The bleak sky covered with thick clouds obscured the light of the three suns. It’s said the sunlight in Gray Haven is weaker than the rest of the continent for some unknown reason. Still the morning light covered the land in a golden hue, the Greenstone Forest reflected green, black and purple from the dim yellow sunlight like a dazzling gem in the wastelands.

The Greenstone Forest spanned tens of thousands of miles covering a vast area, untold secrets, treasures and opportunities lay within but for humans the dangers were far more numerous and threatening. The forest was divided into four rough layers: the outskirts, middle grounds, inner paradise and the forbidden core.

Different maps had different markings of the specific territories of monsters, resources, dangerous environments, mines and so on. A good map was worth dozens of silvers, and very rare, most scavengers personally made their own maps after buying a basic one from their local settlement.

These maps had many differences depending on the source and age but one thing that was common along with the borders separating the four layers was the Wild Hunt Trail.

The Wild Hunt Trail was a forbidden region for scavengers, most wouldn’t dare step foot there if they had a hundred guts, on his mentor’s map it was painted with dark orange as a warning but now Ilven had no choice but to take another gamble.

He slid down a rocky slope sending some loose rocks flying with his stride.

His gaze locked onto a moving group of heavily modified vehicles, their hulking forms did not make as much noise as one would expect with the advance of such a fleet of vehicles, but was still significant and eye-catching enough, daring travel in such a manner only proved their outstanding prowess.

The sun glinted off the metallic armor plating of the three trucks moving in formation, flanked by two cars and three bikes. They were painted with the emblem of a red and orange lion surrounded by a circle of thorns embedded with a pistol and spear.

Even Ilven a dweller of the backwards farming settlement Grey Tulip had heard of this famous wilderness hunting team. Normal wilderness hunters were already quite the sight after all, they were capable of really hunting desolate beasts, doing so frequently to earn a living unlike bottom feeders like them who went after the injured and weak.

Don’t think that well equipped scavenger teams like Galdor’s are powerful, this was only in comparison to lone wolves and poorer teams. They could only hunt beasts travelling alone and ‘hunting’ was kind of an exaggeration.

The circumstances, status of the desolate beast, equipment of the team and many other stringent factors were irreplaceable for a successful hunt even then they had a very low success rate of about 10 percent and didn’t dare hunt certain races or were just plain incapable of doing so.

True wilderness hunters didn’t fear ordinary inferior black iron beasts, they not only had a higher success rate but also hunted frequently unlike scavengers who faced each expedition with dread and took long breaks in between. The level of income they took in was enviable even by land and business owners within shelters.

As with scavengers and even society, there were high and low wilderness hunting teams.

The group before Ilven was a relatively famous team who dominated their own settlement. Furthermore, it was not the smallest wisp settlement but a rank higher; the powerful Goose Feather Ember Settlement which was one of the three strongest settlements in this entire region. It also happened to be the superior settlement to their Grey Turlip Wisp Settlement.

The Mad Lion Wilderness Hunters was a large group with over 300 members, this was one of their many teams.

The wilderness hunting fleet sprawled across the dusty terrain, a collection of seven vehicles that reeked of expensive beast warding incense. On the largest vehicle, a command truck scarred by countless battles, sat Reshal of the Fourth Attack Division. His weathered hands moved steadily as he carved patterns into a piece of wood.

The truck's bed was filled with shadows, strange equipment and sweaty bodies.

One man methodically cleaned a weapon that could have torn through the thick hide of a Ivory Head Rhino with ease, while a cluster of others hunched over a game of cards, their curses and laughter mixing with the constant drone of engines and the clicking of weapon maintenance.

Three modified combat bikes flanked the convoy their frames bulging with luxurious runic armor plating and artillery strong enough to turn low level desolate beasts into paste. Two more vehicles, heavily armored and covered in dents and patch jobs, guarded the sides of the command truck and its support vehicles. The whole formation screamed with violence barely held in check.

The hunters sprawled across their various positions showed no concern for Ilven's approach. Seeing them even from a distance caused danger alarms to sound within Ilven’s psyche.

These past few days have been quite the thrilling drug rush; to think I expected it to be a harmless gamble with a low level of danger

Ilven wryly smiled and wished to scold his past self for his optimism.

Ilven looked back sensing the approaching danger, although he had thrown them off several times they always found him. They were like shit stuck to his boot, smelly pebbles from the bottom of a latrine pot.

The tracker, Trevor’s abilities were actually quite amazing, if that was a defective ability gained from a faulty or low quality gene potion, then how powerful was the standard version possessed by the likes of top level wilderness hunters and citizens of higher shelters?

Should I try and buy one? The thought passed his mind but the outrageous price by for a decent quality potion quickly made him snuff it out. He wasn’t in such a bad situation that he had to take defective potions risking death and having to deal with the long-term side effects.

Still the abilities granted by gene potions were hard to resist, if he could, he wanted to try purchasing a good one.

Unbeknownst to Ilven, Trevor had lost consciousness several times and bled heavily from his seven orifices, he was barely moving and had to supported by his teammates, the side effects of using his ability too much.

Ilven stifled his fleeting ambitions, feeling a sense of urgency once more, the annoyed squawks of the fat and lazy Flightless Birds signified his pursuers were even closer, he couldn’t afford to delay any longer.

It seems I have used up all my luck for the month, no for the whole year.

You'd think passing through so many dangerous monster dens would have made them give up. Instead, both sides now wanted nothing more than to see the other dead.

Ilven watched the wilderness hunting team's vehicles grow distant. His heart tightened—this was only the third time he'd seen vehicles, and here were seven at once. They were also much larger and advanced than the crappy versions he had seen before. Each one represented more wealth than most scavengers would see in a lifetime.

Stolen novel; please report.

He strengthened his resolve and began closing the distance. It wasn't difficult, they weren't far, and they kept their speed low to minimize noise and save fuel.

Yes, even the current loud noise was considered low for such powerful vehicles.

He approached them bit by bit, taking off his pants, going naked from the waist down as he waved his pants in the air. This was a universal symbol of surrender or more accurately no ‘ill intent’.

Ilven slowed his pace, not out of exhaustion but out of caution. His mind worked quickly, sizing up the group in front of him. These were not the typical scavengers he dealt with.

He could see it in the subtle glow of runes that ran along their alchemical equipment spitting out steam and shining with a murderous gleam, in the sleek, customized weapons they handled as if they were extensions of their bodies. These were high quality steam machinery and were incomparable to what scraps scavengers used.

These people weren’t just enhanced humans—they were demon slayers, each one capable of ripping him apart without a second thought. Facing them was no different from facing a set of intelligent desolate beasts.

Drawing closer, he wondered if he had indeed gone and thrown himself into the hornet's nest.

His senses that saved him time and time again warned him of danger, the formation itself was a threat, but each member alone was not something he could handle even if he was given months to prepare and somehow managed to clone himself. This made him even more careful.

It seems I was thinking too highly of myself.

At this distance he could sense the danger more clearly; his budding hopes were dashed, and he became more honest. He had initially wanted to use them as a borrowed knife to kill his pursuers, being chased for so long yet incapable of eliminating them had long infuriated Ilven, with Fenri in the mix it was no exaggeration to say these past few days had ticked him off to new heights.

He inhaled and exhaled so much to calm himself down recently that if he kept it up his lungs might explode.

If he could get the hunters to kill them and also sell his loot that would be killing two birds with one stone, but he had underestimated the danger associated with real hunters and now didn’t dare try and manipulate them.

Humans against desolate beasts were a prime example that strength in numbers had its limits. Once you achieved a higher level of existence, then numbers meant nothing.

So, this is the sensation veterans and top level wilderness hunters give, together they can easily level settlements and hunt high ranked desolate beasts, how horrifying.

They weren’t even looking at him, but it felt like he was surrounded by a field of poisoned blades with no path outwards.

He kept his expression neutral, hiding the weight of his thoughts behind an emotionless mask. He would have to be very careful down to the most minute details.

Show too much fear, and they would tear him apart. Show too much confidence, and they would see him as a threat or insolent. He needed to tread the line perfectly otherwise his life was at risk.

In fact, it was, humans of this era lived in a strict hierarchical society and the hunters were actually about three ranks above Ilven. It was not uncommon for the higher classes to kill those of the lower class claiming disrespect. Power was law. Status was power and vice versa.

As Ilven came closer, one of the figures on the back of the truck finally stirred. To his chagrin it was one of them, having lived this long Ilven’s measure of danger was quite good, some desolate beasts could kill you with a single swipe, others didn’t even need to be close to you to kill you or a single strand of hair was enough.

In the convoy he sensed several of the latter kinds of danger.

A bald brutish man over 2ft tall with two cyborg arms smoking a cigar and holding a machine gun and cleaning a rifle, a slender man with two blades on his hip also very tall with abnormally long arms, a man with three eyes, a sensual woman dressed in skin tight clothes and a purple cloak along with a pistol and dagger on her hip and a scar faced youth who looked quite mature took his attention, his senses told him that these were the strongest of the bunch.

The one who responded clearly to his approach was the hulking brute with intricately crafted mechanical arms that put Galdor’s to shame; these mechanical constructs pulsed with faintly glowing runes emanating a powerful aura. The man shifted his rifle into position. His lip curled in disdain as he looked at Ilven.

“Look at this,” the brutish fellow growled, loud enough for the others to hear. “A bug seeking death, running straight at us. It’s been a while since a rat dared to venture on the trail, to think the warnings we’ve given aren’t enough despite all these years.”

The brute’s hand hovered over the trigger, his smirk widening as he took aim. Ilven could see his rifle was also of a high quality, it likely had the fabled ‘aim assist’ technology as well.

“Wait.”

The captain’s voice cut through the noise with a quiet authority. He didn’t raise his tone, but the command was clear enough to halt the brute.

“Let him come.”

Without looking up from his wood carving, the leader made a simple gesture with his knife. His movements were calm and steady. Though his face was young, barely in his late twenties, his eyes carried the weight of someone who had survived countless dangers.

He was Reshal the Grey Vulture.

“He’s just a scavenger,” the brute muttered. “Probably leading trouble straight to us.”

Why else would a lowly scavenger swallow leopard guts and dare run to the Wild Hunt Trail established by hunters for hundreds of years to connect various areas of the forest?

The banter continued behind him lowering the tension imperceptibly with their lack of care, “Fucking~ hell shits hard these days, we have to come all the way out to the bastard trios’ enclave to hunt all because that fucker One Eye joined forces with those warmongering Taldans.”

“Great Caesar’s dick, they’re just a rat bunch of mother fucking shit fleas is all fuck at least we’re good in the short term. We just need to find the mine and then we’ll be back on top. Fortunately, Black Rock’s making moves again, so all out war with Red Cyclops is avoidable for now although it’s just their periodic sweep no one is going to poke their heads out and risk being stomped with them roaming about. That’s why the leader insists we act now while we can.”

“That and the bird fucka’ was usurped I hear, it's a rare case of turmoil in the upper level of those fucking beasts they rarely do coups unlike us humans yet somehow they still are just as cunt like.”

“Yea yea that part is likely just another baseless rumor, that fucker is hundreds of years old, he's practically an old fox, its not easy to take the throne from under him.” The conversation continued in the background, but the brute was still annoyed, he was sitting for almost forever bored out of his mind and finally thought he could see some blood but was interrupted.

“It better be worth the blood,” The hulking brute grumbled under his breath, lowering the rifle. He ignored Ilven after that, shifting his focus back to his teammates joining them with a few friendly curses. The bunch now also directed their attention to him and behind him, seeing Ilven wave his pants in the air.

“Haha, he’s saying he has no ill will. Look at the little fellow’s pecker, it’s the same size as Justinis!”

“Why you motherf— wait, its not bad for a malnourished cub from the dumps but you cunts underestimate me. The little hussies from the Pink Pavilion bow before my junior!”

The team booed in unison as a quarrel began.

So, he is the leader. Ilven thought seeing the mature youth surveying him with his dark green pupils.

Captain Reshal remained seated, his eyes flicking briefly toward Ilven, assessing him without giving anything away. He continued carving, the wood figure slowly taking shape in his hands, but Ilven could feel the weight of his gaze over his body.

Reshal didn’t speak again, instead gesturing to the blue haired man wearing googles on his neck perched above the truck, he was another dangerous fellow, the one with three eyes. His gaze was distant, his eyes narrowing slightly as they flickered. The scout’s attention honed in on Ilven’s bag, the beast skin became transparent before his eyes and he looked inside.

His body language was relaxed at first, but then he suddenly sat upright like a jolt ran through him.

Those auras, it couldn’t possibly be…

His mind uncontrollably went back to a few months ago, one of the most dangerous moments in his life, he lost control of himself and started to shake in a semi-seizure.

The crew immediately stopped their banter and turned serious, their experience showing at this moment as they all grabbed their weapons shifting from playful to on guard in less than a second. Old Sixth was their scout, his danger sense was never wrong.

Such a reaction meant they were in hot shit or about to be.

“There’s something wrong with what he has,” the scout said softly, his voice shaky. “Those things… they’re dangerous. Like Eggwater Ridge…”

The crew’s serious visages became even more grim hearing this callback to terror. They lost half their members then, even now they hadn’t fully recovered.

The leader didn’t smile, but there was a glint of knowing in his eyes. “As I thought.”

A familiar aura indeed

Ilven carefully came to a halt several feet away from the vehicles unaware of what happened just now. He didn’t stagger or gasp for air, keeping his breath controlled despite the long run. His mind raced, but outwardly, he remained calm, letting his eyes subtly flick over the wilderness team. He knew they were sizing him up, but he was doing the same.

Their leader, Reshal, remained as he was—quiet, composed, still carving. His subordinates were more animated trying to help the scout recover. The rider of the eye catching purple and pink bike, a violet haired woman with pink eyes looked over at Ilven with a dangerous smile, she twirled a strand of hair between her fingers, it was unknown what she was thinking