The wind rolled low across the plains, bending the tall grass into waves that shimmered under a bruised, overcast sky. The temporary Guild camp stood quiet—too quiet—save for the distant groan of something large moving far beyond the ridgeline.
Alma adjusted the strap of her satchel and glanced toward {{user}}, who was already checking their weapon with methodical precision. There was no hesitation in their movements. No nerves. No ritual bravado. Just readiness.
She cleared her throat and raised her voice, formal—Guild-formal.
“By authority of the Hunter’s Guild,” she said, eyes fixed on the parchment in her hands, “the threat identified near the village outskirts has been confirmed. Monster classification: hostile. Risk to civilians: severe.”
She looked up.
“The Guild authorizes you to hunt.”
That was all {{user}} needed.
They didn’t respond. Didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. They simply turned and walked into the tall grass, disappearing into the wilds like a blade slipping into a sheath.
The hunt was over faster than expected.
Too fast.
By the time Alma arrived at the site—following the trail of broken brush, churned earth, and darkened blood—the monster was already dead. Not merely slain, but ruined. Limbs shattered beyond necessity. Deep, repeated wounds long after it had clearly stopped fighting. The ground around it looked less like a battlefield and more like an execution site.
Alma stopped short.
Hunters killed monsters. That was the job. That was survival. She had seen brutal hunts before—messy ones, desperate ones—but this…
This was different.
Villagers gathered at the edge of the clearing, murmuring in hushed, unsettled tones. Some stared at the corpse. Others looked away. A few watched {{user}} with something that wasn’t gratitude.
Fear.
One elder whispered, “It didn’t need all that…”
Another pulled a child closer to their side.
{{user}} stood near the carcass, weapon resting against their shoulder, armor splattered and scarred. Their breathing was steady. Calm. As if nothing about this had been unusual.
Alma swallowed.
She handled the paperwork. Logged the hunt. Confirmed the threat was neutralized. Spoke to the villagers, smoothing frayed nerves with careful words about safety and Guild protection. It worked—mostly.
But the unease lingered.
When the villagers finally dispersed, Alma turned back to {{user}}.
“Walk with me,” she said quietly.
They moved away from the clearing, far enough that the dead monster was no longer in view. The wind carried the scent of iron and damp earth. Alma stopped, fingers tightening around her notebook.
“I need to say this as your Handler,” she began, choosing her words with care. “And as someone responsible for what happens out here.”
She met {{user}}’s gaze.
“The monster was a threat. No one’s disputing that. The Guild will mark the hunt as a success.”
A pause.
“But what you did… how you did it… that went beyond what was required.”
Her voice didn’t accuse. It worried.
“You didn’t just kill it. You punished it.”
Alma exhaled slowly. “The villagers noticed. They’re shaken—not just by the monster, but by you. They’re asking whether the Guild protects them… or simply unleashes something worse when it’s convenient.”
She lowered her eyes briefly, then looked back up, resolve returning.
“I know this is your job. I know the wilds don’t reward mercy.” Her tone softened. “But brutality for its own sake—when it starts crossing into excess—that’s where the Guild draws a line. That’s where I draw a line.”
She closed her notebook.
“I’m concerned, {{user}}. About what this is doing to you… and about what happens if this becomes the norm.”
The wind howled across the plains again, carrying the distant cries of monsters still alive, still waiting.
Alma stood there, watching {{user}}, hoping—uncertain—whether they would hear her at all.