After finishing the letter, Rusty sealed the parchment with a drop of blue wax and his own insignia.
He handed it to Zhen, then spoke softly, "During the recruitment, there will be a test of skill. But not everything will be about swordsmanship. They'll measure your resolve. Your wit. And… most importantly, whether you can truly see your enemy—or if you're only seeing yourself."
Zhen nodded, understanding Rusty's words. He took the parchment that had been handed back to him, still not used to the idea—his first identity, even if it was forged, even if it had been created in an instant. Somehow, it felt more real than the self he used to know.
Rusty tidied up the tools and materials, placing everything back into the hidden drawer. He looked up, exhaling a rough sigh, then turned to Zhen, who had been silently watching without offering to help. But Rusty knew Zhen's character well—someone who wouldn't act carelessly, someone whose calm nature and chilling aura were not for show. 'That's why you were raised in the cold cradle of the Northern Tundra—your nature mirrors that land.'
He rose from his seat, the edge of his thin white robe fluttering in the wind, moving in rhythm with his steps. Rusty entered a small hut near the garden, a bamboo-woven space steeped in the scent of herbs.
Zhen was observing the robe Rusty had given him, his fingers brushing against the fabric's texture. "It's soft… and cold."
He had hesitated at first to wear the black robe. The inside was stitched with numerous golden-threaded symbols—patterns invisible from the outside. But he brushed his doubts aside, and ended up wearing it.
"I don't even know how to thread a needle. Has tailoring evolved this much?"
Zhen was about to step into the hut, curious why Rusty hadn't returned. As if reading his intent, the door opened, and Rusty emerged, holding a tightly tied cloth pouch. Without warning, he tossed it toward Zhen—who, of course, had to catch it precisely.
The pouch landed perfectly in Zhen's grasp, and only then did he exhale in relief.
"Those are dried roots," Rusty explained. "Boil them when your body weakens. Or sell them at the market—if things get desperate."
Zhen stared at the pouch of roots for a moment, then tightened his grip on it. Rusty stepped closer to him, about to say something. He looked into Zhen's calm brown eyes—sharp, and full of something unspoken.
"You should begin your journey at dawn, before the sun rises," Rusty said, pointing north. "Follow the river that flows from this village. The current leads straight to Hija City. If you don't stop, you'll reach the academy gates before midnight. But on the road, trust no one. Not even your own shadow."
Zhen gave him a deep, unreadable look.
'I was never taught to trust—or even to be cautious. Growing up brutal in a land where humans are seen as demons… yes, that suits my soul perfectly.'
"I understand." Zhen nodded, accepting the advice.
Healer Rusty looked away from that gaze. 'And you will become the Demon King… unless you first live through the days of being human. This scenario was written for you. So just walk it.'
Zhen awoke to the call of an owl, its cry far too close to his ear. He packed what little he would carry for the road. His sword—his primary weapon—was already fastened across his back. The scroll was tucked inside his robe. And then, his gaze fell on the pouch of dried roots. He looked at it for a long moment… before leaving it behind, neatly placed atop the made-up bed.
He opened the door slowly. With steady steps, he looked upon the cottage one last time.
"Thank you. I will remember you."
He left Rusty's hut. From behind the curtain, Rusty watched Zhen's back until it vanished into the trees. A faint smile curled on his lips.
"The title 'Cursed Hunter' is far too cruel for you. And yes… you will remember me."
Zhen walked along the narrow path, following the river. A thin mist began to drift among the leaves, turning to dew that kissed his skin with every brush. Between his steps, countless thoughts crowded his mind.
'Zhen.'
That name wasn't a disguise. It wasn't a mask. It was him. And that—was what unsettled him the most.
"The Elders of the Western Clan must be more narrow-minded than I thought. Am I not just walking into their snare?"
That thought spun quietly in his mind, barely a whisper—more like a murmur echoing through the chamber of his soul.
[The road to Hija City is not promised to be kind. But each step you take is a form of training. The suspicious gazes of strangers are tests. The words they speak will be mirrors—revealing who you truly are. You are a Blood Hunter without the seal of any academy, but you do not hunt without purpose.]
[Do not waste time overthinking.]
[The name 'Zhen' is not one planted by your enemies, nor is it recorded in any ancient scroll. It is the name the System gave you... the name whispered to all who dwell in the Northern Territory since the day your soul was first unsealed.]
[A one-year-old child, without a mark, without a face, without a name. All they knew was—]
[The Hunter from the North has risen. That alone was enough.]
[—Message from Rusty Feran: delivered.]
The System's voice echoed like a reverberation from some distant time, prompting Zhen to look up at the sky for a moment. No one knew him—because he was no one. But that, precisely, was why he could become anyone.
Twilight sank over the western horizon. The darkness of night did not shake his will to rest. The howls of forest wolves merged with the choir of crickets. Zhen pressed forward, relentless, his walk often breaking into a sharp, powerful run. To him, every journey had taught a single, vital lesson: patience.
Patience is the bedrock of any true Hunter. Again and again, patience was the key to mastering every lesson and every trial. The peak of patience had no known boundary—that was why patience must walk hand-in-hand with faith. The union of the two, stirred with effort and forged by pain, often wrapped itself around his life like a burning shroud. Life, for him, was no less than walking across the Bridge of Hell.
His thoughts scattered. His eyes widened. His lips sealed shut. Instinctively, his fingers reached to tighten the sword strap hanging from his chest to his back.
Before him lay a midnight view unlike anything his senses had ever known.
From afar, the lights of Hija City twinkled like they were waving at Zhen—beckoning him forward, as if urging him to hasten his pace. Yet in the depths of his heart, it felt less like a welcome… and more like a challenge.
A city not calling him home, but calling his blade.
"Alright. I'll move swiftly—and adapt wisely."
His steps turned into the gallop of a wild horse.
That wild horse finally arrived at the city gates. Zhen didn't yet know what kind of place he was walking into. All he could do was observe.
"Hija City."
The name sounded far more poetic than the reality it concealed—there were no flower beds or shady trees to greet him. All he saw were emaciated men pushing carts loaded with massive stones. Other carts followed, filled with iron and tools. The streets choked with dust stirred by endless labor.
Fortunately, Zhen had kept the black cloth wrapped around his face, shielding his senses from the stinging grit. Without it, he might have shared the fate of those workers—coughing relentlessly, their lungs likely drowning in dust.
As he made his way through the city's veins, he noticed someone ahead. A figure clad in a robe bearing an embroidered symbol on the back—a dragon coiled around a sword. Two blades hung at the figure's waist, making it clear: this was a swordsman.
Though still some distance ahead, Zhen began trailing the man in silence.
"So… the Northern Clan has become the Swordmasters of the Western Academy… training candidates to become Official Blood Hunters entering Oliga. What a refreshing twist of fate."
The clash of blades rang out nearby—sharp, metallic, and resonant. The tremors crawled into Zhen's ears like a whisper of war.
"The scenery has changed… so drastically."
His brow furrowed.
A few kilometers ago, the world looked very different.
Zhen paused briefly, eyes fixed on the towering Western Clan Academy gate ahead. The great doors bore the carving of a white dragon biting into a pomegranate—identical to the symbol etched into Rusty's desk. He stepped forward slowly, crossing through the threshold and into the Academy. Inside, the walls were carved from gray marble, engraved with the sigils of the Western Clan: long swords piercing the heavens. The training grounds stretched wide, divided into arenas and field rows—each lined with magical circles that glowed faintly, marking the boundaries of duels.
His steps echoed lightly against the stone-paved road. The hem of his black cloak fluttered with each gust of wind. On his back—just one sword. No ornate scabbard, no gleaming adornments. Only raw steel and a rough handle wrapped in worn cloth. A blade meant to tear through the deepest flesh of enemies—not to be admired, but to be feared.
Zhen came to a halt.
Ahead, dozens of young swordsmen were already lined up—aspiring instructors from various Western clans—gathered in silence, each holding a scroll that looked noticeably different from his own.
'Difference always walks beside me, no matter where I go.'
Zhen's eyes shifted actively, scanning each warrior. Polished swords hung at their waists—two, sometimes three—sheathed in fine leather belts adorned with clan insignias and academy crests. Some wore light armor, others the official cloaks of sword instructors.
In comparison to these Western-trained elites… he was clearly out of place.
And yet—it was that very difference that caused heads to turn the moment he stepped forward.
'Ah. Perhaps my cloak really is too ancient.'
Silence fell abruptly, thick and uncomfortable, like the presence of something foreign.
Zhen's tall frame towered over most swordsmen. Broad-shouldered and honed by discipline, his sharp eyes were calm like a still lake, and the black cloth covering his face only deepened the air of mystery that swept through the crowd without a word.
"Why's his face covered?" A young swordsman threw the question aloud, his voice deliberately raised for everyone to hear.
Zhen didn't smile. He didn't scowl either.
His expression was neutral—peaceful, even.
Which only invited more attempts to belittle him.
Laughter followed. A cocky voice rang out—belonging to a young man with bright red hair and two blades strapped to his hips.
"Hey! Since when did archers join the sword instructor trials? Look at him—who carries a sword on their back like a bow?"
A few others laughed, but stiffly—uncertain.
Zhen said nothing. He didn't even glance their way. He simply stood for a moment… then walked forward, calmly, toward the table where the trial scrolls were to be submitted.
The laughter faded. And one by one, their eyes changed—not mocking, but measuring.
Because now they understood… This young man in black did not carry the air of a sparring partner. But of someone who had fought—truly fought—on real battlegrounds. Someone who didn't need two swords to fell one enemy.
At the selection table, an elderly officer received Zhen's letter and carefully unfolded it. His eyes scanned the parchment, then slowly rose to meet Zhen's.
He read the name again aloud, as if to confirm it wasn't a mistake.
"Zhen… of the Natural Blade… student of Rusty Feran?" One eyebrow arched in surprise—but he said nothing more.
Instead, with a curt nod, he raised his hand and gestured silently toward the stone arena at the heart of the main training ground.