"There was a time when I was a true hunter," the old man muttered, his voice low and bitter. "A shimmering dragon with crimson wings. But now? We live like filthy humans. Easy, sure—but it shatters my pride. And all because of that damned King Fafner and his rules."
Beside him walked Lars, dressed in a worn white tunic and brown pants caked with mud. He gave a small nod.
"I understand, sir."
"Understand? You understand nothing, boy," the old man snapped. "You're just another useless brat who shattered my last bottle of booze. And until you repay that debt, you'll be hunting with me—every single day."
Every day? Seriously? Lars grumbled internally. I've done more than enough already. And this forest doesn't even look that dangerous… at least that's what the old man said.
The old man pressed forward, step by steady step. Behind him, Lars followed, dragging the worn shovel he had used all day in the fields.
The forest was cloaked in night. Thick shadows hung between the trees, but the dim lantern in the old man's hand cast a soft orange glow ahead of them.
"How far until we find the pigs?" Lars asked, glancing around warily.
The old man sneered, but before he could answer, his expression shifted.
His ears twitched slightly—an instinct left over from his dragon blood. Even old and half-drunk, he could hear sounds across a wide stretch of land.
He raised a finger to his lips and gave Lars a sharp glare.
Silence.
The sound—faint at first—grew clearer with every step.
Crackling… like fire.
The old man halted abruptly. Lars stopped behind him.
Through the brush ahead, a flickering orange glow shimmered—flames. A campfire?
The old man crouched, lowering himself into the tall grass. Like a true hunter, he became still. Lars, awkward and confused, followed suit.
Peeking through the grass with one eye, the old man spotted a small campfire. A single young man sat beside it. He was frail-looking, his short black hair messy, his plain face drawn with fear. He trembled visibly, arms wrapped around himself.
The old man sighed.
"Hmph. Guess age is finally catching up to me. I thought it was pigs… turns out it's just a shivering brat. What the hell's a kid doing out here alone?"
He glanced back at Lars, then stood and stepped out from the grass. Lars followed.
The young man jolted as they emerged, eyes wide in alarm. Clearly, he hadn't sensed them at all.
"Don't be afraid, kid," the old man said, raising a hand. "We're from the nearby village."
"O-oh… I'm from the village just beyond the ridge," the boy replied quickly, his voice shaky.
Lars offered a polite smile. "Well, that's good to hear. Nice to meet you."
The old man scoffed.
"You think we're here to make friends? Hah. We're hunting pigs. That's all."
"Yes, sir," Lars mumbled with a nod.
The young man hesitated, then stepped closer.
"Can I… can I join you?"
The old man frowned. "No. We don't need extras slowing us down."
Lars looked at the boy. There was something in his eyes—innocence, maybe hope—and for a second, he almost pitied him.
But the young man stepped closer, desperation in his voice now.
"Please, I can be useful. I'm a mage—I can cast slumber spells. I won't be a burden, I swear!"
The old man raised an eyebrow.
"A mage, huh? That could come in handy…"
His eyes lingered on the boy.
It's been too long since I had someone that soft around. Maybe I'll take more than just spells.
"Hmph. Fine. You can come," the old man said with a smirk.
The path was narrow and overgrown, a winding trail through the forest hills that led toward the old man's hut.
The lamp in his hand cast flickering shadows across the gnarled trees. Behind him, Lars trudged forward, shovel still slung over his shoulder. Beside Lars walked the stranger—the boy with jet-black hair and a quiet presence.
"Can I ask something?" the boy finally said.
The old man grunted. "You're already asking."
"Why do you hunt pigs? There's fruit in the woods. Other ways to survive. Doesn't killing them feel… wrong?"
The old man snorted. "Wrong? You a dragon or a priest, kid?"
"I just think… if we're all part of the same world, isn't it strange how some lives are considered worth more than others? Who gave us the right to decide what should be hunted and what shouldn't?"
Lars turned slightly, shaking his head. "You're thinking too much. Survival isn't about fairness—it's about instinct. About doing what you must."
The old man grinned. "See? Even this muddy brat gets it."
The boy didn't respond. His gaze stayed downcast, thoughtful, as if weighing more than just the old man's words.
On his shoulder, unseen by the others, a snake slithered lightly—a ghostly white serpent with gleaming green eyes.
"They're curious about you, master," Orochi said.
The boy—Alex—smirked faintly.
Of course they are.
"Still… why hide? With my powers, you could've ended them in an instant."
"And where's the fun in that?" Alex said. "Let me play the fool for a while, Orochi. Sometimes a wolf learns more pretending to be weak than showing its fangs."
Orochi's eyes narrowed, coiled comfortably on his shoulder. "As you wish."
Alex's thoughts drifted.
Orochi's powers are useful… as far as she's shown me. We've altered our appearance perfectly. We can even talk freely with our minds without muttering a single word.
I'll use this to break this kingdom from within… and feed Moon to his satisfaction.
"I can't wait to see your home," Alex said, his voice soft.
A smile crept onto his lips—the kind that would've made them run if they'd seen it.
But they didn't.
It was hidden behind the facade.
What they saw was just a harmless boy.