The morning light filtered pale through the frost-laced canopy of the Eldergloom, its cold gleam catching on white breath-clouds rising from the assembled hunters. The Trial was behind them; now came the next tradition—first blood in white tiger form.

  For a young weretigress, that first hunt in their other skin was more than just practice. It was a proving—of their balance, their bite, their ability to work within the deadly flow of a pack. Kana, bright with excitement, had left earlier in the company of two tribe hunters for what they called a “rookie run”—to the calmer groves of Eldergloom’s Black Zone fringe where smaller but worthy prey roamed without the shadow of true monstrosities.

  John, however, was another matter. His blue tiger form—larger, faster, and sharper than any of the white tigresses in their youth—would turn that sort of hunt into a one-sided chase. There would be no lesson in it for anyone… and certainly no thrill.

  Instead, Shira had directed him toward a different group—older adolescents, already near their adult size, their hunts a half-step from the real thing. They were just shaping into the warriors they would be, and the Eldergloom proper, in all its shadowed, wardless wildness, was their testing ground.

  They waited in the clearing when John padded up on quiet paws, the earth cold beneath his pads. A quick glance was enough to see why he’d almost missed the fact they were young: in tiger-form they were already tall and powerfully muscled, their silver-striped coats gleaming, their eyes bright with hunger for the hunt. Only the subtle lack of weight in their steps, the faint impetuous twitch of tails, betrayed an 18th-year’s impatience.

  And watching over them—Shira, all controlled power and fluid grace, and beside her, Kana’s mother, the very image of poised ferocity. Both radiated that effortless dominance that left the forest itself just a little quieter in their presence. For tigresses of their caliber, the unwarded Black Zone was no more dangerous than a familiar path at dusk. For the younger hunters, though, every shadow might hide the trial that shaped a legend—or ended an ambition.

  Shira’s gaze caught John’s for a moment, unreadable, then flicked toward the trees. Move.

  The group slipped into the forest like flowing specters, paws silent but for the occasional whisper of frost-nipped undergrowth. Here, the Eldergloom’s air was denser, tinged with the earthy musk of predators and the copper trace of old blood in the soil. Far off, something heavy moved, its step muffled by distance. A jay shrieked an alarm and took flight. The teenagers lowered their heads, whiskers quivering at the scents carried on the breeze.

  For John, the shift came almost automatically—the invisible thread of hunt-strategy weaving through scent, sound, and the flicker of white-striped pelts ahead. He was not here to prove himself, not in the way they were… but the animal inside him uncoiled at the thought of what prowled deeper in the Eldergloom, beyond the comfort of wards and walls.

  The forest canopy above shimmered with filtered sunlight, dappling the mossy ground in shifting patterns of gold and green. John padded silently beside Shira, his massive blue tiger form moving with a grace that belied its size. His paws sank softly into the loam, claws sheathed, tail swaying with each step. Though larger than Shira’s white tigress form, he knew—stat for stat, instinct for instinct—she was still stronger. Her gait was effortless, her presence commanding, even in silence.

  He had tried not to speak. The hunt was sacred, after all. But they had been walking for a while, and the quiet gnawed at him. His thoughts stirred, and with them, a low growl escaped his throat—words, shaped strangely in this form, rough and guttural, yet still intelligible to his own ears.

  “Shira,” he rumbled, voice like gravel over water, “may I speak with you?”

  She didn’t break stride, but her ears flicked toward him. “You already are.”

  John huffed, a sound halfway between a sigh and a snort. “I mean… properly. Not just tiger talk.”

  Shira slowed, then stopped, turning her head toward him. Her white fur shimmered like moonlight, eyes calm and unreadable. “You’re bored.”

  “A little,” John admitted, lowering his head slightly. “We’ve been walking for a while. I just… I’ve been wondering.”

  She sat back on her haunches, tail curling around her paws. “Go on.”

  John hesitated, then asked, “You seem to live here. What were you doing so close to Cloudroot when we met?”

  Shira’s eyes narrowed, and she gave a long, slow exhale—a sigh that rustled the leaves around them. “I suppose you really want to know, given this is at least the third time you’ve asked.”

  John’s ears twitched. He hadn’t meant to be persistent, but the question had lingered in his mind for years.

  Shira looked up at the canopy, as if drawing strength from the light filtering through. “I told you once, didn’t I? That there are dark forces in the world. That the strong must protect the weak.”

  John nodded, though the lesson had long since etched itself into his bones.

  “We weretigresses,” she continued, “travel the kingdom of Aurelia. We install wards—magic barriers—to shield human settlements from monsters, curses, and worse. Cloudroot was one such place.”

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  John’s breath caught. He had never known.

  “I felt something was wrong,” Shira said softly. “Some of the wards had gone silent. Destroyed. I went to investigate.”

  Her voice grew quieter, more distant. “That’s when I encountered the wyvern.”

  John’s eyes widened. He had heard tales—winged terrors that scorched the skies, claws that tore through steel. And he had even fought their level 0 version in the totem’s trial.

  “It was strong,” Shira said, “but reckless. I fought it. Drove it off. But I was wounded—badly.”

  She turned to face him fully now, her gaze piercing. “And then… I met you.”

  John’s heart thudded. He remembered it vividly—the white tigress, bloodied and breathing shallow, collapsed near the village outskirts. And himself, a timid, powerless seven-year-old, frozen in fear yet unable to run.

  “You didn’t scream,” Shira said. “You didn’t flee. You brought me water. You stayed.”

  “I was scared,” John murmured.

  “You were brave,” she corrected. “Even then. You didn’t know what I was. You didn’t know what I could do. But you helped me.”

  She stepped closer, her voice low and warm. “Thank you, John. For saving me when I was just a wounded predator. You were a child. And yet… you chose kindness.”

  John lowered his head, overwhelmed by the memory. The forest around them seemed to hush, the wind holding its breath.

  Shira leaned in, her muzzle brushing his. “And now, you walk beside me. A tiger in your own right. The world turns, cub. But some things… some choices… echo forever.”

  The forest changed as they moved deeper—less canopy, more jagged stone and sun-scorched clearings. The air grew heavier, tinged with sulfur and the faint musk of something ancient. Shira’s white tigress form padded silently beside John, her muscles taut beneath her fur, ears flicking at every distant rustle. John, in his blue tiger form, felt the heat of the terrain seep into his paws, the scent of prey growing stronger with each step.

  They were hunting giants.

  The creatures they tracked weren’t subtle. Their claw marks gouged deep into tree trunks, and their droppings steamed where they lay. Scales the size of shields littered the ground—iridescent, jagged, and sharp enough to slice skin. These beasts were low-slung and massive, five meters from snout to tail, their limbs thick and muscular, their heads broad and flat with rows of serrated teeth. Their eyes gleamed with a primal intelligence, and their tongues flicked constantly, tasting the air for movement.

  Their hides shimmered in the sun—dark crimson and charcoal, mottled with streaks of volcanic orange. Along their backs ran jagged ridges, like broken obsidian, and their tails ended in heavy, club-like knots of bone. They moved with deceptive speed, their gait a mix of slithering grace and sudden, explosive lunges.

  John crouched low in the underbrush, heart hammering. He was Tier I. Level 0. By all rights, he should have been watching from a safe distance. But here he was, stalking Tier II monsters alongside Shira, his breath coming in slow, deliberate huffs through his fangs.

  One of the beasts emerged into the clearing, its massive body casting a shadow that swallowed the sunlight. It sniffed the air, tongue flicking, then let out a low, rumbling hiss that vibrated through the ground. Another joined it, then a third. A trio. Young, but still deadly.

  Shira growled low—a signal. John nodded, muscles coiling. They moved.

  The ambush was swift. Shira launched herself first but restraining herself as it was not her hunt. A blur of white muscle and fury, claws raking across the nearest beast’s flank. It roared, spinning with surprising agility, tail lashing out. John darted in from the side, jaws snapping at the exposed leg joint of the second creature. His bite didn’t pierce the scales, but it staggered the beast just enough for him to leap away before the tail came crashing down.

  The third monster lunged at him, jaws wide, breath hot and foul. John twisted mid-air, barely avoiding the bite, and landed hard, claws skidding across stone. He felt the impact in his bones—but he was still standing.

  He was fighting Tier II monsters. And surviving.

  The realization hit him mid-combat, a strange mix of pride and disbelief. He was supposed to be weak. But here he was, moving with instinct, reacting with speed, his blue tiger form dancing between death and dominance.

  A teenage tigress roared, her claws sinking deep into the neck of the first beast. It thrashed, tail smashing into a tree, but she held firm, her jaws closing around its throat. The second beast turned to flee—but John was faster. He pounced, claws digging into its back, riding it down with a snarl. It bucked, rolled, and threw him off—but not before he tore a chunk of scale free.

  The third beast hesitated, sensing the shift in momentum. It backed away, hissing, tail lashing. The teenage tigress turned, blood dripping from her muzzle, and advanced. John joined her, shoulder to shoulder, their combined presence enough to send the last creature fleeing into the underbrush.

  Silence fell.

  John stood panting, his fur matted with sweat and dust, claws aching, muscles trembling. He looked at the fallen beast, its massive body still twitching, and then at Shira.

  “I… I did it,” he growled, voice rough and low.

  Shira nodded, her eyes gleaming. “You hunted. You survived. You grew.”

  Klara, Kana’s mother, also sent an approving look in his direction.

  John looked down at his paws, then at the blood on the stone. Tier II. At level 0. He had gained enough experience to level up in his unnatural XP track but not in his natural one which was deep in negative numbers.

  After their first hunt, the forest had been quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that presses against the ears, not from peace, but from something holding its breath.

  Then it came.

  A roar split the air, ancient and thunderous, rolling through the trees like a wave of fury. It wasn’t the cry of a beast—it was older than that. It was the sound of something that had slept too long, something that remembered blood and dominion. The ground trembled beneath their paws. Birds scattered. Even the wind seemed to recoil.

  Shira, in her white tigress form, froze mid-step. Her ears flattened. Her fur bristled. And then, impossibly, she paled.

  John had never seen her like this—not even in her young form during the Weretigress Trial, not even when she was hurt after facing the wyvern. This was different. This was fear.

  “Back,” she growled, voice low and sharp. “John. Klara. The young ones. Back to the village. Now.”

  John hesitated, heart pounding. He had just begun to understand his tiger form, just started to feel the strength in his limbs. But the look in Shira’s eyes made him move. He turned, calling to the teenage tigresses, and together they fled—paws pounding against the forest floor, leaves whipping past, the roar still echoing behind them.

  But Kana’s mother didn’t move.

  She stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with Shira, her own white fur gleaming in the dappled light. She said nothing, but her stance spoke volumes. She would not leave. Not now.

  John glanced back once, just before the trees swallowed him. Shira stood tall, gaze fixed on the horizon, muscles taut. And then she spoke—barely a whisper, but it carried.

  “Black tigers.”

  John didn’t understand. Not yet. But the words chilled him more than the roar.

  Something was coming. Something that even the apex hunters feared.