The sun doesn’t rise in Croutonaire.

  It claws its way up, dragging gold across the Wastes like blood on sand.

  And I wake up before it does.

  Training starts before dawn, not because someone tells us to, but because that’s the only time the monsters sleep. We train when they sleep. We eat when we can. And if you’re smart, you never stop looking over your shoulder.

  Crimson Fang outpost isn’t glamorous. No statues. No pretty banners in the wind. Just black stone, claw-built walls, and a sky that always smells like smoke and steel.

  Our base is called Ashen Hold.

  Built like a box. Brutal. Efficient. Ugly in a way that means survival.

  In the center, there's the Training Yard, an open arena where blood hits the dirt before it hits the battlefield. Around it, four wings wrap the yard in stone like a clenched fist.

  The North Wing is the Weapon Hall. You hear it before you see it---metal screaming, furnaces roaring, blacksmiths cursing louder than the monsters they arm us to kill.

  The East Wing holds the Mission Hall, bounty boards, ranking logs, daily kill assignments, and locked rooms where the higher-ups whisper behind steel doors.

  The South Wing is the Mess Hall, where the food’s always too burnt, too cold, or too questionable to identify. But there’s a firepit outside. Some of us eat there, staring into the flames like they owe us answers.

  The West Wing is where the wounded go. The Clinic.

  Pleit runs it like a war medic and a funeral priest. Cold stone beds. Bitter herbs. No promises.

  Above it all, on the second floor, are the C-Rank Dorms, narrow hallways, six bunks to a room, and balconies that overlook the yard. You wake up to the sound of swords, screams, and someone vomiting from mana sickness. Cozy.

  Outside, past the southern wall, is the D-Rank Tent Zone.

  No stone. No roofs. Just canvas and stakes.

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  They say it's for “early conditioning.” What they mean is: if a monster breaches, the tents are the first to go.

  Sleep lightly. Or die loud.

  XP is everything. Missions, kills, training, sparring, if it earns you scars, it earns you points. Hit Level 45, you’re B-Rank. That’s when people stop ignoring you in the hallway.

  Oh. Right. I probably should’ve explained how the whole ranking system works.

  Hunters don’t get medals or titles or some shiny badge to pin on your coat. You get a letter. That’s it. A rank. And it decides everything, where you sleep, what you eat, who listens to you, and whether or not anyone bothers to remember your name if you die.

  You start at D-Rank. Fresh meat. They throw you on bait runs and garbage missions and hope you don’t die screaming.

  If you survive long enough to hit Level 20, congrats, you’re C-Rank. That’s where I’m stuck. You get real missions, field patrols, sometimes solo hunts. But you’re still very much replaceable.

  B-Ranks are respected. Veterans. They lead squads, take on high-threat jobs, and stop sleeping next to people who snore and bleed on your boots.

  A-Ranks are elite. They train others, get first pick on gear, and sometimes disappear for weeks on secret ops no one talks about.

  Then there’s S-Rank the Apex Hunters. Myths in the flesh. They fight dragons solo. They don’t follow rules. They don’t wait in line. They are the line.

  And if you mess up badly enough or walk away you get F-Ranked. Expelled. Rogue. Most don’t last long after that. Some turn mercenary. Others just turn... monstrous.

  Until then? You’re meat. Walking, half-trained, weapon-carrying meat.

  And that’s just inside the walls.

  To the north, past the cliffs and old lava veins, lies the Velmire Forest. Looks quiet. Green. Peaceful. That’s a lie. That’s where the Scribes live bookkeepers and knowledge hoarders, tucked away in their illusion-wrapped tower they call The Archive.

  We call it The Brick.

  It sits in the forest like it’s daring the world to knock. It’s never been breached.

  The forest around it is worse. Mana-thick. Whispering. Alive. Some trees sing. Some shadows walk. The deeper you go, the more your mind forgets where it started.

  Somewhere in there?

  Tiny.

  Still alive. Still my problem.

  To the east, in the frost-choked cliffs, lies the Storm Fang.

  They don’t build forts. They carve them into ice. They believe in pain like it’s religion. You’ll never catch them here—they don’t visit. They don’t speak. They endure.

  And to the south, past the Dead Horizon?

  The Obsidian Fang.

  Not gone. Just deeper than we’re willing to go.

  They used to walk the Wastes like ghosts, cloaked in bone and silence. They don’t kill monsters. They harvest them. Twist them. Use them. They drain mana, break wills, and create things that shouldn’t live.

  They vanished underground, into the Hollow Root, and started building. Not a home.

  An army.

  And they’re not doing it alone.

  The Scribes are helping them.

  Back at Ashen Hold, none of that matters right now.

  All that matters is waking up, brushing off the ash, and surviving another day.

  I step out into the Yard. Same as always.

  But today?

  Today I’m going to check on Tiny.

  And if anyone sees me?

  Well. I’ll just have to kill them.