Reborn From the Cosmos

Being a hunter didn't always translate into being a skilled fighter. More than brute strength went into bringing down monsters. The best teams filled multiple roles, many of them noncombatant. Foremost among these were trackers—those adept at moving unseen through the land and wielding magic that shaped the environment in line with their affinities. They not only tracked elusive prey but also charted safe routes for their larger, noisier teams and prepared battlefields in advance. Unfavorable terrain could turn a simple hunt into a death trap.

Other vital positions included supply coordinators, porters who hauled gear, and harvesters who ensured hunters gained the most from their kills. Even in combat, some members served entirely supportive roles. Healers were the most coveted, but communication specialists and those who could slow swarms of monsters were also highly sought after.

Lucas' air affinity was not valued among combatants. Fire wielders excelled at dealing damage, while earth came close behind with its versatile and reliable projectiles. Wind and water required niche applications, their spells harder to master and harder still to find mentors for—few bothered to fight against fate.

He knew it would have been wiser to choose a noncombatant path, but Lucas hadn't signed up to fight monsters just to be mundane. He wanted strength—the kind of strength wielded by legends who could bisect a manabeast with a single wave of their hand.

Yet as he stood beside Jacoby, observing the battle, Lucas began to realize the shortsightedness of his ambition—or rather, how narrow his definition of strength had been. Jacoby wasn't darting across the camp, raining destruction on rebels. At a glance, it looked as though he was doing nothing at all. And yet his presence was devastating.

From above, Lucas could see how the traditionalists rallied swiftly, mounting an organized defense against the chaotic rebels. The hunters, long restless for action, hurled themselves into the fray. The rebels had numbers, but the traditionalists had better equipment; some attackers weren't even armed, charging with nothing but rage. Desperation met steel and armor—and was swiftly cut down.

Jacoby's coordination made them deadlier still. Lucas couldn't hear the orders, but he saw their effects. Spells blasted through buildings to strike unseen targets. Rebels were herded into clusters and crushed on all sides. The handful of competent fighters among them were quickly singled out and eliminated by specialists in ambushes and single-target spells. What should have been a fierce battle instead resembled veterans disciplining unruly children.

But the damage was still extensive. The rebels' bombs, though less destructive than the first explosion, continued to devastate. Hunters hurled bottles that burst into blazing blue fire, powerful enough to topple stone buildings. Lucas had no idea which alchemist had supplied such weapons or how the rebels had acquired so many, but their effect was undeniable. The camp lay in ruins, the ground scorched and cratered. Though the traditionalists were winning, their numbers dwindled, and every lost life cut deep.

Despite the devastation, Lucas made no move to assist or vent his mounting frustration. He had a duty. One he was forced to fulfill when a spear of ice shot toward Jacoby. With a sharp gust of wind, Lucas knocked the projectile aside and scanned for its source. His eyes narrowed as he spotted Sin—the rebel leader—standing calmly amid the chaos, water swirling at his fingertips. He couldn't make out the man's face but his presence was undeniable, his bearing as telling as a flaming sign proclaiming his identity.

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"Sir."

"I see him," Jacoby grunted. If Jacoby had noticed, then so had the battlefield. The nearest casters immediately turned, unleashing spells in Sin's direction, trusting the old hunter's word though the target was beyond their sightline.

Lucas' brow furrowed as Sin moved. He slipped past a boulder that would have crushed him, evaded a fire bolt that scorched the ground, conjured an ice wall to block a volley of stone-shattering needles, then ducked two more flaming projectiles. It was preternatural; if Lucas didn't know it was impossible, he would swear the man could sense the dangers. The man slithered across the battlefield like a serpent, weaving between death with uncanny grace—while the orb of water at his hands grew dangerously large.

"Slippery bastard, huh?" Jacoby muttered.

"He won't get away forever," Lucas replied, unimpressed. Martial hunters were already closing in, eager to take Sin's head. No matter how agile he was, he couldn't dodge ten blades. Still, Lucas couldn't shake his unease.

"Sir, you might want to keep alert," he said grudgingly. It was his duty to shield Jacoby while the old hunter directed their forces, but something about Sin's composure gnawed at him. Wind was already ill-suited for defense, and Lucas was no fortress.

"Bah! No need to fret over a wild dog," Jacoby growled. "Now that he's shown himself, he's finished."

Lucas believed that, but he couldn't help worrying over the growing spell. By the size of the water ball, the spell had to use at least fifty units of mana. It'd be a waste if all that power was put into another projectile, which made Lucas wonder what the rebel was planning. His body tensed, ready to react, though he hoped the approaching hunters would end the confrontation before the spell was finished.

It seemed they might. A martial hunter's sword glinted as it arced toward Sin.

The orb detonated.

Lucas braced, ready to counter—yet nothing happened. Instead, a thick cloud of fog billowed outward, swallowing the rebel leader and the hunters around him.

"A distraction?" Lucas muttered.

"Perhaps. Sweep it aside," Jacoby ordered.

Lucas conjured a gale and launched it at the cloud, but the vapor only swirled briefly before reforming, stubborn and unnatural.

Jacoby scoffed. "Then he's maintaining it. Bombard the area."

Hunters obeyed, raining destruction. The ground cracked, fire scorched, ice shattered—and yet the fog remained, restoring itself instantly after each assault.

"That's not right," Lucas warned.

"No, it isn't. We'll retreat and send—"

Whatever Jacoby meant to say was cut short when agony flared in Lucas' side. He staggered, looking down at the arrow lodged in his flesh just as nausea overwhelmed him. The world spun violently. His balance failed, his spell unraveled, and he plummeted from the air.

An unseen force caught him, lowering him safely. Through the haze, he glimpsed Jacoby's face, the old man's lips twisted in a grimace and moving rapidly as he spoke words Lucas couldn't comprehend. His heartbeat thundered as a shadow rose behind his mentor, blade poised at Jacoby's throat.

Lucas tried to rise, but his stomach rebelled. Pain throbbed in his side, his strength bled away, and darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. He was helpless.

Just before it claimed him, he thought he saw another shadow intervene—knocking the blade away from Jacoby's neck. The sight granted him a fleeting, fragile relief as the darkness pulled him under.