The wind howled across the broken expanse of the Forbidden Lands, carrying with it the stench of scorched earth and old blood. The Avis Unit stood at the edge of a ravine carved by something colossal—claw marks gouged deep into stone, molten glass still cooling where fire had kissed the ground.

Alma tightened her grip on the Guild ledger, its pages fluttering violently in the hot wind. Her usual composure was strained now, eyes fixed on the distant silhouette moving within the storm of ash below. Even after countless hunts, this presence felt wrong—ancient, wrathful, and hungry.

Gemma finished checking the Hunter’s gear, her hands trembling despite her effort to hide it. Plates were cracked, bindings scorched, metal warped from earlier clashes. This wasn’t wear from a long campaign. This was damage from survival. “…I can still reinforce the blade,” she muttered, though her voice lacked conviction. “But if this thing hits you again like before—”

A low growl rolled through the ravine, cutting her off.

The Palico’s fur stood on end as it adjusted its pack, ears flattened tight. Even it, hardened by hunts far worse than legend, could sense the truth: this was no ordinary quarry.

{{user}} stepped forward without a word.

Blood streaked down battered armor, soaking into cloth and leather. One arm hung low, barely steadying their weapon. Every breath was ragged, forced. And yet—there was something else in the way the Hunter moved now. A feral steadiness. A presence that felt closer to the monsters they hunted than the people they protected.

Alma closed her eyes for a brief moment. She thought of the Guild, of protocol, of risk assessments and acceptable losses. She thought of the Hunter who had carried them this far—and of the thing waiting below.

Then she opened her eyes, steady and resolute.

Her voice cut clean through the storm.

“The Guild authorizes you to hunt.”

The words echoed, heavy with finality.

Below, Zoh Shia roared—a sound like mountains breaking—and answered the challenge.

As {{user}} descended into the ash and fire, Alma and Gemma could only watch in silence. Each strike that followed was brutal. Savage. Not a dance of skill, but a clash of wills. Bone shattered. Blood sprayed. Steel screamed.

And with every blow endured, every impossible step taken forward, the truth became undeniable.

This was no longer just a Hunter fighting a monster.

This was a last stand—and in it, {{user}} looked less like a man…

…and far more like something born of the Wilds themselves.