The headmaster's voice had barely faded when the schoolyard erupted into motion. A restless energy surged through the crowd—some students lunged forward instinctively, as if mere proximity to the silver box could grant them favor. Others hung back, wary but hungry, their eyes locked onto the prize in the headmaster's hands.
The Bone-Tempering Weed pulsed faintly, its dark veins shimmering under the light. A single dose could reshape a warrior's limits, hardening bones, refining chakra, turning potential into undeniable strength.
For some, it was a chance to rise.
For others, it was a battlefield.
And the unspoken rule was clear—only the strongest would take it.
Liam Torvin was the first to break the silence.
"I won't let this slip away!" His voice was a blade cutting through the murmurs. Broad-shouldered and battle-hardened, the warlord's son stood like a fortress, his golden eyes burning with the kind of hunger only those raised on war could understand. "If it's a test of strength, then I'll crush anyone who stands in my way."
His words sent a ripple through the crowd. Some stepped back. Liam didn't just fight—he broke opponents. His reputation was built on raw power, and he wore it like armor.
But not everyone was intimidated.
A scoff.
"You think brute force is enough?" ZeforaBalanc smirked, her lean frame coiled like a spring. She was speed incarnate—her footwork legendary, her strikes unseen until it was too late. "By the time you throw your first punch, I'll already have won."
She wasn't wrong. Zefora didn't overpower—she slipped through cracks, struck where defenses were weakest. If this challenge favored agility, she had already won.
Then—laughter. Cool, mocking.
Sistie Clausia stood apart, her blue hair catching the light, her posture radiating effortless superiority. She watched the others like a scholar observing unruly children.
"Rushing in blindly?" She shook her head. "How predictable. None of you even know what the challenge is."
A hush fell.
She was right. The headmaster hadn't explained the rules. Would it be combat? A test of endurance? A hunt? Charging in now was reckless. Sistie thrived on strategy, on dismantling opponents before they even realized the game had begun.
And then—
Silence.
Nayra stood at the edge of the crowd, unnoticed.
Where others burned with ambition, he remained still. Where voices clashed for dominance, he said nothing.
Because that was the role he had chosen—mediocrity.
Not weak. Not strong. Just… unremarkable.
No one looked at him twice. No one saw him as a threat.
And that was exactly how he wanted it.
Because while the others saw a prize to be seized—
He saw a game to be played.
And the first rule of winning?
Never let them know you're competing.
The headmaster's words hung in the air like the edge of a drawn blade.
"Hunt down the boars."
A simple challenge. Brutal in its clarity.
"Whoever makes the first kill... earns the prize."
For a single, suspended heartbeat, the students stood frozen—a collective breath held too long. Then, like a dam breaking, chaos erupted.
LiamTorvin didn't think—he moved.
His body reacted before his mind could catch up, muscles igniting with the raw, untamed instinct of a predator unleashed. The earth trembled beneath his charge as he barreled forward, his golden eyes wild with the promise of victory.
"First blood is mine!"
Strength had always been his language, his birthright. If this was a hunt, then he would tear through the forest like a storm, smash through brush and bone alike until his hands were stained with proof of his dominance. The boar wouldn't stand a chance—nothing did, once he set his sights on it.
Behind him, ZeforaBalanc rolled her eyes.
"Idiots," she muttered, before vanishing.
One moment she was there—the next, a whisper of movement, a flicker at the edge of vision. While the others crashed forward like a herd of stampeding beasts, Zefora slipped between them, effortless as a shadow. Speed was her weapon, and she wielded it like an artist. The forest would welcome her long before the others even reached the treeline.
"Let them exhaust themselves," she thought, already calculating the angles, the paths. "By the time they stumble upon a boar, I'll have three kills to my name."
Sistie Clausia didn't rush.
She observed.
While the others sprinted like mindless hounds, she remained still, her sharp eyes tracing the patterns of their chaos. A slow, knowing smile curled at her lips.
"Fools," she mused. "A boar isn't some mindless target—it's a creature of habit, of territory. The first to reach the forest won't be the first to find one."
She adjusted the strap of her satchel, unhurried. Let the brutes waste their energy. Let the swift grow careless in their arrogance. She would track, predict, outthink. The kill would come to her.
And then there was Nayra.
He didn't move.
While the others surged forward in a frenzy, he remained at the edge of the schoolyard, a ghost among the living. His expression was blank, unreadable—just another face in the crowd, another unremarkable student lost in the chaos.
But his mind was anything but still.
The others saw only what was in front of them—a race, a hunt, a test of speed or strength or wit.
Liam believed victory belonged to the strongest. Zefora trusted in her speed. Sistie placed her faith in strategy.
They were all wrong.
Killing wasn't about any one thing.
It was about patience—knowing when to let the prey exhaust itself, when to let fear do the work for you.
It was about precision—a single, flawless strike, not a flurry of wasted effort.
It was about psychology—understanding the beast's instincts better than it understood itself.
And Nayra?
He had learned these lessons long ago.
While the others thrashed through the underbrush, snapping branches and shouting like amateurs, he already knew:
The boars would flee toward the river at the first sign of disturbance. They would panic at the scent of blood, at the sound of clumsy footsteps. They would circle back to their dens when the chaos faded.
The others were playing the game.
Nayra was controlling it.
A whisper of a smirk touched his lips as he finally moved—not toward the forest, but along its edge, where the shadows clung thickest.
"Run," he thought, watching the distant figures of his classmates disappear into the trees. "Tire yourselves out."
The real hunt had only just begun.
The forest, once a simple hunting ground, had transformed into something far more dangerous—a proving ground where ideologies clashed as violently as steel. The boars were almost an afterthought now; the real prey was pride, dominance, survival.
OrwinHale stood at the center of his faction, his presence steady as an ancient oak. Around him, his followers moved with quiet precision, their eyes sharp, their movements coordinated. The Black Wolves didn't believe in glory for glory's sake—they believed in victory, and victory was best seized together.
"Form up," Orwin commanded, his voice low but carrying. "Trackers to the front. Spears in the middle. Archers at the flanks."
His second-in-command, a wiry girl named Elin with eyes like a hawk, nodded sharply. "We'll drive them toward the riverbank. No escape."
The Black Wolves didn't rush. They flowed. Each member knew their role, trusted their brothers and sisters at their side. To them, this wasn't just a hunt—it was a statement.
We are stronger together.
And yet, as they moved, Orwin's gaze flickered toward the chaos unfolding elsewhere. The Red Hawks were already tearing into each other, the Golden Snakes weaving their webs. He clenched his jaw.
Fools. All of them.
But fools could still be dangerous.
Liam Torvin didn't need a plan.
Plans were for people who doubted themselves.
He crashed through the underbrush like a storm given flesh, his breath coming hard and fast, his blood singing with the thrill of the chase. Somewhere ahead, a boar snorted—he could smell it, the musky scent of prey.
"Come on," he growled, fingers flexing around the hilt of his hunting knife. "Let's see you try to run."
Behind him, Zefora Balanc moved like smoke, her footfalls silent, her presence barely a whisper. She didn't follow Liam—she passed him, slipping between trees with effortless grace.
"Try to keep up, brute," she called over her shoulder, her smirk audible.
Liam bared his teeth in a grin. "You first, ghost."
Red Hawks didn't hunt in packs. They hunted alone, because to rely on another was to admit weakness. And weakness was death.
Somewhere deeper in the forest, a scream cut through the trees—one of their own, probably. A clash over territory, over prey, over pride.
Liam didn't slow down.
That was the way of things.
SistieClausia didn't dirty her hands.
Not when there were so many useful people around to do it for her.
She lounged against a gnarled oak, idly twirling a lock of blue hair around one finger, watching as her faction worked.
"Tomas," she said sweetly, "be a dear and remind our dear Red Hawk friends that the eastern thicket is terribly dangerous this time of year."
Tomas, a rat-faced boy with a grin too sharp for his face, bowed mockingly. "Already spreading the word, my lady. Heard there's a monster of a boar that way. Real killer."
Sistie's laughter was like wind chimes. "How frightening."
Across the clearing, one of her other snakes—a girl with honeyed words and poison lips—leaned in close to a panting Black Wolf scout.
"You look exhausted," she murmured, pressing a waterskin into his hands. "Here. Rest a moment. Your friends can manage without you, can't they?"
The boy hesitated, then drank.
Sistie smiled.
The Golden Snakes didn't fight. They manipulated. Why bleed when you could make others bleed for you?
Nayra watched.
He always watched.
From the edge of the clearing, half-hidden by ferns, he observed the factions with the detached interest of a scholar studying ants.
The Black Wolves moved like a single organism, disciplined but predictable.
The Red Hawks burned bright and fast—already, he could see two of them circling each other, knives out, over some imagined slight.
The Golden Snakes whispered and schemed, so sure of their own cleverness.
Nayra exhaled slowly, his breath stirring a single leaf.
Pathetic.
They were all so busy playing their little games, they hadn't even noticed the truth yet.
The boars weren't the prize.
The hunt wasn't the test.
This was about survival—about who was willing to do what it took, without hesitation, without remorse.
Nayra's fingers brushed the hilt of his knife.
Soon.
Very soon.
Let them wear each other down.
Then he would move.