Chapter 14: One Who Walks In Grey Night

I learned many little lessons from Brother Leaping Fox, most of which involve words.

Words to annoy. Words to laugh. Words to love. Words to live by.

And finally, words to swear.

-Wolf Under Stars

There are three different kind of mornings one can wake up to. The kind where you want to bash your head into a great big wall. The kind where you wish you could sleep in forever. And the kind where you do not realize yourself.

Then, there is the special kind of morning, a morning where you wake up feeling like a new man, like a new dragon, or like a new Demona if you want to quibble about racial matters. It’s a dawning time that makes you feel as if you could do anything, a motivation that stems from somewhere deep, almost akin to that of a nudging instinct. Like a virgin bride on the moonlit night of her wedding. Granted, of course, that bride is motivated and willing.

It’s like an expanse of snow as far as the eyes can see. And to those eyes, only the surface of the snowfield is visible. You cannot see through what’s hidden underneath, what the wide expanse of snow has swallowed into its great white belly. All the beautiful and all the ugly things covered. Then, when the snowfield thaws, all the hidden things resurface, changed and perhaps even remade anew for the better.

Sadly, that wasn’t the special kind of morning I woke up to. I woke up to a morning of wanting to bash my head into a wall. Or rather, into the branches of a great big tree.

“Ronat’s piss,” Leaping Fox cursed, moving his head away from a branch that was protruding too far for his liking. He stabbed his blade-spear into the trunk a little above him to get a better grip. “Tell me again why we are climbing this tree again?” he mumbled from down below me. Further down below was Brother Ronat. He wasn’t much of a climber.

I mimicked the cold matter-of-fact voice which belonged to the Ritual Master. “Trees. They signify many things; love, hate, the past, the future. Thus, for the next part of your Ritual of Age, you are going to climb a tree. The tree you are going to climb is what is known as the Age Tree. It signifies growth and maturity.”

“You forgot to add something,” Leaping Fox said.

“Right. I almost forgot.” Avoiding another tree branch and cutting away some of the leaves with the blade-spear, I added, still mimicking the voice of the Ritual Master, “And because it gives me some pleasure in torturing young Hunters.”

“You know something, Brother Wolf?”

“What,” I said.

Leaping Fox grunted down below as another swing of his blade-spear went through some various twigs and leaves in his way. “Foxes aren’t made to climb.”

“Neither are Ronats. Yet I do not see Brother Ronat complaining,” I said. “In fact, neither are wolves.”

He made a point of ignoring me, continuing on. “Foxes are made to live free, surrounded by its brethren, and most importantly, made to live on the ground.”

With some strength, I stuck the tip of my blade-spear into a particularly thick layer of bark, then sat on a branch. The Age Tree was a gigantic sight to behold, possibly reaching up to eight hundred feet, and each of its branches as wide as a Demona lying down. The base of the Age Tree was also so thick that it would probably take a whole minute to walk around it.

“Actually, there is a species of foxes called the Climber Fox in the Southern Flatlands,” I said. “They are black-furred creatures with claws made for climbing and bodies that can glide from one tree to another.”

“Now you are just pulling my spears, Brother Wolf.”

“It’s true,” added Brother Ronat in his quiet voice which reminded me of ripples in a lake. A strange relation, I know.

“Not you too, Brother Ronat,” Leaping Fox complained. “Now it is just two against one. Play fair.”

We continued climbing upward, not even reaching halfway yet. “That’s only because you are complaining, Brother Leaping Fox,” I said.

“Complaints are the groundwork of life,” Leaping Fox said in a lecturing tone. “They are also the reasons for motivation.”

Just like that, we climbed our way to the top of the tree, spending the whole of the morning in the process. Along the way, we listened to the complaints and curses of Brother Leaping Fox which came at a set frequency. Every ten layers of branches and leaves we went through, there would come a complaint or a curse. There were more curses than complaints, I counted—I had nothing else to do aside from climbing. It was a good way to waste time.

The leaves of an Age Tree are marvelous pieces of work. They are crafted for beauty. Red, yellow, and green. They range from these three colors, some leaves even having a splash of each color. But it was not their colors that were the most beauteous. It was the shape of the leaves, some of them like lances with various lobes, others shaped like fine sword—all of them pointy enough to poke an eye out if one wasn’t careful.

I found them hateful by the time the top of the tree was finally in sight, Brother Leaping Fox even more so. And even Brother Ronat had a somewhat murderous look on his face by the time we reached the top of the tree.

There’s something special in reaching the top. The top of anything, in fact. A mountain. A cliff. A hill. A competition. Your perspective changes after reaching that top. You look over and down, and far and wide.

The sight at the top of the Age Tree as I stood on a thin branch, but not thin enough to break under my weight, was stunning, a mysterious allure that could not be described. Everything looked smaller from that height. It felt as if one could do anything, achieve everything.

The skies and clouds themselves seemed closer, as if one could grab at them. I felt like shouting, howling from atop the Age Tree, underneath the invisible stars. An emotion that put fire in the blood. It was a feeling of exultation, of pride

And Brother Leaping Fox ruined that feeling.

“That’s it? I don’t feel changed. Rather, I feel like I am about to piss myself. I don’t really like heights.” He smiled from the closest branch to me. “That reminds me, Brothers. Let’s have a pissing contest from atop here. We might even hit the Ritual Master if we are lucky. He will probably think it rain or something.”

“…”

Then, there was the long climb down.

When we finally reached the ground, all of us had murderous looks on our faces, and we were all sick of the sight of trees, not matter how beautiful the sight was at the top.

The Ritual Master gave a loud purposeful laughter that bounced off the nightmarish Age Trees. The one we had climbed was the tallest Age Tree, close to the center of the forest right at the furthest end of the Desolate Forests Range.

The three older Hunters behind him also formed small grins. They had most likely experienced the climb when they had been young too. No doubt, they were happy that we were in their fur-tipped boots.

“Are you ready for your next task?” the Ritual Master asked.

We nodded hesitantly. If it was going the way this morning had went, we were in for a tiring time.

“Good. Young ones should be enthusiastic.” A small smile that showed the tips of his teeth, his eight fangs. “Good. Good. Now climb it again two more times,” he said dryly, pointing a thick finger at the Age Tree.

Leaping Fox groaned loudly, then muttered to himself. “I am not Little Bird or Eagle Above Skies. They are the climbers in our group. That said, I wonder how Big Bear managed to climb the tree three times.”

With that, we climbed.

The first climb to the top is special—your perspective changes. The second climb? It also changes. But the third climb? You only have the desire to jump down, making it a quick end. Feel the rush of the wind, then a splatter to the end.

In addition, the climbs were only made worse when Brother Leaping Fox pissed down from atop the tree the first and second climb. The third climb, he gave up on the idea, saying he was too tired for it.

It was late afternoon by the time we finished the three climbs, our breathing erratic and our arms sore. We were each sitting down, leaning against the base of the Age Tree. It is tough work climbing an Age Tree barehanded with only a blade-spear for company and for help in the climbing.

“Now then, your next task will be to climb a mountain three times,” the Ritual Master said.

Leaping Fox was sniffing uncontrollably by now from hearing those words. I was also close to such a state, Brother Ronat also no exception.

“That was, of course, a mere joke,” the Ritual Master said dryly. “I figured you needed some windfall after that.”

None of us found it funny. Only the Ritual Master and the three other older Hunters did. I think they took a much-more-than-was-comfortable amount of pleasure in our pains.

The next morning, we found out that it wasn’t much a joke. He still made us climb, not a mountain, but the same Age Tree. The climbing lasted for a whole week, with each day increasing the number of climbs. After the third day, I was no longer the first to finish. Instead, it was Brother Ronat who finished first. It made me realize that the abilities of the heart of the Sky Vreyner he had ate was already showing itself. By the end of the week, we had progressed into twenty climbs, which had lasted the whole day.

Trees, Brothers, are scary things.

I still shiver whenever I see something that looks like an Age Tree.

“I think I am going to change my name into Elegant Tree Climbing Fox,” Leaping Fox sadly said.

Brother Ronat nodded shortly in agreement.

=========

The next task we were set upon was swimming the whole length of the river which cut across the Desolate Forests Range.

“The River of Aging,” the Ritual Master called it. I didn’t know it back then, but there were many of these so called “Rivers of Aging.”

“Now this is more like it,” Leaping Fox said, a smirk on his face. “Foxes are made to swim.” Brother Leaping Fox may not have liked the rain, but somehow he liked to swim. A strange contradiction, but I suppose it was possible.

Brother Ronat let out a small sigh. “Ronats aren’t though.” It was obvious that Brother Ronat did not like swimming very much.

We were standing at the start of the river, which began in a small lake. Our blade-spears had also been given to the older Hunters. The weapons would only hinder us in our swimming.

“We will be following you for your own protection. Some creatures could be drinking from the river and will attack you. Make no doubt of that. And none of you are strong enough to beat most of the creatures in the Desolate Forests Range,” the Ritual Master said.

A smile that showed the edges of his teeth. It was a smile that I was coming to dread. “Be vigilant. The fishes bite,” he added.

And they did bite. They bit hard.

Throughout the morning and afternoon, we continued swimming without rest, fleeing from the hand-sized fishes with sharp little rows of teeth that left imprints on our bodies. Enough bites on the same wounds from these fishes and we would be bleeding.

Luckily, the sharp blade-like ridges on our bodies offered some protection, however minimal. We also used these ridges to kill the annoyances; the ridges were sharper than our blade-spears and much stronger. Only the true blade-spears would make better weapons.

We rested when the sun fell or when the Ritual Master told us to stop. Then we continued onward the next day. For the whole of a week, we swam the length of the river back and forth.

“So, Hunters, have you feel that you have aged enough from climbing the Age Tree and swimming the River of Aging?” the Ritual Master asked, a trace of humor in his voice.

Before Leaping Fox could open his mouth, I moved to cover it with hand. He protested, but I didn’t let go. “Yes, we have aged enough.”

“Good, then for the rest of the month, I will train you in controlling your body, and I will teach you the basics of Intentions. Look forward to it.” He gave that smile of his which showed of his teeth again, his eight fangs. It seemed to have grown each time he smiled.

Seeing that smile of his, I think he rather liked seeing us exhausted and pained. And if I didn’t know any better, I would have said he survived on pain.

=========

Over the course of the last three weeks of the month, each week lasting seven days, we learned how to control our transformed bodies, extending and contracting our blade-ridges. It was honed to such a point that they became almost as easy as breathing. We also learned how to elongate our fangs. The fangs vary on the Demona Hunters. Most usually retain the original number of fangs or grow a few more after the Ritual of Age. Mine didn’t change. It was still at eight fangs.

We also learned how to enter into a hyper state, which boosted every senses, muscular strength, mental capacity, and reaction speed. There is a specific word in our Demona language for this hyper state.

“Blodvraz,” we call it—Starblood.

This was the hardest part of the training, the Ritual Master had said. But it came the easiest to me. It was, no doubt, due to Knowing my own blood. I was also the one who could last the longest in this hyper state.

It was about a maximum of ten seconds before the backlash wreaks havoc all over. Any more than ten seconds and the backlash would become greater and in the worst case scenario, I would die. It would be a messy death also. My blood would rupture from inside my body, and my organs and muscles would deteriorate from the stress. You would also become quite hungry after entering Blodvraz.

For this part of the training, Brother Ronat and Leaping Fox could only last up to six seconds and that was on good days and when they were well fed.

Entering into Blodvraz, I could feel the blood flowing inside my body, and could almost count the slow flying movements of the insects. What was most frightening other than my improved vision and senses was the muscular strength gained from the Starblood form. Had I fought a purple male Arachne in this form, I could have cut through its legs with one easy swing.

But what was even more frightening was the fact that the Ritual Master could last up to a minute in his Starblood form. He had said that only with age and training in Blodvraz would we improve. For now, we were still young and six seconds were already good enough. He had, however, never seen any Hunters last for ten seconds when they were this young. Even when Hunter himself had taken the Ritual of Age, his limit was eight seconds. There had also been a remark that my eyes would turn a glowing scarlet. A strange feature the Ritual Master had never seen happen before.

Multiple attempts were only met with failure when I tried reverting my eyes back into their normal grey colors. In the end, after a few more days of attempts, I gave up.

Finally, there were the Intentions, the most basic of which was known as the Bloodlust Intention. In the First Blood Baptism, when I had killed the Bigger Ronat, Hunter had shown the effects of it. The Bigger Ronat had become alarmed and vigilant as if a predator beyond its measures had bestowed attention upon it. An unwanted attention that would result in blood and death.

Then there was the Intention of Domination, the pure force of our transformed will alone which could break the minds of weaker opponents. This, however, was rarely used for the consequences were deadly. It could result in a Hunter losing a piece of his will, memories, or mind. And when used from far away, the consequences would only become deadlier.

The final two were the various Empathic Intentions and the Pain Intention, both of which we were firmly advised to not use very often. The risks of utilizing such Intentions were a double-edged blade.

When the end of the month drew near, we were given his recognition of naming us true Hunters. But with this recognition, there also came revelations, the dark secrets and history of the Hunters.

It was told in a night that seemed to almost swallow the glow of the campfire we had set up. In this, the cold of the night seemed colder than usual, as if even our surroundings were eavesdropping upon us.

The usual cold, hard eyes of the Ritual Master also seemed to weep with pain. It was like a small water droplet glistening on a dull blade. He made for a piteous figure, brittled and numbed by age.

“When we are born,” the Ritual Master began, “we are born in blood. Not the usual kind of blood that accompanies a laboring. But the blood of death, of the womb-blood of our mothers. You see, on the day of our birth, there is also a death, the death of our mothers.”

He let words sank in as the cold of the night grew even colder.

“While still in the womb, we drain the life energy of our mothers to accompany our birth. From this, it is where we get the strength that is endowed into a Hunter’s body. We are born as killers.”

A silence fell upon the three of us that almost seemed great enough to devour the crackles of the campfire, the sounds of the few insects still awake.

“But make no mistake, Hunters, the fault lies not in us, nor in anyone else. You see, the blood in our Demona tribes are spread thin and wide, and rarely is a Hunter ever born. In fact, it is rare for eight Hunters to even be born in such a short period of time. An occurrence that I have only once experienced in my long years. Twins, as you can guess, are even rarer. Little Bird and Big Bird were lucky enough to survive their own birth.”

My hand felt the cool touch of the wood of my blade-spear. But even that familiarity did not feel like a comfort that night.

“When the fathers are Hunters and their wives are Demona, there is a much higher chance of a Hunter being born.” His eyes inspected us coolly but with a glistening pain. “You can see where I am going with it. If ever you marry, you will receive the risk of your loved one dying.”

“As for your fathers, consider them nonexistent, and as dead as the dead can be. Most cannot bear the pain of losing their loved ones. You see, when we find a loved one, we give a part of our mind. The ones without strong will do not survive and even the ones that do survive does not want anything to do with their Hunter child. That is the main reason why we raise children through caretakers in the Demona tribes. There have been multiple cases in years and years ago where we gave a Hunter child to be raised by his father only to become broken by the suppressed hatred…”

Even hearing those words, somehow, I found the courage to ask the question that had always been in the back of my mind, bothering me like an insectile annoyance one cannot be rid of. “What about me?” I whispered.

“You, Hunter Wolf Under Stars, are a rarity among rarities. There has never been a Hunter born from a Wraithborn mother, but that is probably due to the two races only joining together not long ago.” His eyes met mine and they knew the real question that was in my mind. “Your father is dead.” Simple. Blunt. They were simple and blunt words.

Strangely enough, the impact of finding that both my parents were dead by the time I was born was not earth-shaking. Perhaps it was the fortitude of my mind, or perhaps a delayed reaction, I didn’t know. It could have also been due to the fact that I had never seen them or known them. In truth, I didn’t know.

I felt a hand on each of my shoulders. It reassured me knowing that I had my Brothers for support. Toward the two, I made a gesture of gratitude. And as for my two Brothers, they didn’t ask of their parents. And I also didn't venture to ask them. Their thoughts were their own, and my thoughts mine.

Sometimes, you can only lend a silent hand. Not nearly enough, but all the more still a comfort.

“It is why there are not many Hunters in the Demona tribes. And this is the reason why there are many Hunters who never marry nor have children.” He waved a hand toward the three older Hunters sitting down behind him. “They are prime examples.”

The three Hunters made a laugh at that. A laughter which was tinged with a hint of bitterness.

“There is, of course, another good reason. We live twice as long as the other members of our tribe. I need not tell you the reason why. You can figure that out yourself.” His face looked older in the sad glow of the fire. “With my own two hands, I have killed more Hunters, and taken more lives than any individual should. It is blood that can never be washed away. A stain, and a burden that weighs heavily upon me every night. I pray that you never end up like me. The job of a Ritual Master is one that is cold and harsh.”

The revelations ended on that note, but the mood of that night never once turned cheerful again. It was of a long silence that knew no bounds.

Soon, the end of the month and our Ritual of Age ended. After those secrets, the Ritual Master had taught us most of what we needed to know and had polished the basics into us.

We said him a farewell, bid him a gesture of deep respect, and finally, a gesture of farewell. The Ritual Master did not live amongst our tribe, nor any other tribes. He lived alone in the Dreary Grasslands.

I was full of gratitude toward this old former Hunter. So I moved toward him to give a final gesture of farewell, much deeper than the last one.

The Ritual Master smiled at that. “I can see you, Hunter Wolf Under Stars. You are a perceptive one and quite observant. Take care not to end up like me. The weight of lives is a heavy weight to carry indeed. Especially the blood of your loved ones.”

“What is your name?” I asked, a trace of hesitation in my voice. It was not respectful to ask such a question.

“I am One Who Walks In Grey Night.” A small smile that showed the edges of his teeth. “I have long given up my Hunter name.” He made a gesture of farewell.

I returned it with a deeper one. Respect. Gratitude. Farewell.

“A word of warning, Hunter Wolf Under Stars. Some secrets, you can bury deep and hidden under misunderstandings…but in the end, a few of them still come unburied.” He pointed upward. “The stars move in unpredictable ways. Make sure you do not leave regrets. And of course, there is always the old and true advice—avoid the troubles you cannot take care of. I have a feeling you will be meeting many.” He shook his head. “And all too soon.”

So we left him then, and the Ritual Master made for a sad figure among that grey dreariness. A fitting name indeed. The Dreary Grasslands and of the Ritual Master who lived there alone, waiting for future young Hunters, and waiting patiently for his death.

One Who Walks In Grey Night.

A fitting name, indeed.

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