Grey leaned against the side of the carriage, his axe resting across his knees. The road wound through low hills and patches of mist that caught the fading light. Ahead, the northern forest waited—silent, dark, and endless.
He glanced at the axe in his hand. It carried a faint trace of the Art of Wood—the chief's gift, and his only one.
A weak Art, meant for carpenters. Not fighters.
When he'd first learned it, he could only see the white rings, faint and slow to appear. They marked the wood's steadier spots—the places that resisted the blade most.
The black and grey rings had come later, once he'd learned what years of chopping could teach that magic couldn't.
Now, after countless swings, he could tell where to strike before the axe even moved.
It wasn't power that made him proud of it. It was precision.
Control.
The kind of strength no one noticed.
Most people in Arand's Rest didn't even have an Art. The few who did learned them for their trades: small, practical, and nothing that would make killing monsters any easier. That was why the New Year Hunt existed—to keep the forest in check before it grew bold enough to come for them.
Grey's Art didn't make him safer tonight. It wouldn't split an orc's skull or shield him from claws. But it had taught him something important: if you understood how things were built, you could learn how they broke.
He looked out over the edge of the cart. The trees ahead seemed to rise higher with every turn of the wheel, their shadows stretching like bars across the road. The sun was already gone, leaving the light thin and uncertain.
Grey flexed his grip on the axe handle. He'd never liked this forest. It was too quiet, too still—like it was waiting for someone to make the first mistake.
"Grey!"
He turned at the sound of his name.
Taek was sitting opposite him, arms folded, his usual grin in place.
"Stop dozing off," Taek said, nodding toward the dark treeline ahead. "We're in the territory of the monsters."
"He's right. What are you thinking about?"
Elaine leaned forward from her seat, the torchlight catching her short, black hair. She'd cut it herself a few weeks back—again. She always said long hair got in the way when she drew her bow, though Grey suspected she just liked proving she didn't care about looking proper.
"Nothing," he said. "Just forgot to sharpen my axe."
Elaine frowned. "You forgot? That's not like you. What if it doesn't cut through an orc's hide?"
Grey reached over and ruffled her hair. "That would only happen if I had weak arms like yours."
"Hey!" She swatted his hand away, scowling, but the color rising in her cheeks ruined the effect. "You treat me like a kid every time."
"You'll still be one for a whole year," Grey said, smirking. "After midnight, you'll turn fourteen. That's still a year behind me."
Elaine folded her arms, glaring. "You make that sound like I'm five."
"You act like it sometimes."
Her frown twitched into a reluctant grin. "Then I guess I'll just shoot better than you to make up for it."
Grey chuckled under his breath. "We'll see."
The air around them grew colder as the forest closed in. The carriages slowed to a crawl, creaking under the uneven ground. Grey leaned back against the side, his thoughts drifting.
Years of cutting wood under the chief's supervision had built his strength without him noticing. He'd been swinging an axe since he was ten. Now, at fifteen, the motion came as naturally as breathing.
His body was lean but steady, the kind that came from repetition rather than training. The chief said that even the Arts respected discipline. Grey wasn't sure if that was true, but his arms were proof enough that work counted for something.
The only thing about him that ever drew attention was his hair—half black, half white. In torchlight, it looked strange, almost unnatural, as if it couldn't decide which color it wanted to be.
His father's hair had been a dark blue-black, his mother's pure black. No one could explain how he'd ended up like this.
His mother once told him the name came from that split color.
"Grey," she'd said, "for the space between what is and what isn't."
He hadn't liked it back then. It sounded bleak. But he'd kept it anyway—after her death, after being sent away, after losing everything else.
The memory started to turn sharper, and he pushed it away before it could.
A guttural roar broke the rhythm of the wheels.
"Grrraaaagh!"
Elaine jumped, her bow halfway raised. "What was that?"
"Probably a wild boar," Grey said calmly. "They'll let the children handle it."
Her shoulders eased, though her fingers stayed tight on the bowstring. "Guess it's starting, then."
"Yeah," he said. "It's tradition."
Every year, children who had turned ten joined the New Year Hunt for the first time. The older hunters made sure their first kill was safe and guided, but only once. Next year, they'd be expected to fend for themselves.
Grey glanced toward the treeline, where a few smaller groups were already breaking off toward the sound. Torches flickered like fireflies between the trunks.
"Let them have their fun," he said. "They'll learn soon enough what hunting really means."
---
"Here's one! Let's attack together!"
"Right!"
The shout rippled through the trees, and torches swung toward the sound. Grey ran beside the others, boots slipping over roots and damp leaves. The scent of iron and sap filled the air.
An orc stood near the clearing's edge — thick arms, mottled skin, tusks glinting wet in the firelight. Its eyes were small but furious, catching the glow like embers in the dark.
"Spread out!" Ray barked, raising his spear. He was the kind of man who led by shouting first and thinking second, but the villagers trusted him. His presence steadied them.
The orc bellowed and charged.
The first volley came fast — two arrows snapped from the line, thudding into the beast's shoulder. It barely slowed. Ray stepped in, taking the brunt of the charge, his spear braced against the ground. The impact cracked like thunder.
"Now!" he yelled.
Grey moved without thinking. He swung his axe low, aiming for the leg, and felt the shudder of bone through the handle. Others followed — spears stabbing, blades cutting in a flurry of desperation and teamwork.
For a moment, the world was all sound: shouts, steel, and the wet rhythm of impact. Then it ended. The orc stumbled, fell to one knee, and collapsed with a final grunt.
The group stood around it, panting, the smell of blood and sweat thick in their noses. Someone laughed nervously. Another muttered a prayer.
Grey pulled his axe free from the corpse, wiped the blade against his sleeve, and straightened. The fight had gone smoothly—too smoothly. He barely felt the ache in his arms.
Maybe that's why the next roar hit harder.
"RAAAARGH!"
The sound rolled from deeper within the forest.
Ray spun toward the noise, eyes narrowing. "Another one! Take position!"
Grey's heartbeat quickened. He could feel it — the tremor of something bigger pushing through the brush.
"It's time," he muttered under his breath.
"Ray, wait!" he called out.
The leader turned, spear in hand. "What is it?"
"I'll take it."
For a second, only the crackle of torches answered. Then someone snorted.
"You sure?"
Grey nodded. "I'm ready."
He was fifteen after tonight — an adult. Most couldn't face an orc alone at that age, not without a powerful Art. But Grey wasn't most. He'd been waiting for this moment for years.
After coming to this world where there were monsters, of course, he wanted to become a hunter and fight monsters.
Ray studied him, then nodded. "Fine. We'll stay close. If you—"
"It's okay," Grey interrupted, already stepping forward. "I'll handle it."
Ray shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Don't die before midnight."
"I'll try."
The trees ahead shuddered as the orc broke through — larger than the last, its skin darker, its breath steaming in the cold. It carried a tree trunk ripped straight from the ground, bark splintered and dirt still clinging to the roots.
Grey tightened his grip on the axe. The blade was still clean, its edge steady under the torchlight. His muscles coiled.
The orc roared again and charged, the trunk sweeping sideways in a blur of weight and power.
Grey dove left, rolling across the ground. Dirt stung his cheek. He came up on one knee, breath sharp, and saw the trunk bury itself in a tree where he'd just been. Bark exploded in a spray of dust.
It was strong. Slower than the first one, but stronger.
He circled, keeping low, watching the orc's movements. Every breath, every step, every twitch of its arms — all of it counted.
Another swing came. He ducked again, closer this time, almost within reach. His pulse hammered in his ears.
Now.
He drove forward, swinging his axe toward the creature's ribs. The strike landed solid, biting deep—
—but the orc moved.
Instead of lifting the trunk for another attack, it slammed it down between them, blocking the blow. Grey's axe met bark, not flesh. The impact jarred his hands.
He tried to pull back. The weapon didn't budge.
The axe was stuck.
Grey's stomach turned cold.