Rise Of The Monster Slayer

Chapter 2: Fodders Draft

The iron gates of the Vanguard Hunter Guild were intimidating, even from the outside. Wrought into the shape of snarling beasts, they stood as a barrier between the polished, wealthy inner city and the desperate filth of the slums.

Aren stood in the pouring rain, clutching his meager belongings in a small sack. Around him stood a few dozen other men from the outer ring. Some were old, their faces lined with desperation; others were barely older than Aren, shaking with fear. They were all here for the same reason: twenty pieces of silver.

As the massive gates slowly ground open, heavily armed guards ushered the recruits into the expansive courtyard. The contrast was staggering. Inside, elite hunters strode purposefully across the cobblestones, wearing armor crafted from glowing scales, tempered steel, and enchanted leather. Their weapons hummed with latent magical energy. They looked like gods walking among mortals.

Aren couldn’t help but stare, the spark of his childhood dream fighting through the dread in his stomach. One day, he thought. If I survive this, maybe one day.

A heavy, armored boot stepped into a puddle, purposely splashing muddy water toward the recruits.

“Look at this pathetic lot.”

The voice was dripping with aristocratic disdain. Aren turned his head to see a man walking down the stone steps of the main guild hall. He was tall, powerfully built, and wore an immaculate set of golden armor that seemed to repel the rain entirely. A massive, serrated broadsword rested casually on his shoulder.

This was Captain Darius, a Silver-Rank Hunter and the commander of this expedition.

Darius walked down the line of recruits, his nose wrinkled in absolute disgust, as if he had stepped in something foul. “I asked the Guildmaster for capable men, and he sends me the dregs of the gutters. You people smell like wet dogs and desperation.”

He stopped directly in front of Aren. Darius looked him up and down, taking in Aren’s thin frame, his muddy boots, and the callouses on his hands.

“What’s your name, boy?” Darius demanded.

“Aren, sir.”

“Aren,” Darius mocked. “No family name. Just a stray dog. What do you do for a living, stray dog?”

“I’m a gravekeeper.”

A few of the elite hunters standing behind Darius chuckled mockingly.

“A gravekeeper,” Darius sneered, leaning in close. “How fitting. You already know how to dig holes. Because out in the Wasteland, you aren’t going to be fighting. You are going to carry our supplies, clear the brush, and set up camp. And if a beast breaks through our lines…”

His sneer faded for a brief moment. Darius's gaze drifted to the battered recruits behind Aren, then to the faces of his own men. He shook his head as if dismissing something heavy inside himself. “You think I enjoy sending boys like you out there? Orders are orders. My job is to bring back as many real hunters as I can. Out in the Wasteland, kindness gets everyone killed.”

Then, the sneer returned as he straightened up, masking any hint of conflict. "You remember your place, fodder. You die so better men might live."

Darius poked a steel-clad finger hard into Aren’s chest, knocking him back a step. “…you will stand there and die so my real hunters have time to draw their swords. Do you understand your purpose, fodder?”

Aren clenched his jaw. He wanted to argue. He wanted to hit the man. But he recalled the heavy pouch of twenty silver coins that was in his jacket, the money he had given Rowan to pay their tax before dawn. He had traded his life for those coins.

“I understand, Captain,” Aren said evenly, refusing to break eye contact.

Darius narrowed his eyes, clearly unhappy that the slum rat hadn’t cowered in fear. “We’ll see how brave you are when a shadow wolf is tearing your throat out. Arm yourselves from the scrap pile. We march in ten minutes.”

The recruits were herded toward a rusty pile of discarded weapons. There were no magical swords or enchanted shields for them. Aren sorted through the junk and managed to find a rusted short sword that felt decent in his grip, and a small, dented iron buckler. It offered almost zero protection against the monsters of the Wasteland, but it was better than nothing.

Suddenly, a loud horn blasted through the courtyard.

“Move out!” Darius roared.

The expedition formed up. The elite hunters took the center and the rear, riding majestic armored horses or walking with arrogant strides. The thirty slum recruits were forced to the very front, forming a living wall of meat and bone.

As they marched through the city and approached the colossal Western Gates, Aren’s heart pounded against his ribs. The massive iron doors, standing fifty feet tall, slowly squeaked open, revealing the world beyond.

The Wasteland.

Inside the city’s magical barrier, the sky was gray and rainy. Beyond the walls, it turned into swirling purples and deep blacks. The land was full of jagged rocks, thorny forests, and the ruins of an old civilization. The air was heavy with the smell of dried blood, and rot.

As Aren stepped past the threshold of the gates, a heavy, oppressive silence fell over the group. Even Captain Darius stopped boasting.

They were no longer the masters of their domain. Out here, humanity was nothing more than prey.

“Keep your eyes peeled, fodder!” a veteran hunter barked from behind Aren, kicking him in the back of the knee to make him move faster. “The forest of thorns is prime hunting ground. You stop moving, you die.”

Aren stumbled but caught himself, gripping his rusted sword tightly. He looked back one last time as the massive iron gates of Asteria slammed shut behind them with a booming finality. There was no turning back now.

He faced forward, peering into the dense, purple shadows of the Twisting Woods.

Deep within the treeline, he saw a pair of glowing, malevolent purple eyes opened in the darkness, locking directly onto the unarmored boy at the front of the line.

Him.