The Last Veldrath: The Exiled Swordsman’s Path

The bow felt heavier now.

Every pull of the string, every nocking of an arrow, felt like an intense battle of will. His fingers, rough and calloused, slid against the bone, the familiar ache of wear pressing into his skin. More pain. More progress. Each mark on his hand told a story—a thousand attempts, a thousand failures. But those failures made the victories taste sweeter.

The sixty arrows he had crafted—carved from the bones of slain beasts and strung with the silken thread of Venric Spiders—were no longer just tools. They were extensions of himself, forged through blood, sweat, and the quiet fury that burned inside him.

But it wasn't enough.

The hunger gnawed at him.

Standing alone in the clearing of Veilwood, Eryndor inhaled deeply. The scent of damp earth, the distant mist clinging to the trees—it all felt so familiar now. The oppressive vastness of the forest, which once swallowed him in fear, had become his domain. He was no longer prey.

"I've killed everything below the Fourth Rank," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "Mire Rats, Glade Wolves, Fenrir..."

His lips curled into a dry smirk. How far he had come.

He could still feel the ghost of his first Fenrir kill—the way its massive, bloodshot eyes glared down at him, its low growl rattling his very bones. Back then, he had been weak, trembling, barely able to defend himself.

Not anymore.

Now, he could take down three of them with ease, his arrows striking true before the beasts even sensed him. The thought brought a rush of satisfaction, but it was fleeting. A bitter aftertaste remained.

It's still not enough.

His jaw clenched. He could almost taste the power just beyond his reach—tantalizing, cruel. "I've hunted the strong. I've killed the dangerous. But it's not enough… I'm still so far from the power I need."

His breath came faster, shallow, like desperation scraping at his ribs.

The first time he had felt this—this hunger for strength—had been after his battle with a Shadow Raven, a beast so fast and cunning it had nearly torn him apart. The Woodland Hares had forced him to adapt further, their impossible speed testing his every shot. At first, it had been about survival. But now?

Now, it was more than a need. It was a craving.

Eryndor's fingers twitched against the bow. His body ached from relentless training, his muscles taut with the strain of his growth. The sting of hunger lingered in his gut, but he ignored it. Hunger was no longer just about food. It was about power.

"Fifth Rank beasts…" He spoke the words aloud, testing their weight. No fear surfaced—only resolve. His eyes gleamed with something dark. "I need to fight them. I need to test myself against something that will break me."

A smirk ghosted his lips—feral, unyielding. He knew the price of strength. It was pain. It was suffering.

And he was willing to pay it.

"I'll find one. I'll kill it. And maybe then, I'll finally feel strong enough."

With each step deeper into the forest, his muscles tensed, his senses sharpened. The silence of the woods felt heavier now. But he didn't hear it.

He was too focused on the hunger. The need. The power.

His hands, raw from hours of training, trembled in anticipation. His lips parted, whispering words that tasted of iron and resolve:

"Power is everything."

"Only the strong survive."

"Only the strongest… are remembered."

He exhaled slowly, his steps deliberate.

He was no longer the weak, trembling boy of before.

He had shed that skin.

Now, he was a hunter. A predator.

And the deeper he ventured, the closer he came to the monsters that lurked in the heart of Veilwood—the true Apex Beasts that would test his very existence.

Eryndor had learned one undeniable truth in the past month—the world was ruled by predators.

And if he wasn't one of them, then he was nothing.

The weakest of the weak were no more than scavengers, barely clinging to life. Mire Rats lurked in the shadows, waiting for their prey to weaken before striking. Ash Crows, their hollow cries an omen of death, circled over battlefields, feasting on the remains of the fallen. Dusk Serpents, small and venomous, were deadly in numbers but nothing on their own. His first kill had been a Mire Rat—frail, pathetic. But so had he been. It wasn't about the kill. It was about proving that he could.

A step above the scavengers were the predators, beasts that didn't wait for weakness—they created it. Ironfang Boars, massive creatures with tusks sharp enough to gore through steel, roamed in packs, tearing apart anything in their path. Glade Wolves, stealthy and relentless, their glowing eyes piercing through the dark, hunted in silence before striking with brutal precision. Basilisk Hatchlings, born from the eggs of true monsters, paralyzed their prey with a single gaze, their venom seeping into the bones of the unfortunate.

The first Glade Wolf he had faced had nearly killed him. Bleeding, unarmed, outmatched, he had been forced to set a trap just to survive. He hadn't been strong enough to fight it. So he had to be smarter.

Then came the Dread Beasts—monsters that carried magic in their blood, their very existence a threat. Shadow Ravens, cunning and intelligent, fought with calculated strikes, as if they understood battle. Woodland Hares, deceptively fragile, moved with such impossible speed that arrows felt slow against them. Verdant Vipers, their venom capable of melting flesh down to the bone, struck before they were even seen.

Fighting a Shadow Raven had been a duel of hunters—one where only one walked away alive. That was when he realized… he had stepped into a different world.

The Apex Beasts ruled the wilderness, their dominance undisputed. Fenrir, wolves the size of warhorses, had howls that froze the blood of even the most seasoned hunters. Venric Spiders, eight-legged nightmares, were not only intelligent but patient, waiting in their webs for the perfect moment to strike. Obsidian Bears, their fur tougher than steel, crushed trees with their sheer weight alone.

A month ago, he would have run.

Now? Now, he wasn't the same.

Then there were the Titan Beasts—monsters that didn't just kill. You never even got the chance to fight them unless you were prepared to die. Thunderhorn Bison, whose charges could level a forest, left devastation in their wake. Abyss Drakes, wingless but dragons in their own right, carried an aura of death around them. Blight Serpents, their venom not just fatal but rotting their victims from the inside out, made even experienced hunters hesitate.

He didn't even know if he could survive against one of these.

Not yet.

But someday…

The creatures beyond that were things he dared not even dream of facing. The Cataclysm Beasts reshaped the world just by existing. The Sovereign Beasts weren't just monsters. They were rulers.

And beyond them… something even worse.

A shiver ran down his spine. These weren't just things to hunt.

They were forces of nature.

But his hands clenched into fists, his eyes burning.

"If I ever face one…"

"It won't be as prey."

He drew his bowstring, the whisper of battle already calling to him.

"It'll be as a predator."