The eastern border of Silpatra had always been a quiet stretch of hills and forests. Farmers worked their fields, merchants passed through small villages, and soldiers maintained the outposts in a steady, almost mundane rhythm. That peace was shattered in the night when the first coordinated beast raid struck.
The outpost at Carven Hill was the first to fall. It wasn't a siege in the grand, ceremonial sense of armies banging on gates. It was precise, brutal, and silent—like a wolf hunting a rabbit. The beasts moved with a cunning unnatural for their kind: large, clawed limbs cutting through tents, gnashing jaws ripping ropes, and eyes glinting with intelligence no ordinary predator possessed.
The soldiers of Carven Hill were caught between disbelief and terror. They'd trained for monsters, yes, but never for monsters that seemed to anticipate every move, that seemed to talk to each other with roars and gestures more deliberate than instinct should allow. Spears snapped. Shields splintered. Armor crumpled under strikes that carried the weight of falling boulders. By midnight, almost the entire garrison lay either dead or scattered into the woods, screaming in panic.
In one guard tower, Lieutenant Marvek swung his halberd with desperation. A massive wolf-demon lunged at him, teeth bared, eyes burning like coals. Marvek felt the impact before he saw it. The beast's body struck him like a battering ram. He rolled, halberd swinging, and caught the creature on the edge of its jaw. The metal screamed, twisting against bone, and sparks flew as teeth cracked. But it didn't die. It only staggered. From the darkness, three more beasts leapt, one landing atop the tower, shaking the wood like it were made of paper.
At that moment, the guards realized what was happening: this wasn't a random raid. This was a strike team. Beasts had coordinated. They had leaders, they had targets, and they had an intelligence that chilled men to their bones. Marvek's final thought was that the kingdom had underestimated its enemy.
Meanwhile, further down the road, Kael's group remained blissfully unaware. In the quiet village of Biwa, the forest whispered around the cabin. Kael sharpened his sword on a stone, the metal singing a low, hungry note. Jade adjusted her daggers, smirking, as Dill fussed over the placement of herbs in his bag.
"Something tells me," Jade said, twisting a lock of her hair, "the kingdom's about to realize that being at war is a bit like trying to eat soup with a fork."
Kael didn't look up. He only hummed in agreement—or perhaps it was the grind of steel against stone. His stomach grumbled loudly enough that Dill flinched.
"That," Jade added, nodding toward Kael's belly, "is going to be the real weapon."
But even here, far from the border, the war's reach was growing. Rumors began to trickle through villagers and hunters. "Outpost at Carven Hill… wiped clean overnight," they whispered. "No survivors." The phrase echoed like a funeral bell in the mountains. Farmers clutched their tools and prayed, though the beasts seemed deaf to prayers.
In Silpatra's capital, King Varion received the report with clenched fists. His generals were pale, their uniforms crumpled from sleepless nights. Maps were spread across the war room, arrows and notes scattered like fallen leaves.
"This is not a raid," General Orlen said, voice tight. "This is an attack with purpose. They hit a garrison meant to defend nothing but farmers and supply lines. Next, they'll come for towns. Then cities."
The King's hand drummed against the table. "Then we prepare. Every able-bodied man over eighteen. Every warrior, every retired soldier. Summon Cassian. And send word to the academy: all trainees must be accounted for."
The command sent shivers down the spines of those present. Cassian—the Sanguine Knight—had earned his reputation already, but even he had limits. And Kael, of course, remained hidden, a rumor in the making, a force unseen, growing silently in Biwa.
Back at the Biwa cabin, Kael continued his sharpening. The stone bit into metal, sparks flying like little stars rebelling against the dark. He tested the edge with a slice through the air. The blade hummed, vibrating in his hands, alive and responsive, as if it could feel what Kael intended before he moved.
Jade tilted her head, eyes following the arc of the blade. "You know," she said casually, "if those beasts ever get anywhere near here, they're going to regret waking up."
Kael made no reply. He simply adjusted his grip and ran through the same swing again. The blade arced through the air with a soft whistle, the tip carving an invisible line of warning. The movement was plain, but every soldier who saw him—or would have seen him—would have known instinctively that this was no ordinary fighter.
Dill, who was fussing with his herb pouches, muttered, "If only we had maps that told us the monsters were coming this precise, maybe we could—"
Kael interrupted with a silent step forward, raising the sword in a posture so simple it was frightening in its clarity. He swung. Imaginary enemies met the edge. The stone beneath his boots seemed to protest against his weight, whispering against his movement like it was part of the rhythm. It was obvious that, if this were a real battle, none of the beasts would survive the first swing.
Hours later, as scouts returned from the border, bodies in tow, the scale of the first border collapse became terrifyingly clear. Entire towns were evacuated, survivors spoke of shadows that moved with strategy, claws that calculated, and jaws that remembered. And among these whispers, one name quietly floated: the Monster Boy.
Though Kael did not know it, the first domino had fallen. Silpatra was at war, and the monster at the center of the coming storm remained silent, hidden, and absurdly hungry.