Inside Lara’s quarters, a small armory had been built into what might once have been a walk-in closet. From the outside it looked ordinary—until the door opened.
It was surprisingly spacious.
Weapon racks lined the walls from floor to ceiling, steel glinting under warm lamplight. But Zill barely noticed most of it at first. His attention snapped to what Lara was holding out to him.
His eyes lit up. “What is this? It’s… different. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The weapon wasn’t like any traditional blade.
In his hands were two short scythes, their curves shaped like a predator’s fang—compact and brutal rather than ceremonial. The metal was dark and jagged, forged from predator steel harder than iron, catching the light with a sharp, dangerous glint. These weren’t the towering scythes from old fables, swung by grim reapers in stories.
These were made to rip.
The two scythes were linked at the base of their handles by a thick chain—long enough to allow motion and reach, but short enough to keep the hands from drifting too far apart. It wasn’t just a connection; it was a constraint… and a tool.
With one blade in each hand, the chain could whip the scythes into wide arcs, snag a weapon, or even help him redirect his own movement. The more Zill stared, the more it felt less like “two weapons” and more like one system—built for deception, precision, and flow.
Lara smirked. “Well? Move around with it.” Her eyes flicked to his injured arm. “Careful not to open that cut.”
Zill shifted into motion.
His feet slid, his shoulders rotated, and—
He froze.
This was the first time he didn’t have to think about his grip.
Is this what it feels like… to hold the right weapon?
He stepped again, faster now, testing angles. The scythes followed naturally, like they’d always been his. His body didn’t argue. It listened.
Then—
Thunk.
The chain tangled around his ankle and he went down hard, flat on the mat.
Lara burst out laughing. “Careful. The chain can fix your reach problem—only if you actually pay attention to it.”
Zill groaned, pushing himself up and brushing off his clothes. “Yeah. I’m trying not to overextend.” He lifted the scythes again, more cautious this time. “It’s forcing me to move more practically. And with curved blades and a chain…” His grin returned. “The potential feels infinite.”
Lara nodded once. “As far as I know, you’re the only one who can wield this weapon.” Her tone was casual, but her eyes were sharp. “So you’ll have to uncover its potential yourself.”
Zill’s grin widened. “Then let’s spar now.”
Lara raised a brow, clearly amused. “Relax. You were just in a fight, you’re bleeding, and you don’t even know how to take a proper stance yet. Practice solo for—”
Zill leaned back with a smug little smile. “Scared?”
Smack.
He didn’t even flinch before her hand met his head.
“Ow!” Zill clutched the spot. “What was that for?!”
Lara stared at him like he’d volunteered to be stupid. “You couldn’t even react. You’re leagues behind.” She tapped his forehead with a finger. “Learn to assess your opponent’s strength.”
Zill rubbed his head, grumbling. “You caught me off guard!”
“Excuses,” Lara said, then turned slightly away.
Zill squinted at her. “Where did you even get a weapon like this?”
Her tone tightened—just a little. Not angry. Just… edged.
“My brother.” She sounded like the word itself was a complaint. “He’s a smith. Always has some ‘incredible idea,’ and somehow those ideas turn valuable predator remains into… nonsense.”
Curiosity flared in Zill immediately. “Can I see more of his creations?”
Lara waved a hand. “Let him show you when you meet him.” Then she pointed at the door. “Now go home.”
Zill blinked. “What? It’s still early.” He hesitated, then remembered. “And what about my preliminary rank?”
“You’ll get a D for now.”
Zill’s jaw dropped. “D? But my physical score was C, and now with this weap—”
“With the weapon you can’t use yet,” Lara cut in. “If anything, I should give you an E.” She tilted her head. “Like everyone who’s still learning their first weapon.”
Zill backed off, grumbling. “Fine. It’s only preliminary anyway.” His eyes hardened with stubborn ambition. “I’ll use the Initiate Period to hit Rank B and lead my own group right away.”
Lara’s expression softened slightly—not indulgent, but not mocking either. “I know you want to leave this city,” she said quietly. “But learn your weapon properly, or you’ll put your squad at risk.”
Zill brightened, immediately taking that softness as permission. “Don’t worry. You’ll see me perfect this weapon in no time, shor—”
Smack.
“Ow! Not fair!” he yelped. “You didn’t let me finish!”
“Call me Master,” Lara said calmly, “or that bump will be permanent.”
Zill held up both hands in surrender. “Sure. Master. Sh—hehe. Kidding! Put away that fist.”
Lara chuckled, one hand resting briefly on her stomach. “Time for food. I haven’t eaten since I got back.”
Zill’s eyes immediately locked on the opportunity. He straightened up and spoke with exaggerated respect. “I’m included too, right… Maa-ster?”
Lara wrinkled her nose. “Do I have to share food if I’m someone’s master?” She sighed like she was suffering. “Follow me.”
As Zill turned to leave the armory, he finally noticed the full scope of what surrounded him.
Weapons—dozens of them. Fifty at least, maybe more.
Some were standard: swords, spears, bows. Greatswords were especially common. But nearly half were strange variations on familiar designs, and a few looked like nothing he’d ever seen.
One caught his eye immediately—a weapon shaped like a crossbow, but with a metal barrel built into its frame. It looked like it belonged to a different age entirely.
Another was even stranger: a simple chain coiled neatly on a nail.
Who fights with just a chain?
And there were gloves too—not cloth, not leather—reinforced, plated, almost like armor molded to a fist.
For punching? Or… something else?
Zill’s curiosity sparked like a fire. So many paths. So many styles. What kind of people chose weapons like these—and lived long enough to master them?
Lara was already halfway down the corridor.
“Wait up!” Zill called, jogging after her.
They entered the dining room.
A long oak table waited beneath warm light. Spread across it was a feast fit for a noble—no, a warlord. Five different meats rested on polished platters, each cooked in its own style. One caught Zill’s eye immediately: dark red, seared with strange patterns, still glistening.
Between the meats, bowls overflowed with roasted vegetables—charred at the edges, drizzled with oil. Aromatic roots, deep-green leaves, golden bulbs, and purple stalks filled the air with a warm, earthy scent. Some were familiar. Some looked like they’d been gathered from beyond the walls.
Before each chair sat a deep stoneware bowl of soup, steam curling upward. The smell was so rich it made Zill’s stomach twist with hunger.
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Without even sitting down, he leaned in and slurped eagerly.
He completely missed the glass of mango juice glowing beside the bowl.
Lara blinked, pleasantly surprised. “A second chair… and more food than usual.”
A servant passed by with a smirk. “I noticed you had a guest, Lara. I accounted for him.” Their eyes flicked to Zill. “And I assumed he’s as much a glutton as you.”
Lara sat with the dignity of someone who didn’t need to prove anything. “Seems your assumption was correct.”
Zill was already chewing again.
Lara ate with more composure than him—though it was obvious she enjoyed it just as much. “Have your fill today,” she said. “Starting tomorrow, you earn this food by training.”
Zill nodded without looking up, cheeks full, barely listening. Eventually he reached for the dark red meat. This time he paused, chewing slower to appreciate it.
Crunchy… but juicy.
Then he squinted, face twisting. “The aftertaste—ugh. Bitter.”
Lara said casually, “That’s Redstalker meat. Most apex predators taste bitter. A good cook can bring out incredible flavor, but you can’t erase it completely.” She took a bite like it was nothing. “You get used to it. Some people even start craving it.”
Zill nodded, took another bite, braced for the bitterness—then his eyes widened.
“Mmph—wait. Did you just say Redstalker?!”
Lara lifted a hand to block flying crumbs. “Yes, idiot. Finish chewing first.”
Zill swallowed, then stared at her wide-eyed. “Thanks… this is my first apex predator.”
He took another bite—slower now, with real appreciation.
After a moment, Zill asked, “By the way… what weapon do you use?”
Lara looked genuinely confused by the question. “A greatsword. You really should read more.”
“I just don’t care much about celebrity explorers,” Zill said, shrugging. “But I do know predator types and habits. I’ve read a lot of records.”
“What about explored areas?” Lara asked.
Zill scratched the back of his head, almost embarrassed. “Some. I know I should read more, but…” He glanced toward the window. “I want to discover them myself.”
Lara paused.
Something about that answer pulled at her memory—like a line she’d heard before, spoken in a different voice.
For a second, her expression went distant.
Then she blinked, returning to herself. “I feel like I’ve heard that before,” she said quietly. “Anyway… I get it.”
Zill glanced out again. “It’s dark already.”
“Don’t worry,” Lara said calmly. “The evaluations ran long because of the number of participants. The speech wouldn’t have started yet.”
Zill’s eyes widened—
and he bolted out the door.
* * *
Zill reached the arena.
Everyone was already gathered, clearly waiting. Most trainees wore the marks of a hard day—scratches on forearms, bruised knuckles, bandaged wrists. A few sat with fresh wraps around ribs or shoulders, trying not to grimace as they shifted.
Zill spotted Violet and Dru scanning the crowd like they were counting heads.
“Hey,” Zill called, raising a hand. “Looking for me?”
Violet turned instantly, relief flashing across her face. “There you are! We thought you were inju—”
She stopped mid-sentence.
Then she burst out laughing.
Zill blinked. “Huh? What is it?”
Violet pointed at his head.
Zill rubbed the bump, frowning. “Ah. It’s nothing. A girl got mad because I called her short.”
Violet giggled harder. “Who are you to call anyone short?”
Dru laughed too.
Zill crossed his arms. “Not you too. I’m not short.”
Dru’s smile widened. “You’re not short. You’re just… conveniently mockable.”
Zill scoffed. “I’m one-point-eight.”
“You’re one-point-seven-four,” Dru said. “You can’t round up like that.”
Violet wheezed. “One-point-eight—he said it with confidence!”
The laughter finally faded.
Dru’s eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed Zill’s arm. “What happened there?”
Zill waved it around like it was a minor inconvenience. “It’s nothing. Just a flesh wound. I was actually going to ask for some of your magical healing ointment.”
Dru sighed like he’d heard that a thousand times and pulled a small tin from his pocket anyway. He applied it with practiced hands.
Zill flexed his fingers, already feeling the sting dull. “You always carry it. You’re the best.”
Dru snorted. “It’s only magical on you though.” He capped the tin. "No one heals as fast as you!"
Violet’s gaze drifted to the weapon strapped across Zill’s back. “Wait… what’s that? I thought you were stuck with the staff.”
Zill pulled it off his back—then nearly tripped as the chain snagged around his legs.
“—Ah, shit.” He paused, untangling himself with an annoyed huff. “Still got a few quirks to figure out.”
Then he lifted it properly, proud as if he’d been given a crown.
“It’s my new weapon,” he announced. “Chained twin dual scythe reapers.”
Both Violet and Dru stared for a few seconds.
Violet finally said what needed to be said. “That name is way too long.”
Dru nodded. “Agreed.” Then, he thought for a moment. “Just call it Twin Reaper. Easier.”
Zill nodded immediately. “Twin Reaper. Perfect.”
Violet stepped closer, eyes fixed on the chain. “Forget the name. I’ve never seen anything like it. Where did you get that?”
Zill answered like it was trivial. “From Lara.”
Violet and Dru gasped in unison.
“Lara—” Violet started.
“—The apex explorer?” Dru finished.
Zill nodded as matter-of-factly. “Yeah, that one. She gave it to me.” He hesitated, then added with a strange mix of pride and disbelief, “She’s my master now.”
Violet looked like her brain needed a second to catch up. “Back up—how did you even meet her?”
“She watched my match with Demian,” Zill said. “She said she had a weapon for me. And… here I am.”
Violet’s voice softened, genuine awe shining in her eyes. “Your master is Lara…” She swallowed. “Zill… that’s incredible. She is the most gifted explorer of all time.”
Zill’s cheeks were flushed red at Violet's reaction. “Ah… thanks.”
Dru leaned in, practical as always. “How does it feel?”
Zill twirled one scythe slightly, then stopped himself before the chain could betray him again. “Feels great.” He squinted at it. “But doesn’t it look a little… edgy? Like I’m trying too hard to look cool.”
“Nah,” Dru said quickly. “It looks fine.”
Violet smirked. “Actually… I agree. But edgy suits you. Full-stupid, all-in style.”
Zill opened his mouth to fire back—
—and the room fell silent.
Locke’s voice cut through the arena. “Guild Master Mortreaver is here.”
The silence thickened with each step.
Mortreaver walked into the center of the hall, surrounded by dozens of people—and somehow his presence still felt heavier than all of them combined. It wasn’t loud. It was weight. Like standing near a cliff edge and realizing the ground could disappear.
Zill felt his spine straighten without meaning to. Even his breathing shifted, slower, more careful.
Mortreaver cleared his throat.
“Ahem.” His eyes swept the crowd. “Relax. No reason to tense up. The exam is over for today.”
His calm tone only made it worse.
Several trainees immediately looked away. A few swallowed hard. One boy with a fresh bruise on his jaw unconsciously touched it, as if remembering where fear belonged.
Locke sighed under his breath. “Every year, Master…”
Mortreaver ignored him and continued, voice carrying cleanly across the hall.
“A few interesting faces this year,” he said, meeting the eyes of the few brave—or foolish—enough to hold his gaze.
Locke muttered from behind him, barely audible. “You forgot the paper again. Please don’t freestyle the speech.”
Mortreaver pressed on anyway.
“You’re eager,” he said. “Hungry to rise. Hungry to prove you belong outside the walls.”
A ripple of nods went through the trainees. Zill felt it too—like the whole room leaned forward.
Then Mortreaver’s tone turned colder.
“But here is the truth.” His gaze hardened. “Most of you won’t make it far.”
A visible flinch spread through the crowd.
Some trainees frowned. Some stiffened. One girl’s hands tightened into fists at her sides.
“You’ll stay low-rank,” Mortreaver continued, unbothered by the reaction. “You’ll guard gates, escort caravans, carry supplies. You’ll do necessary work and call it exploration because it hurts less than admitting you didn’t climb.”
Murmurs sparked—angry, embarrassed, defensive.
Locke groaned softly. “Perfect…”
Mortreaver didn’t stop.
“And some of you will die,” he said, plainly.
That single line cut deeper than anything else.
A few faces drained of color. Even the injured trainees—those who’d been joking earlier—looked suddenly small.
Mortreaver let the silence sit for a beat.
“Knowing your limits,” he said, “is better than dying past the last farmland fence because you mistook courage for immortality.”
Frustration and fear wrestled across the crowd.
Then Mortreaver’s tone shifted—not kinder, but sharper in a different way.
“A few of you will rise,” he said. “A few may even become solo explorers.”
The word solo hit like a spark.
Zill’s chest tightened. His eyes flicked up without permission.
“But never mistake fame for ease,” Mortreaver continued. “The moment you step beyond the walls, you are wagering your life—every time.”
He paused, then spoke slower, as if carving the lesson they have been taught since young even deeper into them.
“Predator or prey. For most creatures, that role is decided at birth.”
His eyes swept the room.
“But humans are different.”
The hall felt like it held its breath.
“We think. We learn. We create.” Mortreaver’s voice grew heavier, more grounded. “And most importantly—we share what we learn.”
Trainees one by one started listening harder.
“At first, we fought back with ordinary steel,” he said. “Primitive blades. Fragile weapons that snapped against stronger predators.”
A few nodded—everyone had heard the history, but hearing it from him made it feel closer.
“We failed. We bled.” Mortreaver’s gaze didn’t soften. “And for a time, we accepted our place as prey.”
The hall was so quiet now Zill could hear the faint creak of leather straps.
“Until a weapon was found lodged in the body of a dead apex predator,” Mortreaver said. “A weapon that didn’t break.”
Zill’s fingers twitched at the thought—of predator steel, of Lara’s armory, of the Twin Reaper in his hands.
“Smiths discovered the truth,” Mortreaver continued. “It wasn’t just strong metal. It was forged from the predator’s own remains.”
A low, awed whisper ran through the trainees—old knowledge made new again.
“That moment changed everything,” Mortreaver said. “We became something the world didn’t expect.”
He lifted his chin.
“We do not win with brute strength.”
His voice sharpened into a blade.
“We win with knowledge. With memory. With adaptation.” He tapped his temple once, slow. “We win because what one human learns… a hundred humans can carry.”
He took one last look around the hall.
“Remember this: no matter what stands before you—even if you feel like prey—just survive. Because if you survive… next time, you’ll become the predator.”
For a second, nobody moved.
Then…
The hall erupted—shouts and clapping, boots stomping, fear turning into excitement as Mortreaver turned and strode out.
Locke followed behind him, muttering, “The speech excited them at least…”
Then he paused.
Mortreaver wasn’t bored. Not smug either.
He was smiling. Not wide—just a small, sharp curve at the corner of his mouth. The kind of expression Locke never saw on him.
Locke blinked, thrown off. What did he see this time?
Mortreaver’s gaze swept the crowd once more—briefly—and lingered for the smallest fraction of a second, as if something in the room had caught his interest.
Locke narrowed his eyes, trying to follow it, but the moment was gone. Mortreaver kept walking like nothing had happened.
Zill watched them go, still feeling the echo of that presence in his chest.
Just survive…
Violet nudged him. “So that’s the Guild Master.”
Zill exhaled. “I wonder how much he’s actually accomplished.”
Violet stared at him like he’d just asked if the sky was real. “You must be joking. You can read everything about him in the archives.”
Dru nodded. “He should be your role model, Zill. His weapon is an actual scythe—close to what you’ve got.” He then added, “And he was the first explorer to slay a dragon.”
Zill groaned. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I guess I’ll read more…”
He shook off the heaviness with effort and glanced between them. “Anyway. What’s next?”
Violet smiled. “You missed it. We get a three-day break—recovery and weapon adjustment.”
Dru added, “Most people already knew what they wanted back in school, so they’re ahead. But you’re lucky they kept the break period this year.”
Zill’s eyes lit up again. “So in three days we finally go beyond the city?”
“Not exactly,” Dru said. “It’s a D-tier dungeon still in the farmlands.”
Zill frowned—then nodded firmly. “Good enough for now.”
Over the next three days, Zill trained—chasing the rhythm of his weapon. Every day he visited Lara. She gave a few suggestions, never too many. Mostly she just watched, arms crossed, as he stumbled, adapted… and slowly began to move like a predator.
Did Mortreaver's speech pull you further into this world?
