Blake followed the guards a few steps into the pavilion, where they handed him off to a different guard. Although most of the sect members inside the wall wore basic tunics, the guards all wore mismatched armour. Mostly chainmail and helmets, with the odd plate here or there. To mark their allegiance to the sect, their armour always had two bright red stripes on the pauldron.

  The new guard, after being told about Blake’s situation (and that he could share the contribution points earned from Blake’s pelts), agreed to take Blake to the elder.

  I am going to be quiet now, Ethbin said. Unless you absolutely need me, I’d suggest hiding me in your pocket.

  “I can’t talk to you?” Blake whispered.

  Only talk to me when no one’s looking, or they’ll think you’re crazy. If they ask you about why the Green Bears are hunting you, don’t mention me. They’ll be just as hungry to take me from you. Ethbin was silent for a few seconds, before adding, Remember: get yourself a basic cycling technique slate first. Then aim for a Smite technique. You’ll need something to modify to your purpose. The aspect is up to you, but you’d best pick something that suits you.

  Blake casually pulled the ring off his finger when no one was looking and tucked it into his pocket, then followed the new guard through the pavilion, catching stares from across the gardens and from within the windows of the longhouses. Even the sect members sparring in a grassy patch stopped to stare at him.

  “Is it because…I’m Blended?” Blake whispered to the guard.

  “It’s because you’re new. We haven’t had anyone as old as you try to join for years.”

  Blake glanced around. He only spotted one other Blended, a woman with feathers for hair, but at least it meant they accepted Blended. Ethbin was right.

  They approached a building at the center of the pavilion. It had stone walls and another white brick wall surrounding it, but its steep roof stretched high above the wall, and its chimney puffed smoke.

  Between the wall and the house, there were more gardens and a trickling stream. They found an old man sitting on the stream bed outside the building, legs folded, fingers tucked neatly together. He didn’t move, even when the guard approached, but his eyes were open.

  Although he was inside the pavilion, he wore a chainmail hauberk, a cloak, and a leather pauldron on his shoulder with the standard sect markings. His blonde hair was tied up behind him in a ponytail, and a thin beard hung down off his chin.

  Blake’s gaze drifted down to the man’s rank seal. It displayed a single crescent that took up nearly the entirety of the wax seal. Core Formation stage one.

  Blake swallowed. He’d never been this close to someone so powerful before. There was a faint tingle in the back of his head, and a slight pressure in his chest and shoulders, which was coming from the man.

  Finally, after a few seconds, the guard cleared his throat and bowed. “Elder Ulfreld. I have a new potential recruit.”

  The elder blinked his eyes open, but continued staring forward. Like the others, his eyes glowed turquoise. But for someone called an ‘elder,’ he looked awfully young—in his early forties, perhaps.

  “Brother Knyr is responsible for recruits,” the elder said in a slow but deep voice. “Why do you trouble me with this?”

  “Brother Knyr is out on a hunt,” the guard said. “And this recruit is much older than the rest. He will need special allowances.”

  Elder Ulfreld turned to glance at Blake and the guard. He glanced up and down, eyes flitting over the entirety of Blake at least twice, before he said, “Leave us.” Blake took that to mean the guard, not him.

  The guard bowed, then walked away, leaving the inner pavilion.

  “What is your name?” Ulfreld asked once the guard had left the gate.

  “Bl—” Blake stopped himself. “Bjarke Ekkson Blandi, sir.” He resisted a scowl. He’d come out here so he didn’t have to watch his words and deal with all the ridiculous pleasantries and customs.

  But sects were a tool, he reminded himself. He wasn’t going to be here forever—just long enough to get his feet on the ground and get the resources he needed.

  “Not sir. Elder. If you are accepted, then ‘Senior Brother’ is also welcome.”

  “Elder,” Blake confirmed.

  “You are old. We would usually look for recruits around ten to twelve years old.”

  Blake swallowed. That wasn’t a rule for some of the smaller city sects, nor the Green Bears’ outer courts, but then again, there was a manaship hovering over the city. The Green Bears inner courts in the manaship would snap up all the good recruits, and the outer pavilions had to settle for the scraps.

  Out here, the hunters could afford to be a bit more picky.

  “But you are the right stage, and in fact, you are stronger than our usual recruits…though not so strong that we can’t mould you,” Elder Ulfreld said.

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

  Blake didn’t know how to respond, so he said nothing.

  “Do you know what we do in the Red Pine Hunter’s Sect?” Elder Ulfreld asked.

  “Hunt monsters and fiends, sir—I mean, elder.”

  “Correct,” Ulfreld said. “And why?”

  “For their pelts?”

  “To sell anything we obtain from them, to scour the mists for treasures, and trade it to the sects who are not as specialized as hunting monsters. We require our recruits to have the strength to kill all sorts of beasts, and the fortitude to return once you have claimed a great reward. There are those who think they can accept hunting missions from us, use our resources, and then betray us when all is said and done. It never goes well for them.”

  That was exactly what someone who didn’t want to get betrayed would say. Blake only nodded along.

  “I’ll admit, you intrigue me,” said Elder Uldreld. “Not just because of your age, nor because you match the description of someone who is wanted by the authorities across the merge-mists. Though…making life difficult for the Green Bears and that fool Steerman of theirs is a benefit.”

  He paused, and when Blake thought he wasn’t going to actually explain what he meant, the Elder finally said, “Simply, I have never seen a fiend-blend live as long as you. Do you feel…sluggish? Have you had pains in your heart, or perhaps aches in your bones?”

  “Not unless you count opening those meridians about a week ago.” He paused, then added, “Elder.”

  Ulfreld stared at Blake with an unamused expression. He probably thought it was a joke.

  “No, sir, I…haven’t felt any of those things,” Blake said quickly.

  “Interesting. Why don’t you have a cultivator’s eyes?”

  “Must be the fiend-blend,” Blake said with a wince. “You guys do take fiend-blends, right? I think I saw a couple other Blended out in the pavilion.”

  “Be careful of your tone when you speak to an Elder or a Senior Brother. But yes, you are correct. The mortals often think we don’t, and we let them, because they have their notions of what a Blended is and your roles in society. But what matters to us is simple: can you hunt for the sect, increase our prestige, and provide us loot to trade?”

  “Yes, Elder.”

  “It was rhetorical.”

  You should have made it more clear, Blake thought, but kept that to himself.

  “Last thing. You’re not a Green Bear Sect spy?” Elder Ulfreld raised his hand, and his fingers were pointing outward.

  “...No?” Blake tilted his head.

  Elder Ulfreld laughed softly. “Good. A spy would’ve answered with more conviction and less shock.” He lowered his fingers, and there was a clank behind Blake. A hovering sword fell to the ground. “And I don’t see why a man wanted by the Green Bears and a land-master would be a spy, but you can never be too careful.”

  Elder Ulfreld had been controlling a flying sword, holding it behind Blake’s back? He could have killed Blake in a single swipe.

  Blake needed to improve his senses. And quickly. He might not get so lucky next time. He tapped his foot inside his boot anxiously. “I’m no Green Bear, and hearing that you guys don’t like them makes me like you guys more. Elder.”

  Ulfreld’s eyes lit up, and his lips quirked up into a grin. “Those beardless bastards have been poaching half our targets lately, going over our heads, and then they have the audacity to still try to buy the rest of the pelts and treasures off us. We have no choice but to honour the agreement we have with them, and keep selling to them, but it grates on my bones. Sheltering one of their criminals would be a great honour.”

  “Thank you, sir. Elder.”

  Ulfreld folded his fingers back together. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have actually stolen a treasure from them? That is what the rumour suggests.”

  Blake chuckled. “No, didn’t get anything. I…uh, I just made the Land-master angry.”

  Smiling faintly, Ulfreld said, “Now, let’s see. I would like to have you in the sect, yes, but it is not so easy. The other hunters cannot see you join with such ease, or I might have a mutiny on my hands.”

  Blake scrunched his eyebrows. “Do you want me to suggest something, or…”

  “Your Senior Brothers will often pause. Do not interrupt them.”

  “Apologies, sir—uh, Elder.”

  “Head to the mission board,” Ulfreld said. “Find the mission slip for the fogterror—one was sighted on the Imor Ridge the other day. It is an evolved fiend, and we believe it is about equivalent to Body Tempering Three. You may take a basic, non-enchanted weapon. I believe you brought some pelts, whose contribution points will not go to you, but will pay for a basic weapon five times over.

  “But I digress. Kill the fogterror, bring back its skull, and you will have proven yourself worthy of the sect. Better for you, you will receive all the contribution points associated with the fogterror. Understood?”

  “Yes, si—Elder.”

  Ulfreld shook his head, then pointed back toward the main pavilion. “You will find the mission board beside the main entrance. Take the parchment slip if you accept the mission. If not, leave here immediately. Once you accept the mission, ask one of the guards for a basic weapon. Dismissed.”

  Blake nodded, then walked back out the same direction the guard had brought him in. Most of the people who’d been staring at him had gone back to their business, but as he approached the mission board, a few began glaring at him. They’d probably guessed what had happened.

  The mission board was impossible to miss. Just beside the main gate that he’d entered through, an upright plank of wood boasted hundreds of paper slips. They stated, “Kill howler pack. Ten contribution points” or some variation of that message. Rarely did they give a location or a direction, and it seemed that they offered less contribution points if you didn’t have to track it on your own.

  In the center of the board, there was a slightly larger slip, which read, “Kill fogterror. Fifty contribution points.”

  Blake unpinned it and took it, then turned to the guards. The two who’d let him in began laughing, and there were a few snickers from behind him, too, as the other sect members realized which slip he’d taken.

  “Well…” someone whispered. “Brother Henot, you’re going to need to write up another slip for when he dies and loses this one.”

  Blake tuned them out, then turned back to the guard who brought him in. “Elder Ulfreld said I could take a basic weapon.”

  “Ah, shame,” the guard said. “Well, sacrifice it to the mists, I suppose. Sacrifice of two contribution points…” He shook his head. “Basic weapons are cheap,” he explained to Blake, probably seeing Blake’s expression. “They have no imbued mana, they aren’t made of Shaped mana, and they have no spirit-enchantments. It won’t do you any good long-term, and you’re not going to last that long anyway. But those pelts you brought in are worth ten contribution points.”

  “So you’re still getting a good deal?”

  “That I am,” the guard said, then clapped Blake on the shoulder. “Now, let’s see. What sort of weapon are you looking for?”