I stood in the dimly lit hall of the Hunters' Guild, the air thick with the stench of unwashed armor, stale ale, and the faint metallic tang of blood from recent kills. Flickering torchlight danced across the wooden beams overhead, casting long shadows over the clustered groups of hunters—rough men and women clad in scarred leather and chainmail, their weapons propped against tables littered with half-empty mugs. I scanned the request board, my boar mask concealing my expression as I searched for something worthwhile.
A low-ranking receptionist, a mousy young woman with wide eyes and trembling hands, cleared her throat hesitantly before speaking out loud. Her voice cracked slightly, as if she knew the reaction it would provoke. "There's... there's another missing persons case. Demi-humans this time. A small village on the outskirts—elves, beastkin, the like. They've vanished without a trace."
The room erupted in dismissive scoffs and outright laughter. Most hunters didn't even bother looking up from their conversations, their faces twisting into sneers of contempt. "Missing demi-humans? Good riddance," one burly man grumbled, his voice dripping with venom. "Filthy half-breeds probably wandered off into the woods to rut like the animals they are." Another, a scarred veteran with a missing ear, slammed his fist on the table, spilling ale.
"Serves them right. Maybe whoever took 'em can put those pointy-eared freaks to work in the mines or the brothels—make 'em useful for once in their worthless lives instead of leeching off real folk." The laughter spread like wildfire, a chorus of mockery that echoed off the walls, laced with slurs I'd heard a thousand times: "tree-huggers," "mutt-bloods," "subhumans." It was the same old rot, the kind of casual hatred that festered in places like this, where humans clung to their fragile superiority like a shield against the unknown. Demi-humans were tolerated at best—second-class citizens, barred from most guilds, taxed into poverty, and blamed for every misfortune from bad harvests to monster attacks. No one questioned it; it was just "the way things were."
I felt a surge of anger boil up inside me, hot and unyielding. Through the slits of my boar mask, I fixed a glare on the loudest offender—the one who'd suggested the brothels. He caught my eye and froze, his smug grin evaporating into wide-eyed fear.
The laughter died abruptly, replaced by uneasy coughs and averted gazes. No one wanted to cross a high-rank like me, not when my reputation preceded me like a storm cloud.
I strode up to the receptionist, my boots thudding heavily on the creaky floorboards. "Hand me that request," I said, my voice low and firm, cutting through the sudden silence like a blade.
She blinked up at me, flustered, clutching the parchment. "B-but sir, the pay is low. Barely a handful of coppers. Not for someone of your caliber—"
"I don't care," I interrupted, snatching the paper from her grasp. The details were sparse: a remote demi-human settlement, reports of shadowy figures in the night, entire families gone. It screamed of foul play—slavers, perhaps, or worse—but to these fools, it was just another joke.
As I turned away, folding the request into my cloak, I caught sight of her at the corner of my eye—the same elf from before, lingering in the shadows near the far wall.
Her presence hit me like a physical force, terrifying in its intensity, a silent aura that made the hairs on my neck stand on end.
How? This place was a den of weaklings, bottom-feeders without a single blessing among them. No divine spark to amplify their strength, no ethereal glow marking them as chosen. And yet, she radiated power that could crush them all without effort.
It reminded me of Arthur—my old mentor, the man who'd trained me until my bones ached and my spirit nearly broke. Without a blessing, he'd still manhandle me easily, his strikes like thunder, his endurance endless. A shiver crawled up my spine at the memory of those grueling sessions, the bruises that lingered for weeks.
If I had to hypothesize, blessings weren't the be-all and end-all; they just accelerated growth, a shortcut for the gifted. They weren't mandatory.
How else to explain Albert, the literal strongest person in history, who rose to legend without one? Or this elf, standing here like a predator among sheep?
Maybe some were just built different—forged in fires the rest of us could barely comprehend. Or maybe the world was fairer than it seemed, and strength came to those who clawed for it, human or demi-human alike.
But it didn't deny the absolute fact that a Blessing is completely and utterly busted in every regard. It's a literal exponential boost toward reaching your own limits. And yes, people can even go beyond their limits—push past the impossible and make it possible.
Either way, this request was mine. If no one else would lift a finger for those "half-breeds," I would. Let the racists choke on their laughter when I brought the missing home.
With the scant details from the receptionist clutched in my hand—a crude map sketched on the back of the request parchment, marking the demi-human village on the kingdom's ragged fringes—I stepped out of the Hunters' Guild into the dead of night.
The autumn chill clawed at my skin through my cloak, the season's end heralded by a faint dusting of snowflakes drifting lazily from the ink-black sky, melting into icy pinpricks on my boar mask.
The streets were empty, save for the occasional drunk staggering home from a tavern, their breath fogging the air like ghosts.
I moved with purpose, my footsteps muffled against the cobblestones not out of any formal training in stealth—I'd never been one for skulking in shadows like some assassin—but out of habit.
Better to strike with silent a presence.
The journey to the village outskirts took hours, my path winding through frost-kissed forests where skeletal trees clawed at the moonless heavens. I kept my eyes peeled for clues even before reaching the settlement: a snapped branch here, a scuffed patch of earth there, anything that might betray the culprits' trail.
Demi-humans weren't the monsters humans painted them to be; they were survivors, eking out lives in these forsaken edges because no city would welcome their "tainted" blood. Humans like those guild scum spat on them, called them abominations for their ears, tails, or scales—freaks unworthy of land, rights, or mercy. It was a poison baked into society: laws that barred them from owning property, taxes that starved them, and whispers that justified every atrocity. "They're not like us," the bigots would say, as if that excused the raids, the burnings, the chains.
When I finally crested the hill overlooking the village, the sight hit me like a warhammer to the gut.
It was utterly devastated, reduced to smoldering ruins under the pale glow of emerging stars. Huts that once housed families—simple structures of woven thatch and mud, adorned perhaps with elven carvings or beastkin totems—now lay in blackened heaps, flames long extinguished but the acrid smoke still lingering like a shroud.
Bodies littered the ground, mostly men and elders, their forms twisted in final agony, throats slit or bellies rent open. No women or children among the dead; they'd been taken, no doubt, for the slave markets or worse—the "useful" fate those laughing hunters back at the guild had joked about. My stomach churned.
My hands tightened at my sides.
These people had just been trying to live, scratching out existence from soil that humans deemed worthless, trading herbs and furs for scraps of acceptance. Was it really so wrong? To breathe, to love, to build a home? But to the purists, the supremacists who ruled with iron fists and silver tongues, demi-humans were vermin to be exterminated or exploited. Burn it all to cinders, kill the fighters, kidnap the vulnerable—standard playbook for "civilizing" the fringes. The hatred wasn't fear; it was entitlement, a festering wound in humanity's soul that I'd seen too many times.
I boiled that rage down, forcing it into a cold, focused ember in my chest.
No time for fury now; it would cloud my judgment. I scoured the site methodically, stepping over charred debris and avoiding the pooling blood that had frozen into crimson ice. Tracks weren't hard to find—the attackers had done a sloppy job hiding them, arrogance born of impunity.
Boot prints, heavy and human-sized, trampled the earth in chaotic patterns, leading northeast toward the wilderlands. Wagon ruts gouged the dirt, deep enough for carts laden with captives, and scattered among them were telltale signs: a discarded rope frayed with beastkin fur, a broken arrow fletched in cheap human style, even a half-buried emblem from one of the border barons' militias—those self-proclaimed "defenders" who raided under the guise of "protecting" human purity.
They hadn't even bothered to cover their retreat properly, assuming no one would care enough to follow. But I cared. And I'd make them regret it.
They thought no one would come.
They were wrong.