After gaining the new skill, Hope saw how much he had been leaving on the table. One more skill and the stats jumped. Tempting. Still, ‘Learned’ skills gave nothing by themselves, so he could not just read a scroll and stack easy gains.

  And more than stats, the real thing mattered. Hands. Timing. Feel. In his book, that beat numbers. So he would keep sharpening. Day after day. Better than yesterday until, one day, eventually…

  He breathed out into the thin cold and looked up.

  Behind him the others started packing. He checked his pocket watch. Almost thirty minutes were gone already.

  “Alright, lads, let’s keep going.” Without waiting, he grabbed the heavy backpack, slung it over his shoulders, kept the courier aligned at his back, and the march to the dark side of the moon continued.

  Along the way they passed two more Highwings. Hope noted how both the quality and level of the creatures climbed as they approached their goal, which fit what he had guessed so far about what the Hollowfang Regent really was.

  Minutes merged into hours until the edge of the gas giant was no longer visible in the sky. The temperature ran a touch colder on this side, yet contrary to his expectations the air felt denser, not thinner. Air Magika was stronger here. That might be why the bigger beasts owned this face.

  Hope met Fin’s eyes. The kid signaled the way to go, though a trace of hesitation creased his face.

  Not long after, a prompt blinked up.

  ??Longstride (Level 8?9 + 1)

  Your body remembers the rhythm. Endurance becomes movement.

  ? 50% reduction in stamina drain while running.

  ? +600 Physis permanently.

  Oh… nice. He had almost forgotten about that one. Maybe he should run more often. He chuckled at the thought and kept going.

  Less than an hour later they came on a man-made shape, a wooden tower on a low rise. An outpost.

  More than the structure, it was the woman posted there that narrowed Hope’s eyes. She had them marked the moment they crested the ridge.

  He met her gaze, face composed. Inside, a flicker. No prompt hung over her.

  Tier 2.

  Behind him, Fin and William went stiff.

  Hope did not slow. He walked up at an easy pace.

  “Well, hello there, Senior,” he said.

  Her eyes narrowed as she looked him over. “Welcome, outsider. What can I do for you?”

  Oh… that was smooth.

  Hope’s brows almost rose, but he kept the mask. “Name’s Hector, Senior. Ol’ man dropped me on this moon. Don’t know why. Couple of well-mannered lads showed me the sights, and I was wondering if I could catch a glimpse of that creature… Hollowfang somethin’?”

  She studied him a beat, but he knew the game.

  “I see. Unfortunately this area is off limits, young man,” she said.

  …Fuck.

  “Well, I’m sure exceptions can be made,” Hope answered, voice steady, eyes narrowing a touch, the look plain and a shade cold.

  “Exceptions can be made, young one, but not by me. I do not have that authority. I am a warden, sworn to House Viento, and my charge is to keep youngsters from stepping into the Hollowfang’s ground.” She paused. “For their own safety.”

  Hope knew he had to up the game.

  “I’ll be fine, Senior,” he said, calm. “And I really insist on seeing it.”

  He let a pulse run out from his core. Spacetime rippled, quiet and wide.

  The woman’s gaze flickered as the world nudged sideways. She weighed him for a few heartbeats. “If your esteemed sire wished you inside, I would not bar you,” she said at last. “But you were not sent into the Hollowfang’s ground. As a warden, I will not compromise my duty or your safety, young sir.”

  Oh, come on.

  Should he bolt for it? Too risky. Maybe…

  He sighed as if tired and looked past her to the grounds beyond, a band of blunt ridges with pale caps where the wind never rested.

  Then he stepped forward.

  “You—”

  He met her eyes. “I will see the Hollowfang, Senior.”

  He kept walking.

  She hesitated. She looked back at Fin and William, both gone pale, then cursed under her breath and moved to intercept.

  “Sto—”

  It hit her.

  Space bowed around her, wide and deep. Her steps staggered and bit the ground. It was not enough to stop her, but the weight of it rang in her bones… from a Tier 1. Who was this brat?

  Press or yield?

  She knew her duty. She also knew what it meant to anger the power behind a boy like this. Entire families had vanished for less.

  She closed her eyes, exhaled, and let the tension bleed off her shoulders. When she opened them, his back was already shrinking into the bright haze.

  Maybe the Hollowfang would teach him a lesson and some doting elder would warp him out before it stuck. Hopefully.

  She turned, eyes going cold as they settled on the two boys. “Fin and William, I presume.”

  They froze.

  “This… never happened,” she said, voice calm and ice-cold. “Alright?”

  They glanced at each other and nodded hard, like their lives depended on it.

  “Go back to your range,” she added. “This ground is not yours.”

  They bowed. “Yes, Senior,” and hurried off the way they had come.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The warden remained a moment, then sprang lightly and took the top of the tower in a single bound. From the platform she had the hill and the boy both. Her gaze narrowed as Sharpwatch came on and the distance sharpened into detail.

  Curious, she thought, watching the ‘scion’ walk towards it. Very curious how the Hollowfang would answer him.

  Hope took in the ground and the air both. The dirt lay bare and pocked, only the odd crater breaking the flats. No beasts. No tracks. Behind him the void ran clear and open, no main star in sight. Either this place sat far from its sun or the moon was in its night.

  The Air Magika thickened with every step. He could feel it, like more water in the same bowl, weight gathering without wind.

  His eyes found the rise ahead. Not much of a hill, twenty meters at most. But, it was not the earth that caught him. It was what waited above it.

  The majestic creature hung on its own weather.

  Bigger than the storage room back on the ship, body long and lean with a keel like polished stone. Its hide wore a deep wine-violet, shot through with pale seams that breathed in and out as if the air itself were part of its blood.

  The head was narrow, a hooked beak with paired bone-pale fangs set along the upper ridge, hollow channels that sang a thin note even at rest. A crown of filament fins ran from brow to nape and trembled to each small shift in pressure. Eyes were cold and ringed, not simple—there was thinking behind them.

  The chest glowed faint, not light, more a clarity, like clear ice over dark water. Each breath drew the air tight, then let it go in slow folds that smoothed the space around it. Dust on the hill made ripples without moving. Frost spidered across shallow pans and melted again.

  Eight wings carried it. Four pairs, tiered from shoulder to tail, high-aspect and long, each leading edge edged in bone-white that hissed when it flexed. The lowest pair trimmed, the middle held, the topmost barely stirred, yet the whole mass hung steady as a thought.

  Hollowfang Regent [Lord]

  Level 100

  Its gaze fixed him. Temperature dropped a notch. The air thickened, pressure settling over his shoulders and into his ribs. No killing intent. Just weight. A simple fact laid on him by something that owned this sky.

  A Lord… the rank above Alphas, and the highest a Tier 1 creature can hold, found only in races graded E or higher.

  He knew the type. His gut had already warned him he might meet one today.

  30 to 40% stronger than an Alpha in raw stats. Worse by far in everything else. Skills. Mastery. Sense for a fight. A mind behind the eyes.

  He did not need the lecture now, though. Its presence said enough. It was strong. Very strong. Stronger than anything he had faced by a wide margin.

  That gaze. That quiet, regal confidence like the world sat beneath it.

  Hope’s casual air slipped. No grin. No loose stance.

  The grip on his spear tightened and he let his mind go cold. Pulse climbing. Heat in the chest. A fight that asked for everything. Either it lived, or he did.

  Air Gear wrapped him and he stepped toward it.

  On the outpost tower, the warden’s eyes went wide. The kid was walking straight at the Hollowfang, a skill lit on him and ready. Utter madness—spoiled, reckless, or suicidal.

  Step in, or watch?

  Even for her, the Hollowfang was no creature to trifle with.

  She drew a slow breath and fixed her gaze on the hill, unblinking.

  Hope kept on. The Regent watched him come, measuring, unmoving. Its stare pressed heavier and the Air Magika around him turned dense in a way that pushed back.

  He fed the push into his stride and closed on the hill, until the creature finally made a move.

  One wing dipped and beat once. A single gust hit like a wall.

  Hope set his feet, pulled weight into his boots, and walked through it.

  A flicker crossed the Regent’s eyes.

  Warning was over.

  Two wings tipped forward. Air drew along their fronts, thin and bright. They cut and released.

  Two vast wind blades roared out, carving dust into sheets and scoring the ground in long, clean cuts.

  The field around him tried to herd him into the blades. Pressure leaned on his shoulders. The air shoved at his hips.

  Hope focused, pressed on the lines and cut himself a narrow lane. Space tugged as he slipped across the face of the first blade and let the second pass under his heels.

  Behind him the blades held their edges far longer than the Alpha’s ever had. Their boom rolled the flats, rattled grit from crater lips, sent a dry echo skimming the pans from the aftermath.

  Hope’s eyes narrowed a notch.

  That much power off a casual flick…

  He drew a slow breath, kept his back straight, and climbed on.

  The Hollowfang did not hide its temper now. Four wings lifted high. Its chest eased forward, drawing the air tight.

  Pressure gathered along every leading edge.

  The air crackled.

  WSHHH!

  Wind struck first—hard, everywhere—dust ripping up in sheets. In that roar he caught the timing. Four blades. One aimed at him. Three more closing the sky around him, daring him to dodge.

  His balance slipped in the tempest, footing gone slick. Air Gear faltered. Air Magika bucked against him, no longer obeying like it had a heartbeat ago.

  He bared his teeth, a drop of sweat cutting down his brow before the wind tore it away.

  His boot cracked against stone, raw force behind it.

  He yanked the lines taut, driving them tight, and tore himself through—one step into the storm’s mouth, a heartbeat before the blades could cross and carve him apart.

  BOOM!

  Behind him the world split. Air and dirt ripped in clean gashes. Crater lips sheared and slumped.

  Hope did not hesitate.

  He pushed into the wind. Spear tight in both hands. Space jerked him forward in short, rough tugs.

  The storm thickened as he closed. Gusts hit like fists. The flats turned to a grey river that ran sideways.

  Grit stung his face, each fleck like glass. His coat snapped and tore at his shoulders, ears ringing from the blasts that shattered air itself.

  More blades came. One after another. The Regent beat six wings at once now.

  He felt them before they formed. That cold taste on his tongue. Still too fast.

  One skimmed him. The edge kissed his coat, ripping a line from hem to hip. Cloth fluttered loose. He felt the bite through the weave—hot, thin, sharp.

  Balance gone. Steps crooked. The ground slid under him like oiled glass.

  He sucked in a breath and warped again. Not clean—crooked. Space staggered him. He landed in grit spray and shoved forward on a low line.

  The Hollowfang broke rhythm. No tidy volleys now. Delays. Overlaps. Traps to snap his timing. Each wingbeat stacked new pressure on old, the air buckling and shoving at his ribs.

  Hope’s eyes narrowed.

  He lowered his shoulder, took the next gust on the meat of his arm. Pain burst white. He rode it for a step, then cut across the push.

  Dust spat white arcs from his boots. The hill rose in shallow ledges underfoot.

  He used each ledge for a heartbeat, then abandoned it before the wind tore it away.

  Another blade hissed past. A trench smoked with frost where it landed. He did not look back. Eyes locked forward. On the dark purple chest above. On the rhythm of those eight wings. On the tiny tells still leaking through the storm.

  Weight pressed down now. Even warping turned heavy. The air itself had mass. The lines stiffened, each shift costing more.

  He pushed anyway. Again. Again. And again.

  Breath hot in his throat. Muscles burning. He counted the rhythm of cuts, scraped patterns from the chaos, slipped through gaps while his coat snapped and dust stung his eyes.

  Closer. Step by step.

  Until—

  He warped, came out only meters away. Spear tip pulled tight, Point Implosion coiled and ready to blast. Then the flicker hit.

  The Regent’s beak snapped open.

  A needle-straight line punched the air. Too fast to see. Too fast to hear.

  Hope jerked sideways. Not enough.

  The impact burned past the ribs, missed the heart by inches.

  “—GAAAHHH!”

  He warped back on instinct. Heat ripped across his arm as blood burst in a thin, smoking hole through the pierced shoulder.

  Pain tore up his chest, savage, electric. His breath hitched. His stomach clenched. Copper flooded his tongue.

  He staggered, half-dropped, vision trembling at the edges. His grip on the spear shook.

  Still he forced his eyes up.

  The Hollowfang’s beak gaped wider, a filament of Air Magika trembling at the tip like heat over stone.

  Then—eight wings hammered once, a thunderclap in the chest, and the beast soared for the high sky.

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