Bors showed remarkable zeal in getting me equipped for a hunt. The knight he’d slain earlier had been a dedicated hunter and had quite the selection of equipment. I managed to avoid taking too much, focusing mostly on the bow, quiver, a proper hunting knife, and the kit to clean and dress whatever I caught.

  He did warn me that his steed was somewhere in the forest, doing its own thing. It was a fae beast, and while he asked me not to shoot it, he looked embarrassed when I asked questions. He fobbed me off, merely saying I’d know it if I saw him.

  It turned out he did have food: rations someone dared to call bread. At first, I thought he’d handed me a club. The bread was incredibly solid, and if my jaw didn’t have enhanced strength, a club was all it could have been. I now understood why Bors didn’t consider it food. Having tried it once, I was highly motivated to find anything that would spare me from eating it again.

  A few hours of walking downhill, following the river, brought me to a bare willow with slash marks on its trunk—Bors’ mark for the edge of the area he’d picked clean. It was apparently an hour’s travel for him, the furthest he dared go. The man was a monster to cover such a distance so easily, even without our differences in cultivation.

  I began to settle into my role. I was still adjusting to my Bronze-level cultivation. It was fundamentally the same stage as Wood, but with so much more. By opening up the second gift, I still had to condense and gather my glamour, but the additional source made it doubly easy.

  Normally, there was a long adjustment period after breaking through, as the body was refined—glamour being used to rebuild muscles, bones, and even senses. Until that point, it was seen as wasteful to use what little excess glamour you could gather for this rather than pushing forward. Having been stuck at peak Wood, I’d had plenty of time to refine my body.

  My captors had thought it amusing that I, stuck at Wood due to the impurities tarrying my soul, was preparing for the Bronze power I’d never have. Now, I felt at my best constantly, which was helping me avoid completely bungling the hunt.

  I was adequate at hunting. The King of Albion was an avid hunter, and the Harkleys, ever keen to brown-nose, had pushed me to join his excursions. I couldn’t afford to be too skilled, though, nor did I fundamentally enjoy it. I didn’t mind killing beasts that slaughtered mortals, but kicking down some innocent creature’s door and ripping out its core for sport felt fundamentally wrong.

  Perhaps that explained why I leaned on what I excelled at. During my walk, I gathered herbs and medicinal plants by the river. We were much lower now, and spring was already blooming. While my alchemy focused on perfumes, it demanded a wide knowledge of ingredients, many of which were edible in their raw form.

  As I knelt by the river, harvesting some early shoots of Iron’s Bane—a rust-coloured grass—I finally gained a clue about my location. The clouds to the east parted, revealing the White Mountain. The mountain I was on was merely one of its foothills. Horkenstone Keep and the town of Horken were faint smudges on the horizon.

  I had to be a hundred miles from where I lay down the night before. Whatever the Lady wanted from me, she’d dropped me here, miles from any possible pursuit. It wasn’t a great burden. The lute still unnerved me on some level, but the fact Bors hadn’t immediately sensed anything salved my worst fears.

  Lost in thought, I was shocked when a skinny doe stumbled into the clearing. I stayed still. My veil was up again, and I was downwind. My grey jacket blended with the stones of the riverbed. I drew my bow and arrow as its poor luck doubled—it chose to scan left for threats rather than right, where it would have spotted me.

  In one fluid motion, I strung the arrow and let it fly. The bow bent so easily that I feared I’d destroyed it. The arrow thudded into the doe’s side, and it collapsed with a short squeal. I dashed over and ended its suffering with a slice of my knife.

  The burst of death glamour hit me like a punch to the gut. It filled my spiritual senses like smelling salts. Without thought, I began cultivating, my bellows technique drawing it in. Death was ever-present in the forest, a constant low hum, but that was mere rustling leaves compared to the storm I now drank. It was invigorating, overwhelming—and over too quickly.

  And that was just a deer. I shivered at the thought of killing something with cultivation under its belt. This was why death-gifted cultivators had such a bad reputation. I could see this becoming an addiction. Worse, I knew that giving in to that urge would drag me into the grip of the unseelie.

  Seeking distraction, I examined the bow. I should have tested it before the hunt; the fairies’ luck must have been with me, or all I’d have caught were splinters. It was a recurve bow, beautifully etched yet aggressively functional. Made of laminated horn, it still carried vestiges of earth glamour. It wasn’t enchanted but was crafted from a beast whose power reinforced its durability.

  I was impressed—it had clearly been built with cultivators in mind.

  Bows weren’t ideal weapons for our glamour soaked bodies. Limited in speed and impact, their smaller projectiles were difficult to enhance. Even this bow, with its enhanced draw weight, would barely scratch someone like Bors unless I got him in the eye or ear. And that was if he even allowed the arrows to hit him.

  At Bronze, the bow was still a threat, but only as an ambush weapon. It could puncture my body, but glamour-reinforced flesh would stop it quickly. A lethal strike was nearly impossible. That was why I’d requested it from Bors—it was like asking to borrow a toy sword for all the threat it posed to him.

  Ignoring the lingering death glamour, weak as it was a mortal beast, I dressed the kill quickly. Despite a small temptation to explore my new gift I didn’t want to experiment with such dangerous things on a day such as this. Something would smell the blood soon enough. Fae beasts didn’t tend to last near civilisation, but I was far from it. I wouldn’t have tried this without Bors’ assurance that he’d slaughtered anything worth a fight nearby.

  I slung the carcass over my shoulder and began to run back. I wanted Bors to like me, so a quick return seemed wise. Plus, I wanted food that didn’t require glamour reinforcement to chew.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  As I walked back I considered what a pleasure to make friends without the Harkley name hanging over me like a choking cloud—especially after what Bors had said about the divine cultivators.

  The Harkleys were a bastion of Divine cultivators on Albion. A cult who’d resurged after being all but purged by the realm traveller, Zhang Jinghua. She knew them as demonic cultivators and decreed them as a curse on all realms. In the thousand-plus years since she’d shattered them and the empire they’d infected, they’d slowly recovered. They worked to corrupt Orders and Houses across Euross. Currently, their main strength was in the balmy Thousand City Sea, where they ventured out from the region of Latium on the Hesperia peninsula.

  Their worship included pledging themselves to the divine, burning unclean mortals, blood rituals, self-mutilation, and other villainous acts. Outwardly, though, much of its image was one of kindness, of values and morals that resonated with most.

  It was only once you got within the cult that you realised how twisted it was. My own experience was testament to that. The Harkleys were aligned with the Ray of Bonds, one of the several ‘rays’ of the Guiding Star, their deity. The Ray of Bonds preached mutual respect, that one should be loyal to those loyal to them, and that all should seek to deepen their connection to others, for strength lay in the many.

  That was what was said outside. On the inside, they cursed their children with blood oaths and called it ‘bringing unity to the family’.

  Those thoughts interrupted my good mood, my mind slipping back to my captors. I found myself watching the shadows, expecting a minder to emerge and drag me back. After an hour of this, I couldn’t decide if my paranoia was getting better or worse.

  After a few struggles I tied the deer awkwardly over both shoulders, freeing my arms. Bors had insisted I take some rope, and I was grateful for it. I pulled out my lute, its black wood with faintly grained texture gleaming in the weak sunlight.

  Strumming, I continued on, tapping out a rhythm. The hollow body gave a deep thud with each slap. Between getting wrapped up in my worries and my attempts to distract myself, it was no wonder I was ambushed.

  The first sign was a burst of air glamour from a bush. I instinctively dodged, and a white blur passed where my head had been. The wind of its passing ruffled my hair.

  I was under attack by something far faster than me.

  My heart pounding, I used the last of my momentum from my dodge to roll forward. Leaving the deer behind, I sprang up and put my back to a broad oak. My eyes darted, searching for my assailant. My knife was in hand before I even realised it, my other hand holding the lute like a club.

  A pair of red eyes gleamed in the shadows, and I caught the faint scent of air glamour. The creature stepped into view, and I was… underwhelmed.

  A white hare stood on its haunches, no taller than my knee. It would have been almost comical if its fur wasn’t stained with blood.

  Before I could react, the hare launched itself. Air distorted around it as it came straight for my throat. I barely managed to raise my arm in time, its tiny yet impossibly strong feet striking my forearm. Even through my glamour-reinforced jacket, I felt the blow reverberate through my body. Then another force slammed me back into the tree, my head hitting the bark and leaving spots dancing before my eyes.

  There was more than mass and speed to the strike. The glamour the beast used was like it had opened a door before a ferocious storm right before me.

  I managed to gather myself, but with the winds whipping at me I could not attack. I crouched down and prepared to weather the storm. After all I had survived, I refused to go down to some overblown rabbit.

  The hare bounced away, preparing for another attack. For the next chaotic minute, we battled in the clearing. It was a desperate fight to keep my guard up as the creature’s attacks came faster and harder. Wind pushed me left and right, and I was almost separated from the tree when I foolishly stepped out to attack as it fumbled a landing.

  What I believed to be an opportunity was nothing more than a trap. Cursed fae creatures tended to be far smarter than their mundane counterparts. It had lured me out.

  Narrowly dodging my strike, it jumped behind me. It retreated into some briars, launching a barrage of wind strikes—fists of wind that shredded the vegetation and pummelled me, trying to drive me away from the oak. As one caught me in the gut, and another blinded me with dust and snow, I realised if it could attack from any angle, my chances of survival would be grim.

  Desperate, I burned my glamour and used a levity technique to increase my speed and throw myself closer to the tree. The boost to my speed was immediate and far beyond what I was used to. For the second time in the fight, my head struck the bark and stars danced in my vision. I was shocked by how little of my reserves it used up. I was so used to my clogged pathways and limited Wood cultivation I could hardly believe it.

  Part of me burned to see what I could do, yet I stamped that down. I didn’t know the limits of this new body of mine, and I could easily overextend myself and get sliced open. Given I’d survived its trap, I knew that the safest thing was just to wait it out. I had no openings, but my survival was enough. The amount of glamour it was using couldn’t be sustained.

  It was not a knight’s way of fighting. They’d go on about honour and testing their limits—something I had zero interest in. I wanted to live, which was still far from a certain outcome.

  Despite its size, the hare moved like a high Bronze-level cultivator, faster than any mortal and faster than me. I weathered its blows and took only the safest opportunities to fight back. My knife grazed it once, my lute another time, the latter producing a deep, resonant thud that made the beast hesitate—but only for a moment.

  That hesitation vanished as it redoubled its attacks. Each strike seemed more precise, more vicious. My arms, legs and ribs ached, all having taken blow after blow. I could feel scratches all over, its small claws cutting into me. Stuck in a crouch, I could only wait for an opportunity—a chance to strike out.

  It leapt into the air, slamming into my thigh, and I collapsed to one knee. My mind raced. I was fumbling my cultivation, failing to adapt to my new resources. I hadn’t truly fought in years, and it showed. I had to leverage what I was good at. I had to act now.

  The hare watched me struggle to get up, my leg refusing to cooperate. I tried to stand and almost fell. I waved the knife frantically at the hare, trying to fend it off. The creature retreated and then began to circle me, taking great leaps. I felt the air glamour gathering around the hare. It was coming for the kill.

  My eyes didn’t follow the white blur. I just listened, and let my glamour sense tell me where it was as I tried to calm my beating heart. If I had two great talents in a fight, the first was patience. While I took its beating, I was learning about its movements while it exhausted itself. I knew what was coming, sensing the exact moment its legs bunched up and it launched itself, razor-sharp teeth aimed at my throat. I unveiled my second great skill.

  Being a sneaky bastard.

  I stood, my leg no longer shuddering but fully under my control. My knife arm fell away, and my lute with its longer reach swept up.

  Even this wasn’t enough. The hare let out a burst of wind, trying to retreat. I could feel the last puffs of the power it squandered falter as it just got beyond the maximum reach of my lute.

  I grinned.

  The lute shifted, transforming into a bastard sword in a billow of smoke. I fought to stop my clothes from changing, unwilling to risk losing mobility. To my relief, the armour obeyed.

  The hare tried to find more glamour, but it was spent. The increased reach caught it perfectly. I cleaved the beast in two, its body falling in pieces to the bloodstained earth.

  The fight was over.

  I collapsed back against the tree, groaning as exhaustion caught up with me. My limbs throbbed, bruised and battered, but I was alive.

  "I may have overestimated my skill in a fight," I muttered, letting out a weak laugh.