[Alvertium – Rank C Hunter]

  Level: 35 (EXP: 15,290 / 25,000)

  [Strength: 50

  Perception: 64

  Endurance: 47

  Charisma: 30

  Intelligence: 54

  Agility: 76

  Luck: 35]

  [– Harmonic Insight (Lv.5) – Measures compatibility between people, weapons, creatures, objects, the void, etc.

  – Insect Glaive Mastery (Lv.6) – Aerial mobility, mid-air combos, faster repositioning.

  – Bestial Instincts (Lv.3) – Heightened reactions and threat detection against monsters.

  – Dragon Flight (Lv.1)]

  The morning was still dark, forest thick and silent, except for the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. Pleit walked like he wasn’t worried about getting ambushed by anything larger than a breakfast squirrel. Me? I was sweating through my shirt and mentally connecting red strings across invisible conspiracy walls.

  "Pleit," I said suddenly, my voice louder than intended. "Why would a monster hunter attack another one?"

  He gave me a sideways look. "You’re still on that?"

  “Yeah, because it makes no sense,” I snapped. “We don’t do that. We don’t attack our own unless—”

  “Unless it’s personal,” he finished, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. That’s the rule.”

  “But what if it’s not?” I said, stopping dead. “What if it’s strategic?”

  Pleit turned, confused. "Strategic?"

  I nodded, voice low now, conspiratorial. “What if she’s a plant? One of us, brainwashed or manipulated. What if she’s being used?”

  "Used by who?"

  “The Scribes.”

  Pleit blinked. “…Al.”

  I ignored the judgment. “Listen to me. What if they took her? One of ours. Maybe Storm Fang. Maybe someone we blacklisted. What if they conditioned her? Made her into a weapon. And now? They’re using her to take us out. One by one. Quiet. Clean. Internal damage.”

  He paused.

  Then his jaw clenched. “If she’s a Scribe,” he said, voice sharpening, “I’ll gut her myself.”

  I looked at him. Really looked. “You mean that?”

  He nodded once. “I’ve seen what they’re capable of. How they twist facts. How they rewrite blame. If she’s one of theirs—she’s not just dangerous. She’s a declaration of war.”

  I took a step closer. “And if she’s one of ours? One of the Fangs?”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  He hesitated.

  And I didn’t.

  “If she’s a Hunter... I’ll be the one to end her.”

  Pleit didn’t flinch. Just said, “Then we find out what she is. Fast.”

  Silence fell between us like a dropped sword.

  And then he said, quieter now, “You remember the stories. The old days. Before the split.”

  I nodded. “Of course I do. Everyone does. But say it anyway.”

  Pleit looked out toward the treeline, where mana fog hung low over the soil.

  “There was a time we weren’t enemies. Fangs and Scribes. Hunters with steel, Scribes with spellcraft. It wasn’t just peace—it was power. Peak magic. Peak war. Our children—those born of both bloodlines—they were unstoppable. Warriors with both strength and sight. They killed Tyrants like they were nothing. Cleared entire regions. Cleansed corruption. The world bent to that union.”

  I could see it—glimpses passed down through campfire stories and half-sung war songs. Crimson Fang blades laced with Scribe enchantments. Hunter-Scribe units walking through infernos untouched. Names carved into the world like sigils.

  “But it didn’t last,” Pleit muttered. “You know why.”

  I did.

  “Because Kimber turned on Veyros.”

  Pleit nodded. “They were partners. Co-commanders of the hybrid program. She wanted control. He wanted freedom. One day, she called for a joint operation. Said it was urgent. High-priority. Deep Hollow Root mission. A Riftborn had surfaced—something old. Something waking.”

  I finished it. “She didn’t bring backup.”

  “She brought research teams,” Pleit said coldly. “Veyros brought soldiers. She said it was containment. He said it was a kill op. Half the Fangs were dead before they even reached the core. Kimber pulled out. Sealed the breach. Left them inside.”

  “And she blamed him,” I added. “Said he caused the breach by pushing too far.”

  “Yeah. Because owning her mistake would’ve meant war. So instead, she wrote a report, buried the truth in theory and politics, and locked herself behind the Archive. Veyros came back with twenty-two names and no one to mourn them.”

  Pleit’s voice dropped.

  “That was the last day a Scribe and a Fang stood on the same battlefield.”

  We’ve been out here for hours.

  Trudging through damp grass. Shifting through leaves. Digging through dirt like we’re trying to unearth buried trauma.

  For what?

  For a blade we are absolutely, undeniably, comedically not going to find.

  Because—plot twist—I have it. Right here. In my right pocket.

  Wrapped in a scrap of guilt and stolen cloth. Pulsing with something weird I haven’t figured out yet. Like it’s humming with secrets.

  And Pleit can never know.

  He’s still searching, focused like a man on the edge of discovering fire. Meanwhile, I’m tossing rocks, faking thoughtful squints, and muttering “hmm” like the forest’s going to suddenly confess its sins.

  “It’s gone,” Pleit mutters, standing and brushing himself off.

  I blink. “Oh no. What a twist. Truly tragic.”

  “Someone took it,” he adds.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume that.”

  He glares. “Alvertium.”

  I shrug. “Okay, fine. Someone. Probably evil. Definitely not me.”

  “It means the mission is compromised.”

  I nod solemnly. “Compromised. Yes. Deeply unfortunate. Maybe we mourn over stew?”

  And then—a rustle in the brush.

  We freeze. Instinct overrides sarcasm.

  Weapons twitch. Muscles tense.

  And out walks—

  A cat.

  Grey. Smooth. Tail upright like a flag of authority. Gold eyes gleaming with “I’m not here for you, I’m here for the plot” energy.

  It walks straight toward me.

  Not Pleit. Me.

  And that’s already weird.

  Because animals hate us.

  It’s in the biology—Hunter energy messes with their instincts. Something about the mana signature we carry. The scent of monsters, blood, death. It makes even trained beasts skittish.

  But this cat?

  This cat’s walking right into my personal space like it pays rent.

  It starts purring.

  Rubs up against my leg.

  And then—slowly—Bandu’s head turns toward my right side.

  Specifically… my right pocket.

  The one holding the blade.

  The purring grows louder.

  Then he presses his nose to the fabric and sniffs.

  I freeze.

  Pleit watches with mild amusement. “Oh. You’ve probably got jerky in there.”

  I blink. “...What?”

  “You snack like you’re in a rationed apocalypse,” he says. “That’s probably what he smells.”

  “Yeah,” I say too quickly. “That. Exactly.”

  Bandu doesn’t let up.

  He paws at the pocket once—gentle but focused.

  I crouch slowly, flipping the cat’s collar. Brass tag. Clean etch.

  “Bandu.” I glance up at him. “That's your name? Hello, Bandu.”

  I activate Harmonic Insight.

  [Bandu - Compatibility: 42%]

  ...Not normal. Not random. Higher than expected.

  He blinks once. Then…

  With practiced precision, Bandu turns to the edge of the clearing.

  Reaches down.

  Plucks a single pink tulip from the grass with his mouth.

  And walks away.

  Tail high. Mission complete.

  Gone.

  We stare after him.

  Pleit breaks the silence. “...Why the hell did that cat just pick a flower?”