James stepped through the entrance of the Mission Hall, the heavy wooden doors creaking slightly as he passed into the bustling space. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, burning oil lamps, and the faint tang of dried blood—remnants of hunters returning from rough assignments.
The hall was alive with activity. Groups of hunters huddled around mission boards, scanning through available bounties, while others bartered for supplies at the adjacent counter. Unlike the general merchants outside, everything here operated in credits, the specialized currency used among hunters for missions, supplies, and equipment. Gold and silver had little value in these dealings—only credits earned from completed hunts mattered here.
James adjusted his bow, eyes flickering over the available postings as he made his way toward the member of staff at the Supplies counter. The grizzled old man behind the counter glanced up briefly before leaning forward with a familiar grunt.
"Restock?" the staff member asked, already reaching for a selection of arrows—each set carrying a distinct design, their fletching marked with tiny engraved sigils denoting their effects. Some glowed faintly with arcane energy, others bore reinforced tips for piercing tougher hide, and a few carried elemental enchantments.
James nodded, selecting a bundle that suited his needs. Without an ID, he couldn't access higher-tier supplies just yet, but these were enough. He pulled out his crystal card, pressing it firmly against the terminal embedded into the counter. The rune-inscribed device pulsed briefly before tallying the cost—63 credits deducted.
Remaining balance: 1074 credits.
The staff member grunted in approval, sliding the arrows across the counter.
James secured the arrows into his quiver, but his focus had already shifted. His eyes flickered toward the mission postings, pinned along the walls.
Now, it was just a matter of choosing the right one.
James scanned the mission board, eyes settling on a more grounded but still demanding task.
"Wanted: Red Fang Raiders—Last Seen Near Black Hollow Pass."
Risk Level: Moderate. Reward: 230 Credits.
Bandit hunts weren't as glamorous as monster tracking, but they were essential. The Red Fang Raiders had been growing bolder, targeting supply routes and lone travelers near Black Hollow Pass. Their leader, a man known only as 'Branvale', was rumored to be ex-military, making them far more organized than the usual ragtag thieves.
James pulled the slip from the board. It was a perfect stepping-stone—dangerous enough to sharpen his skills, yet not beyond his current capabilities. Approaching the registration desk, he handed the mission slip to the attendant.
The woman behind the desk glanced over it before stamping the parchment with approval.
"Careful with these ones," she warned. "They're smarter than most. Got a habit of setting traps."
James nodded, securing the mission details in his jacket. He was ready.
James adjusted the quiver at his waist and stepped out of the Mission Hall, the crisp morning air tinged with the scent of damp earth and lingering smoke from distant forge fires. Black Hollow Pass was half a day's journey from town, winding through rocky terrain and thick forests that made it the perfect hideout for raiders.
As he moved through the marketplace, he secured provisions—a handful of dried meat, a fresh waterskin, and a small pouch of herbs meant to stave off fatigue. He double-checked his bowstring, ensuring no frays threatened his accuracy. The hunt wasn't just about tracking—he needed to anticipate traps, scout their patterns, and, if necessary, engage in combat.
By midday, he crossed the town's borders, the well-trodden roads fading into rough trails surrounded by towering pines. The deeper he moved into the wilderness, the quieter it became—birds distant, wind barely shifting the underbrush.
A sign of something unnatural.
James slowed his steps. He wasn't alone.
A broken twig cracked nearby—not careless, but deliberate.
He exhaled slowly, shifting his weight while one hand slid toward his bow. If this was a scout for the Red Fang Raiders, he'd have only seconds to decide: engage or observe.
James loosened his stance, shifting just enough to blend into the underbrush without making a sound. His target—a figure wrapped in a ragged cloak—moved cautiously, their steps deliberate, avoiding brittle branches and loose stones. They weren't an ordinary traveler.
The scout paused near a clearing, scanning the surroundings before crouching beside an overturned log. A small, charred marking was carved into the wood—a signal, likely used by the Red Fang Raiders.
James steadied his breath, watching as the figure reached into their cloak and withdrew a rolled parchment. They skimmed it quickly, then tucked it away before adjusting the blade at their hip.
A courier? A scout relaying orders? Either way, this wasn't an idle wanderer.
The figure stood abruptly, eyes flicking toward James's hiding place for a moment too long—had they sensed him?James kept still, forcing his heartbeat to remain steady.
After a tense pause, the scout exhaled and turned away, heading deeper into the woods. James made his choice—he would follow, but at a greater distance. If this was leading to their base, he needed to see just how deep their operation ran.
James kept his distance, carefully weaving through the underbrush as he followed the scout deeper into the forest. The ground shifted beneath his boots—soft but treacherous, slick with moisture from the previous night's rain. He adjusted his footing, keeping his pace controlled, but something felt off.
A few steps later, he noticed it.
A nearly invisible tripwire, stretched taut between two crooked trees.
His pulse quickened. If he had stepped forward blindly, it would've triggered—he squinted at the mechanism and spotted the setup: a weightedsnare, ready to yank an unsuspecting victim into the air, leaving them vulnerable for an easy ambush.
He carefully sidestepped the trap, but just as relief settled in, the real challenge revealed itself.
The ground suddenly shifted beneath his weight, sinking ever so slightly.
A bog.
James cursed inwardly as his boots sank an inch deeper, waterlogged earth sucking at his movement. He had missed the signs—the discolored soil, the faint shimmer of moisture pooling between moss-covered rocks.
The scout was moving effortlessly ahead, avoiding the hazardous terrain entirely.
James clenched his jaw. He had two choices: risk struggling through the bog and alert his presence, or pull back and find another route before his boots became an anchor.
He exhaled, his mind racing.
James took a slow breath, recalibrating his approach. The bog was a death trap for anyone moving recklessly, but he knew better than to force his way through. Instead, his eyes flickered toward the higher ground—a cluster of moss-covered boulders bordering the murky terrain.
If he could navigate the stones without drawing attention, he might even gain a vantage point over the scout, allowing him to study their movements without risk.
With careful steps, he shifted his weight toward the nearest boulder, feeling the slick surface beneath his boots. He stayed low, moving deliberately, avoiding sudden motions that might cause a misstep or noise. Every movement had to count.
As he climbed, the terrain below unraveled further—hidden traps nestled between the reeds, some partially buried in the thick mud. This wasn't just luck—the raiders had intentionally funneled any would-be trackers toward the bog, ensuring they'd either get snared or slowed before reaching their hideout.
A controlled exhale. James had narrowly avoided what would've been his first major setback.
From his elevated position, he spotted the scout slipping through a narrow ravine, leading toward something unseen beyond the trees.
A camp? A meeting place? Whatever it was, James was getting closer to the heart of the operation.
Now, he had a choice—continue shadowing from the heights, or move in closer for a better look, risking discovery.