites clean through, dividing the slime with a satisfying hiss. It doesn’t even have time to retaliate.

“Not bad, but your form needs work,” Uncle Darius’s voice rings out across the field like a crack of thunder. I glance over. He’s standing with his arms folded, Elara at his side and Aria a little further out.

His eyes are hard. Measuring. He misses nothing. “If you waste movements like that, you’ll tire out before you know it.”

“Got it, Uncle,” I call back, still feeling the rush of adrenaline threading through me like lightning.

Elara giggles, breaking her usual calm as her water spell finally fires. It zips forward with a hiss, crashing into a slime that explodes in a spray of heated mist. Her hands flutter down as she finishes the casting, a pleased smile on her face.

Aria, already a dozen paces away, lets loose another arrow. It slices the air and buries itself into a distant target with a wet squelch.

“Keep up, Orion!” Aria shouts, flashing a grin over her shoulder.

I smirk and raise my sword in a mock salute. “You wish.”