Caleb barely had time to register the whisper of breath against his ear before a boot prodded him sharply in the ribs.
"Wake up, rookie. Time to do something worthwhile."
Caleb groaned and sat up, blinking against the harsh red tint of morning—or what passed for morning in the Corrupted Realm. The sky bled a dull crimson, casting a foggy glow over Gorrin's rough features. The older man stood already dressed, spear slung over his shoulder, black scarf pulled over his lower face.
"We're hunting today," Gorrin said. "D-class Rift monsters. Pack of five. Maybe six if the alpha's still breathing."
Caleb rubbed his eyes and reached for his boots. "Why now?"
"Because I scouted them two days ago," Gorrin replied, tossing Caleb a slab of dried root-meat. "And if we don't move soon, they'll migrate deeper into the cursed forest. I'm not chasing them into those bone trees."
Caleb chewed without arguing. He knew by now not to complain. Gorrin didn't care. And besides, something inside him was… eager. Tense. He wanted to see what he could do now—with the Riftbone, with his shaping. With his will.
"They're called Cragfangs," Gorrin continued as they packed up. "Twice your size. Stone-plated shoulders. Their hides deflect basic attacks, but they've got a weakness—right under the jaw. Flesh is softer there."
Caleb tightened his cloak. "What rank did you say?"
"D-class," Gorrin repeated, eyes glinting. "You could probably handle one if you kept your head straight. But they hunt in groups. Fast, clever. And they like to fake retreats."
They set off through a winding gulley, past rust-colored brambles and the remains of an old Riftborn camp. Caleb saw old scorch marks, broken bones—signs of a fight that didn't end well.
Gorrin noticed his gaze. "That's what happens when you rush into fights without reading the terrain. Or the enemy."
"You studied this pack?"
"I did. Watched them from a cliff near the ridge. They patrol in threes but rest in a group. The alpha marks territory with its claws—three slashes, always angled. Once you see those, you're near their nest."
As they walked, Caleb summoned a thin blade of Riftenergy, just to keep the flow warm in his limbs. He shaped it differently now—shorter, curved. He'd learned subtle changes mattered.
"You'll flank left," Gorrin said. "Draw one off if you can. Don't get cocky—this is not your proving day. You're assisting. If I shout, you fall back. Understood?"
Caleb nodded. "Got it."
"And don't show off with flashy shaping. Your focus is control. You lose your grip mid-attack, you'll be a chew toy."
Caleb smirked. "I'm not that dumb."
Gorrin gave him a sharp look. "No. But you're still new. Confidence gets people killed faster than monsters do."
They crossed into a shadowed grove. The trees here looked almost metallic, leaves edged in obsidian. Caleb felt the shift before he saw the marks.
Three claw-slashes on a trunk. Deep, deliberate.
Gorrin crouched and motioned for silence.
"They're close," he whispered. "From here on, follow my steps. We see them, we circle, bait the edge-hunters. No wild charges. I've marked an escape route already."
Caleb's heart thumped faster. The weight of it all—the danger, the reality—settled on his shoulders. But alongside that came a spark of clarity.
He wasn't the same weakling who fell into the Rift screaming.
He was growing.