GUHIN

Guhin stood at the edge of the cliff, high in the mountains that bordered the southern and western regions of Valherya, as the storm raged on around him. The lift that had brought him here groaned to a halt, its ancient wooden frame swaying slightly in the relentless wind. Rain pounded down in sheets, drenching him to the bone and turning the world into a sea of grey.

He took a deep breath, the cold, thin air of the mountains stinging his lungs as he tried to steady his thoughts. Ahead lay the path he had chosen, but it was the path behind him, the one leading back to Aryan, that drew his gaze.

Slowly, he turned, looking over his shoulder toward the cliffs where the village was nestled against. But there was nothing to see—Aryan was completely obscured by the swirling storm clouds that had settled over the land like a thick, suffocating blanket.

The mountains around him loomed like silent giants, their jagged peaks tearing at the storm clouds as if they were trying to rip the sky wide open. Guhin could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the realization that there was no turning back now. This was the end.

He turned his gaze toward the lift that had carried him to this forsaken height. The Great Lifts of Valherya were ancient marvels of engineering, scattered across the land for centuries. Once abandoned and weathered by the ages, Thalos, the greatest wizard Valherya had ever seen, had used his magic to breathe new life into them. Now, the lifts stood tall once more, given a new name by the people—the Great Lifts of Thalos—continuing to connect the regions for centuries yet to come.

Each beam and pulley bore meticulous carvings, depicting scenes from the lives of legendary wizards and mages. Thalos had restored these lifts not just as a means of transport but as a tribute to the magic that had shaped Valherya.

Surrounding the lever that operated the lift stood statues of these heroes of old, their lifelike forms frozen mid-spell or lost in deep contemplation. The craftsmanship was so precise that their eyes, though carved from wood, seemed to follow Guhin’s every move. The lift, with its towering wooden beams and masterful supports, was a testament to Thalos’s genius—not only as Valherya’s greatest wizard but as a visionary architect.

As Guhin walked further into the southern region called Jhorfa, the lift's carvings and statues faded into the storm, becoming indistinct shadows in the grey world that surrounded him. He paused, his gaze drawn to the storm in the distance. The clouds, dark and roiling, seemed to gather at a single point in the sky, swirling together with an ominous energy. Guhin's eyes narrowed as he watched the storm's fury intensify.

This is it, he thought, a strange sense of peace settling over him.

Guhin walked with purpose, his eyes never leaving the storm's epicenter. He moved through stretches of barren rock, the ground slick with rain, his boots crunching against loose gravel. Occasionally, he passed the skeletal remains of long-dead trees, their twisted branches reaching skyward as though in a plea for mercy. There was a grim stillness to the land, an absence of life almost.

His path led him deeper into the heart of Jhorfa, where the grey seemed endless, an unchanging haze that blurred the boundaries of the world. Each footstep echoed in the vast nothingness, swallowed by the howling storm until even his own presence felt like an intrusion. There were no landmarks, no familiar signs of direction—just the endless, bleak expanse and the distant vortex that twisted in the sky like an angry scar.

Time felt distorted as he moved through the storm, the minutes stretching into an eternity. He could feel the weight of something impending, a heaviness that pressed against his shoulders and sank into his chest. The storm clouds above grew denser, darker. He could sense it—an unnatural shift, as if the air itself held its breath, waiting.

And then he saw it.

The vortex grew, a swirling black mass that seemed to draw in the very haze and mist that had shrouded the land. The grey clouds, thick and suffocating, along with the rain, were pulled into its spiraling center, tightening with every passing moment, leaving the land exposed in its wake. The wind screamed, carrying with it a force that whipped at his cloak and hair. Guhin’s eyes narrowed—he knew what came next.

With a deafening roar, the vortex reached its climax, and a massive bolt of lightning shot down from the heavens. The flash tore the sky apart, illuminating the now-revealed landscape with a stark, unnatural light. Guhin shielded his eyes, the brightness searing through the storm’s gloom for one blinding instant.

As the light faded, the last remnants of the black mass peeled away, revealing a line of figures standing atop a cliff's summit that had been empty moments before.

They had arrived.

Thick ashen clouds still churned overhead, heavy with rain, and the occasional lightning strike illuminated the darkened sky. As they stood there in absolute silence, the storm raged on.

Their dark robes heavy against the wind, their masks, cracked and worn, as if time itself had tried to erase their features. The hollow sockets where eyes should have been stared down at Guhin, unreadable, unfeeling.

Guhin’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight—the inevitable had finally arrived. The hunters loomed over the cliff like carrion birds, patient and unrelenting, watching their prey with that same hollow indifference.

A faint, weary smile crossed his lips. The struggle had reached its end. Here, amidst the howling storm and the encroaching aura of his pursuers, he felt a strange sense of relief. The hardest part was behind him. The fear of losing control, the dread of what lay within him, would soon be over.

Guhin's gaze remained fixed on the hunters as they stood atop the cliff. He had fought them for years, killed many of them. Behind those cracked masks lay nothing but husks, remnants of something that had once been human.

The vortex was their herald, and they always came with it, bound by some unspoken oath of silence. He couldn't remember a single one ever speaking. Maybe they couldn’t. They were like shadows, manifestations of some power beyond his understanding. Whatever they were, whatever world they came from, it no longer mattered.

As the hunters began their descent, Guhin closed his eyes. He stood resolute, ready to embrace the end. But as the hunters drew closer, Fukujin, perched on Guhin’s shoulder, pecked insistently at the side of his head, a silent, frantic signal that he needed to move.

When Guhin did not respond, Fukujin pecked harder, rustling his feathers in increasing agitation. Yet, Guhin remained still, his resolve unwavering. Fukujin, seeing that Guhin would not heed his warning, hopped off his shoulder and turned to face the approaching hunters.

With a final, penetrating stare, Fukujin locked his gaze onto Guhin, his eyes filled with a profound, unsettling depth as the air grew thick with an ominous energy and Fukujin’s aura swelled. His once small and gentle presence now loomed like that of a towering beast.

The bird’s wings flared open with a powerful, resounding thud, a sound that seemed to cut through the very fabric of reality. Breaking through Guhin’s resolve, his eyes snapped open as if it was against his own will.

As Fukujin took off into the sky, Guhin felt it—the darkness within him, the raw, uncontrollable rage that had been his curse for so many years, surge violently. He fought against it, his fingers digging into the earth, his teeth gritted as he struggled to maintain control. But the darkness inside him was relentless, a cold, insidious voice whispering in the back of his mind. They deserve it, the voice hissed, slithering through his thoughts like a serpent. They are the hunters. You are the prey. Show them your true power. Show them, what you really are.

Guhin's breath came in sharp gasps as he fought to silence it, to drown out the voice that had haunted him for so long. But the more he resisted, the louder it became, until it was no longer a whisper, but a roar that filled his mind, drowning out everything else. He could feel his body betraying him, muscles seizing as if gripped by invisible chains, rendering him a mere spectator in his own skin.

No, no, no, he thought, the realization dawning with horrifying clarity. I can’t move!

His body shifted against his will, dropping into a low, crouched stance, his hands and feet pressing into the dirt like an animal preparing to pounce. Every muscle in his body tensed, his senses overwhelmed. His mind reeled as every nerve screamed in alarm.

Don’t do this. Don’t let it control you! His internal voice was desperate, pleading. You have to fight it! Stay calm! Stay focused!

But the darkness inside him was relentless. Guhin’s vision narrowed, focusing intently on the hunters before him. He could feel the vibrations from the hunters’ boots, see the subtle rise and fall of their chests as they drew breath. His vision zeroed in on the hunter closest to him. The hunter conjured his spear with a sudden, sharp flick of his wrist, materializing it from thin air into his palm with a crackling flare of energy. The spear gleamed with a cold, deadly light.

The hunter spun in the air, the weapon twirling around his body and with a burst of speed, the hunter jumped, the spear now a blurred extension of his arm as he brought it down with fierce intent toward Guhin’s head. It's razor-sharp tip glinting menacingly as it streaked through the storm's chaotic light.

Please, not now, Guhin thought, as the urge to attack swelled within him. You have to resist!

He clenched his jaw, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he battled against the rage threatening to overtake him. But it was a losing battle. The darkness roared inside him, a beast clawing its way to the surface, ready to unleash its fury.

But just as the spear was about to find its mark, a massive greatsword appeared out of the storm’s fury, slicing through the air with a speed that defied its size. The blade gleamed with a brutal edge, reflecting the storm’s lightning as it cleaved through the tempest, and embedded itself in the hunter’s chest. The blade went through the plated armor with ease, buckling the armor with relentless force as the greatsword crashes in the earth behind the carnage.

Guhin’s breath caught in his throat, as a fountain of blood erupted, painting the cliffside with vivid streaks of crimson. The hunter’s body was split in two, the top half falling forward while the lower half crumpled backward, both pieces drenched in the rain and gore.

Guhin's body remained low to the ground, but his eyes darted to the right, where something soft and warm brushed against his ear. Etro, the horse of the smiling giant Bokun, stood beside him, nuzzling him affectionately as if they were in the middle of a peaceful meadow rather than a battlefield.

The ground trembled slightly as Bokun approached, his towering frame cutting through the storm. His voice boomed above the rumbling of thunder, “Yu-hin! Ah, Yu-lin, isn’t it? Mind if I join you?”

Guhin’s reply came through clenched teeth, stuttering with the effort to control his rage. “Get… away… from me!”

Bokun’s laughter roared above the storm’s fury. He eyed Guhin’s low, animalistic posture with amusement, comparing him to his own horse, Etro. “By the gods, you’re quite the sight, aren’t you? Like a wild beast on the hunt! Reminds me of Etro when he's hungry, but never mind that."

Guhin repeated, his voice more frantic now, almost pleading. “Please… just leave… before it’s too late.”

As Guhin spoke, Bokun made his way over to where his greatsword had embedded itself in the ground. He wrapped his massive hand around the hilt and yanked the blade free with a resounding scrape against the stone. With the greatsword in hand, Bokun turned to face the hunters, his voice taking on a bold, challenging tone, “Any volunteers?”

The storm’s roiling winds howled around them, but amidst the chaos, a curious stillness descended over the battlefield. The remaining hunters, their gazes locked on the mangled remains of their fallen comrade, began to slowly lift their gaze. One by one, they turned their attention toward Bokun, who stood defiantly with his greatsword now pointed towards them.

Sensing their hesitation, Bokun's grin widened. 'Come now,' he taunted, "I promise you’ll make for a fine story if you survive... assuming any of you make it out alive."

With an air of exaggerated nonchalance, Bokun fixed his eyes on one of the hunters, gesturing subtly with a dramatic flick of his gaze. His expression was a comical mixture of challenge and mockery, as if saying, Well, are you going to take a swing or not?

The hunter seemed to take the unspoken invitation to heart. With a powerful surge, he dashed forward, shattering the ground beneath him with each step, and a deafening crash echoed through the storm as he appeared before Bokun.

In one fluid motion, the hunter slammed his fist against Bokun’s greatsword, creating an opening with a resounding gong-like clang. Following through with his momentum, the hunter unleashed a colossal punch aimed squarely at Bokun’s cheek. The impact was explosive, Bokun’s hair was blown back, and his cheek rippled violently from the force of the blow.

Bokun’s head snapped to the side, his vision blurring for a brief instant. Despite the brutal hit, he remained firmly on his feet. He spat out a mouthful of blood, the crimson droplets mingling with the rain. As his gaze fell on Guhin, a grin of genuine admiration spread across his face. “Not bad,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of begrudging respect. Then, with a mixture of defiance and humor, he barked out at Guhin, “But he doesn't hit nearly as hard as you, you little shit!”

The hunter stared at his own hand in disbelief, as if he couldn’t comprehend how Bokun had remained upright after such a devastating blow. The force of his punch had not only failed to topple the giant but seemed to have barely made any damage.

Bokun seized the moment. With a sudden, menacing grin, he placed his massive hand on the hunter’s and leaned in close. “My turn,” he growled before delivering a brutal headbutt. The collision was deafening, a thunderous crack that tore through the storm. Bokun’s forehead smashed into the hunter’s mask, shattering the silver plating inward. Shards of metal tore into the hunter’s face, drawing blood in crimson streaks.

The hunter staggered back, his mask splitting further, revealing a face frozen in a mixture of shock and agony—though it hardly resembled a face anymore. Bokun’s grin widened, filled with savage satisfaction, as he hefted his greatsword, its blade gleaming ominously in the fleeting light of the storm. With a flurry of rapid, fluid swings, the greatsword sliced through the air, a blur of lethal steel. Each strike landed with devastating precision, carving arcs of deadly light through the tempest.

The hunter’s body was torn apart by the onslaught, chunks of silver-plated armor and flesh flying in every direction. The rain mixed with the blood spilling from the dismembered remains, turning the cliffside into a grotesque canvas of violence.

As the final remnants of the hunter fell to the ground, Bokun stood amidst the carnage, his greatsword resting on his shoulder. The storm raged on, but for a moment, it seemed to bow before the sheer force of Bokun’s presence.

He turned to face the remaining hunters, his jovial demeanor fading as his expression grew dark and intense. His eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a deadly seriousness. “All of you,” he growled. “Come at me at once.”

GUHIN!