Journey to Become the Zenith

Blood That Shouldn’t Be There

Out past the western edge, morning sat still above the rooftops. From each chimney, thin trails of smoke curled into the sky. Near the water pump, a burst of laughter cut through - kids playing, maybe hiding. Something moved by the fence line; the old dog gave a slow bark just because.

A shape loomed that bore little resemblance to the tale of a beast able to cut down mountain ogres without effort.

Victor stepped forward first, boots crunching on gravel, while Clara followed close behind, her cloak pulled tight. Lane shut the heavy door with a soft thud, not bothering to glance at the fading light inside. The chief’s voice had carried sharpness, even after they’d gone - cold echoes stuck around them, much like spoiled drink left too long in summer heat.

Quiet filled the space between them at first.

Clara shifted her shield to her forearm, voice steady. ”Finding the hunters comes first - truth usually follows where they’ve been.”

Toward the south side of the village they moved, home of the hunters. Narrower now, the trail slipped between plots. Simpler homes stood close, built for use, not show. Under slatted shelters, strips of meat darkened in rows. Hides, pulled tight on squared posts, waited nearby. Iron tang mixed with grease hung heavy through every breath.

Up ahead, men stood with wide frames, their palms rough from work, eyes lifting when the trio came near.

One of them recognized Clara’s armor and straightened.

”You’re the adventurers from Fantom City?” he asked.

”Yes,” Clara answered smoothly. ”We were told some of you discovered the body of a mountain ogre.”

The hunters exchanged glances, but unlike the village chief, they didn’t hesitate.

They were proactive—almost eager.

”Yes, yes,” one older man said, wiping his hands on a cloth. ”We found it near the upper ridge trail. Nasty sight.”

Another added, ”We kept the head. For proof.”

Victor’s eyes sharpened slightly.

”Show us,” he said quietly.

They were led behind one of the larger wooden huts. A thick cloth covered something large resting atop a flat chopping block.

The cloth was pulled back.

The head of a mountain ogre stared up at them.

Even severed, it was grotesque.

The skin was gray-green, thick and rough like bark that had grown over muscle. The jaw was massive, tusks protruding slightly from cracked lips. One cloudy yellow eye remained half-open, frozen in a final expression that might have been confusion—or rage.

Dried blood clung dark and crusted around the neck where it had been severed. The cut itself was uneven, brutal. Not clean. Not elegant.

Lane crouched slightly, her black hair falling forward as she examined it from the side.

Clara stepped closer, her expression calm but focused.

Victor remained standing for a moment before kneeling beside the block. His golden eyes narrowed as he studied the back of the ogre’s skull.

The hunters stood nearby, arms crossed, watching.

While the three inspected the head, Victor noticed something strange.

He didn’t speak.

Not yet.

His fingers hovered near the base of the skull, not touching, just observing. There were marks. Indentations in the flesh near the back of the head—just beneath the thick hide.

Small.

Too small.

He leaned closer.

Clara noticed his silence.

”What is it?” she asked quietly.

”Nothing,” he replied just as softly.

Something was wrong.

When they finished inspecting the head, Clara straightened.

”Thank you,” she said to the hunters. ”Your cooperation helps.”

One of the men nodded. ”We don’t want trouble in our mountains.”

Victor gave a faint nod of acknowledgment.

They left without further questions.

As they walked back toward the village path, Clara subtly reached into her satchel and withdrew a small enchanted slip of parchment. She scribbled something quickly, then held it low so only Victor and Lane could see.

Head toward the exit of the village.

Victor read it without reaction.

He simply adjusted his posture and began walking casually toward the northern gate.

Lane followed naturally.

They didn’t speak.

Not until they were far enough from the houses that the sounds of the village dulled into distant background noise.

Even then, they kept walking until the path dipped slightly and trees began to cluster along the edges.

Victor stopped first.

Lane immediately scanned the surroundings, her gaze sharp, her breathing steady. Clara closed her eyes briefly and extended her senses outward.

No footsteps.

No presence.

No hidden mana signatures.

They were alone.

Clara opened her eyes.

”So,” she said quietly, ”what do you two think about this?”

”The villagers are hiding something,” Lane answered instantly. Her voice was calm, concise. She continued scanning the tree line as she spoke.

”Yes,” Victor added, ”they are. Most of them—even the children—smelled faintly of blood.”

Clara frowned.

”And that mountain ogre they showed us,” Victor continued, his tone steady, analytical. ”There were nail marks at the back of its head.”

Clara tilted her head slightly.

”So? Maybe the monster killed it with its claws.”

Victor shook his head slowly.

”That’s the point. I don’t think it was killed by a monster.”

Lane’s gaze shifted to him.

”The nail marks were small,” Victor said. ”Too small. The shape was wrong. They weren’t gouges from talons. They were punctures. Indentations made by fingers.”

Clara’s eyebrows drew together.

”You’re telling me,” she said carefully, ”a human cut off the head of a mountain ogre using his or her nails? Is that what you’re telling me... Victor?”

”Yes.”

He didn’t hesitate.

”And those hunters?” he continued. ”They should have noticed it too. My father was a hunter. He would’ve seen the killing wound instantly. Any experienced hunter would. But they said nothing.”

Lane nodded slightly.

”They avoided details,” she added. ”They described the blood. Not the wound.”

Victor’s jaw tightened faintly.

”If a normal hunter saw wounds made by human hands on something like that, they would be suspicious. These men weren’t.”

Clara fell silent for a moment, thinking.

”Not only that,” Victor went on, ”everyone in that village was too calm. If something capable of killing mountain ogres was near my home, people would panic. They’d fortify. They’d prepare. These villagers? They’re living normally.”

Lane finally lowered her gaze from the trees.

”I also have something to report about the villagers,” she said quietly.

The wind shifted slightly, brushing through the leaves.

Victor looked at her.

Clara straightened.

The tension between the three wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Controlled. Focused.

But beneath it—

Something was very wrong.