“Huh-hu…”

Aron’s ragged breath condensed in the frigid air, hanging like smoke on a cold morning. After an aimless run, with no clear sense of time or distance, he found himself leaning against a tree, one arm resting on its trunk. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath.

“It was fun,” the Voice whispered.

“Yes, it was,” Aron replied, chuckling between breaths, a faint smile lighting up his face.

Slowly, he lifted his head to look around. The tree he leaned against was broken, its trunk bent at an odd angle. He sharpened his gaze, noticing other details. Everything felt familiar. Then, realization struck him.

This was the place where he had killed the deer.

No trace of it remained. It was as though time had swallowed everything—everything except two things: his mind and the tree.

Both bore the marks of what had happened. But while the tree had been bent and shattered under the weight and force of the creature, Aron’s mind was beginning to bloom. Like a seed driven deep into the richest soil, nourished by death and life intertwined.

“We were afraid, and we will continue to be.”

“Yes, but we will no longer crawl away from it. No. From now on, we will spread our wings toward the sky and beat them with strength. Even if every bone breaks… we will continue.”

Aron spoke the words with a determination that felt entirely his own. In his spirit, each word echoed, solidifying his resolve.

After holding the tree in his gaze for a moment longer, he turned and resumed his journey. Each step carried him deeper into the unknown.

The sun had already passed its zenith and was slowly descending toward the horizon. Aron’s stomach twisted with hunger, but a deeper hunger, rooted in his spirit, dulled the physical sensation. Yet there was something else—something that had been starving for far longer and was now preparing to feast.

“Something’s following us.”

“I know. I can feel its eyes, but I can’t pinpoint where they are,” Aron replied, continuing to walk with calm, measured steps. He feigned indifference, though his sharp eyes scanned the surroundings.

“The good news is that it seems to be alone. Otherwise, it wouldn’t need to wait,” he reasoned, speaking with the Voice.

“That might not be so good,” the Voice countered, its tone calculated and sharp. “If it survives out here alone, it must be a skilled and powerful hunter.”

“Time will tell. But I imagine it’s waiting for nightfall,” Aron concluded, maintaining his pace as though nothing had changed.

Within a couple of hours, darkness fell over the forest. It was a starless night, with the moon playing hide and seek behind heavy clouds. Aron kept walking, his breath heavy and his eyes constantly scanning. Along the way, he had searched for possible escape routes; a few had seemed plausible, but the Voice had ruthlessly dismantled them with its cold logic.

Time was running out. He could feel it—something was changing. The beast was preparing to act.

His only hope lay ahead: a sheer rock face. Each step brought him closer to salvation, but the forest’s edge in front of him seemed to loom larger and closer. He was about to leave the shelter of the trees and step into a clearing—an open space, perfect for a swift attack.

“What do we do? Should I sprint for it? It’s 100, maybe 150 meters. I’m fast.”

“You’d die instantly,” the Voice replied, icy and firm. “It’s definitely faster than you. And turning your back on it isn’t exactly a good idea."

“So, what then? Should we just die here like this?” Aron’s frustration boiled over—not at the Voice, but at the fact that it was right.

“I didn’t say that,” the Voice replied, its tone growing heavier with every step Aron took toward the moment of decision. “If logic can’t give you a satisfying solution, then abandon it. Act on instinct. You’re challenging a beast… so act like one.”

With those final words, Aron stepped past the tree line.

10 meters.

15 meters.

20 meters.

BAM!

He fell to the ground. His body lay sprawled in the snow, his eyes reflecting the grim sky above.

Five minutes passed. Only the howling wind broke the silence. Aron lay still in the snow, feeling no cold; his body burned with heat, ready to ignite.

Ten more minutes passed.

Crack…

The sound of a snapping branch was all it took. Aron sprang to his feet, his hand gripping the axe tightly. His mind focused as his heart raced, his senses attuned to every vibration in the air. Above him, the moon finally emerged from behind the clouds.

Then he saw it.

A black creature, the size of a large calf, stood at the edge of the clearing. Its thick black fur swayed in the wind. Its eyes—red slits like pools of blood—locked onto him with a silent hunger. Its legs, covered in thick gray scales, ended in claws that seemed to merge the talons of a eagle with the ferocity of a wolf. Beneath the scales, the skin glowed faintly red, as if steeped in ancient blood.

It was an Strixwolf.

A solitary creature, unlike its canine relatives. Known among hunters as legendary predators of the darkest nights, Strixwolves were skilled at surviving the harshest conditions. Upon reaching maturity, they were considered apex magical beasts of the first level, and rare individuals even achieved the fearsome status of second-level existences.

However, this one was still young. Its claws were not yet completely red, a sign it had not reached full maturity.

Aron tightened his grip on the axe, while the creature, momentarily frozen by the unexpected encounter, studied him with a calculating gaze.

Their eyes met, both predatory, both feral.

Two predators ready to claim the life of the other. There was no fear—only an insatiable hunger to dominate.

In the moments before the storm erupted, Aron’s voice merged with the Voice in his mind.

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“This lowly beast dares to devour us! TO DEVOUR US! How dare it! We’ll make it feel fear. We’ll embed pain into its very bones. Its howls will be our song. Its flesh, our feast! RAGHHH!”

The declaration ended in an animalistic, guttural roar, bursting forth from Aron’s lips. It shattered the confines of his mind and reverberated through the physical world.

It was the horn that signaled the start of the battle.

The creature froze for a fraction of a second, its claws scratching the snow-covered ground. Then, with a deep growl, it accepted the challenge.

They charged at each other, both with the same goal: to claim the other’s life.

One was faster; the other, more desperate.

The 20-meter gap vanished in an instant. The Strixwolf raised a claw, aiming to tear through Aron’s left side.

A split second before the strike, Aron abruptly stopped and swung the axe with all his might. The blade sank deep into the creature’s shoulder, ripping through flesh and spraying blood. But the beast’s claws still found their mark, tearing into Aron’s side and sending a warm gush of blood spilling onto the snow.

The charge ended abruptly, but the fight had only just begun.

The Strixwolf lunged again, its jaws aimed at Aron’s exposed stomach. Aron raised the axe and drove it into the creature’s extended neck. At the same time, he threw his body backward to avoid the bite, stumbling and falling to the ground.

The axe remained lodged in the wolf’s neck, but it wasn’t enough to stop it. The beast pounced on him, pinning his left shoulder with its uninjured paw. Its massive jaws closed in on his face.

With a desperate move, Aron grabbed a handful of snow and dirt and threw it into the creature’s eyes. It hesitated, momentarily blinded and disoriented.

His hand instinctively reached for the axe’s handle. When he tried to pull it free, the blade snapped, leaving the weapon embedded in the wolf’s neck.

The beast’s teeth came dangerously close to his face once more. This time, Aron jammed the broken axe handle straight into its throat.

With a savage cry, Aron plunged his hand into the gaping wound on the creature’s neck. His fingers slid into the searing heat of its blood, gripping nerves and tendons. He squeezed and pulled, feeling the flesh give way under the pressure.

Each motion was accompanied by the sickening sound of tearing flesh, wet and sticky, as blood poured out in waves. It splattered across his face, seeping into his mouth with a metallic tang.

At one point, his fingers latched onto something hard and rubbery. With a final, brutal yank, he ripped it free. The blood erupted like a geyser, drowning his senses. The Strixwolf let out a guttural, strangled cry, a sound swallowed by the flood of blood filling its throat.

Aron didn’t stop. He tore and clawed like a feral beast, his movements driven by primal fury. His nails cracked and broke, but he didn’t feel the pain. His desperation to survive overwhelmed everything else.

The scalding heat of the blood contrasted sharply with the biting cold of the snow beneath him, merging into a chaotic, all-encompassing sensation.

The creature shuddered violently, its body stiffening as it reached the brink of death. With one final tremor, it collapsed onto Aron, its lifeless weight pressing him into the blood-soaked snow.

Aron lay there, panting heavily, his eyes wide and unseeing. His face was a mask of blood, his hands still buried in the creature’s mangled neck.

For a moment, everything was silent.

Then, a laugh—wet and choked with blood—broke the stillness.

“I’m happy,” Aron whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling. His blood-soaked eyes fluttered open, tears mingling with the crimson streaks on his face.

“Have I ever felt this way before?” he murmured, the question barely audible.

“No,” the Voice replied, calm and unwavering. “You’ve never lived before today. You couldn’t have known it.”

“At least I’ll die having lived… even if just for a day,” Aron muttered, a bitter chuckle escaping his cracked lips.

“You won’t die as a man,” the Voice continued, solemn and deliberate. “A slave to fears and false morals. You won’t die as a beast, shackled to its instincts. You’ve been something more: free. You’ve truly lived, even if only for a single day.”

The Voice’s words echoed in Aron’s fading consciousness, guiding him as the world around him blurred.

“But you don’t want to die,” the Voice said, firm and resolute. “Fight. Fight until the very end.”

Pinned beneath the Strixwolf’s heavy corpse, the only source of warmth in the frozen wasteland, Aron forced his trembling hand toward his bag. After fumbling, he found two jars. With excruciating effort, he unscrewed them with one hand and poured their contents onto his palm.

Slowly, agonizingly, he slipped his hand into the narrow space between his body and the dead beast, pressing the salves into his wounds. His fingers pushed deep into the gashes, spreading the healing balms over torn flesh.

When the grueling task was complete, Aron’s body gave out. His head slumped back into the blood-soaked snow, and darkness claimed him.

Whispers and songs accompanied Aron in his unconsciousness. The Voice murmured in the shadows of his mind—or perhaps it was his own voice. Memories and truths swirled together in a confusing storm, both familiar and alien.

The icy cold that seeped into his body wasn’t merely paralyzing. It was like an anvil, hardening every fiber of his being, transforming his flesh into something as unyielding as iron.

At the same time, a searing heat radiated from the Strixwolf’s corpse and his very mind. It coursed through his veins like molten lava, invigorating him. Fire and ice—opposite forces—intertwined within him, finding a fragile balance. They didn’t destroy him. They remade him. Stronger. Wilder. More dangerous.

In the sound of the wind, which seemed to herald a storm that never came during the night, dawn arrived. With it, every cloud dissolved, leaving behind a clear and bright sky.

Aron slowly opened his eyes, confused and groggy, wondering how he was still alive.

And yet, something was different. Despite his still-open wounds, he felt stronger. And there was something flowing through him, a new and alien sensation.

“How am I alive? And… what’s happened to my body?” he entrusted his doubts to the Voice.

“Your old dream, that’s what it is.”

Those words left him even more confused, perhaps even frightened by the idea of clinging to false hope.

He focused. Slowly, he began to feel them: two opposing energies flowing strangely within his body. It was mana.

The realization hit him like a thunderbolt. He could become a knight. No, he already was, albeit weak and inexperienced. But something in him had already begun to change.

“How is this possible? Don’t you need specific methods to sense and channel mana through your body? And besides, to do it, you usually need to imitate an advanced form of life… unless…” He stopped for a moment, the thought striking him like lightning. “No, it can’t be! Only pure knights of prana don’t need models to follow.”

Aron paused, incredulous. He examined his hands again, feeling those energies flow within him once more. “And yet, these are fire and frost mana, not prana… What the hell am I imitating?”

“Does it really matter?” the Voice sounded like someone asking a child a rhetorical question.

It continued, “I believe the most important thing is the result. Everything else? Irrelevant.”

“But you know, don’t you?” Aron asked, with a hint of irritation in his tone.

“Of course I do. But so do you. Your spirit screamed, demanded, proved itself. And the answer was given to you.”

The Voice concluded, no longer willing to discuss it further.

Aron’s doubts didn’t diminish; they only grew. But the Voice was right—none of those details mattered.

As he crawled out from beneath the Strixwolf’s corpse, which had shielded him from the night’s frost, Aron heard a sound. Rhythmic, low, like the breathing of a sleeping giant. Slowly, it grew louder. It reminded him of the wind, but as if it had been tamed. It felt familiar, yet distant.

Aron froze, his movements stopping entirely. He hid beneath the corpse.

The sound intensified, nearly deafening, until he saw them.

Emerging over the cliff’s edge, they appeared in the sky: wyverns. Massive, at least thirty of them, with broad wings and scales of ice-gray that gleamed in the dawn light. These were not like the ones he had seen before. They were different. Bulkier, with wider wings. Their scales glimmered a cold, icy hue, unlike the dark green of those from the past.

But the most striking detail was the metal armor they wore and the saddles strapped to their backs.

The meaning of it overwhelmed him. And even more so, the realization of where they were heading, as he watched them vanish beyond the treetops from which he had emerged the day before.

“Does it matter?” hissed the Voice, cold and relentless. “You abandoned that place yesterday, and today, look at yourself. You sacrificed your old life and gained a new one—the one you’ve always desired. Everything has a price, Aron. Everything is attainable. The question is: what’s your limit? How far are you willing to go?”

Standing in the clearing, Aron continued to stare in the direction where the wyverns had disappeared, the Voice’s words carving deeply into his mind. His internal conflict, like fire and frost, burned within him.

“When you completely abandon your past,” the Voice continued, “then you’ll be reborn.”

The wind howled across the clearing, and Aron remained motionless as dawn dispersed the clouds. But this day, the 21st of Fillbror, was no ordinary morning. It was the Day of the Dragon—the coldest and darkest hour of the year.

And Aron, standing there, was only at the beginning of his transformation.