[POV: Mike]
Manson's training facilities are far beyond anything I imagined when I first heard people call them the best in the region.
Every section has its own purpose, laid out with brutal efficiency and enough funding to make the old world jealous. Simulation chambers occupy one side of the compound, their reinforced walls built to endure elemental blasts and impact damage. Beyond them sit multiple dojos, each occupied by tamers drilling forms with weapons that range from ordinary steel to grotesque things made from monster bone, shell, and sharpened claws. There are tamer-styled gyms built specifically around ability control, where people train not just muscle but synchronization with their contracts. Open testing grounds stretch farther than I can see at a glance, wide enough for large-scale attacks, mobility drills, and summoned beasts to move without tearing apart the rest of the facility.
And tucked along one side, quieter than the rest but no less serious, is the archery range.
That is where I spend most of my time now.
After days of testing every option I could get my hands on, after overthinking every weakness I have and every advantage I can squeeze from Hope, I settle on the bow.
It surprises even me.
In the old world, bows had long been shoved aside by firearms, reduced to sports equipment, historical relics, or novelty hobbies for people pretending technology had not already solved warfare. But monsters dragged everything backward and forward at the same time. Guns still dominate if you can afford the ammunition, maintenance, and quality modifications needed to pierce monster hide, but monster parts changed the equation completely.
A weapon no longer depends only on engineering.
It depends on what it is made from.
A bow crafted from tendon that never loses tension, limbs carved from a creature that naturally amplifies force, strings spun from silk harvested off something that once hunted birds from the clouds. Every primitive idea people once discarded returned sharper, deadlier, and strangely modern in ways the old world never anticipated.
Abilities only make that difference wider.
Mine certainly does.
I draw, anchor, release.
The arrow flies straight for less than a second before I trigger Float.
The shaft dips, slows, then bends upward from below, curving toward the target at an angle that should not exist.
It strikes beneath the center mark.
Not perfect, but close enough to satisfy me.
A frontal shield means little if the attack comes from underneath.
The more I practice, the more possibilities reveal themselves. I can soften momentum, alter descent, shift trajectories after release. My control still has limits, but every hour makes the movement feel less forced and more instinctive.
What if the bow itself carried an effect?
What if the arrowheads were carved from venom glands, heat crystals, impact horns, or conductive scales?
The possibilities keep expanding until they become difficult to ignore.
For a moment, I even wonder if inheriting Hope's Dynamic Vision would have been the better path. The thought lingers longer than it should. A more accurate and moving aerial perspective combined with archery would be terrifying.
Still, Float is what I have, and wasting time regretting inherited abilities changes nothing.
Ideally, I would have chosen a gun.
A rifle would solve many problems.
Distance, penetration, and intimidation.
But rifles worth trusting against monsters cost more than I can justify right now, and ammunition drains money with every shot. A modern compound bow costs less, lasts longer, and I can recover arrows if I do not destroy them.
More importantly, I still do not know whether Float can influence a bullet once fired.
An arrow gives me time.
Time matters.
I lower the bow and exhale.
Training has not only improved how I handle projectiles. I also learned several ways to apply Float directly to myself. Controlled weight reduction, slight directional drift, softer landings, and brief acceleration through adjusted body resistance. None of it makes me fast enough to impress anyone yet, but in the field, small advantages decide who returns alive.
That thought keeps me focused.
Hope circles above me, then glides down to perch nearby.
Our contract connection has also deepened.
At first, all I felt was emotional bleed and rough intent. Now the link carries more precision. She can project fragments of what she sees from the air directly into my mind.
The first time she did it, the sensation nearly made me lose balance.
Now I can endure short bursts.
The image appears again as she tests it, my own vision layered with hers. A high angle of the training grounds, tiny moving figures below, heat traces faint at the edges, details sharper than normal sight should allow.
Then the pressure begins.
A dull ache forms behind my eyes.
Enough.
I cut the connection and rub my temple.
Useful, but expensive.
If she pushes it too long, exhaustion follows quickly, and I cannot afford that in actual combat.
I leave the facility after buying several small vials of poison from one of the approved supply counters. Insurance, if nothing else. If an arrow alone cannot finish something, venom might. Of course, it's only for dire emergencies. I doubt if I have the ability to apply something like that under pressure.
By the time I reach the guild, my bag already feels heavier with preparations.
Hans is behind the desk as usual, flipping through paperwork with the same half-bored expression he wears whenever no one is bleeding in front of him.
I stop at the counter.
"Do you have anything with a higher danger rating than the usual assignments? Something that might actually put me in combat."
Hans looks up, then laughs outright.
"So now you feel dangerous."
"I did not say that."
"You did not need to. That tone says enough."
He leans back, amused.
"Confidence is good until something tears your arm off. Still, timing works out. There is a resource gathering request open in Verdant Strand Sanctuary. Mostly standard collection work, but it covers enough territory that you will probably run into something if you wander too far."
He reaches for a file and taps it against the desk.
"Verdant Strand stays between F and D rank threats most days. Creatures there are usually docile, easy to deal with if you prepare properly. Carry monster repellent and do not act like prey."
"That works. Thanks."
Hans slides the paperwork toward me.
"You say that now. Sign here first."
I take the pen and skim through the forms. It's routine legal language. No guild responsibility in case of injury, dismemberment, disappearance, psychological collapse, or death.
Hans stamps the document once I finish.
"As per guild procedure, the guild holds no responsibility if you die out there. Try not to make extra paperwork for me. Good luck."
"I will do my best to stay inconveniently alive."
"That would be appreciated."
I buy monster repellent before leaving the district.
The bottle smells foul enough that I trust it immediately.
By the time I reach Verdant Strand Sanctuary, the sky has shifted toward late afternoon.
The sanctuary is enormous.
That is the first thing that hits me.
Not simply large, but overwhelming in scale, as if someone cut a living section of untouched wilderness from another world and dropped it behind containment borders. Dense vegetation stretches outward in layered greens, broken by giant roots, shallow water channels, strange flowering growths, and towering trees thick enough to hide entire structures behind their trunks.
Even the air feels different here.
Humid, alive, heavy with soil and unfamiliar plant scents.
I stop near the marked entry route and unfold my map.
The director from the orphanage used to drag us outdoors whenever weather allowed it. At the time I hated half of those outings, especially the lectures about tracking landmarks, reading terrain, and building temporary shelter before sunset.
Now those memories feel less annoying and more useful.
I compare terrain markers, check orientation, then move carefully along a manageable route.
Hope remains above, occasionally sending impressions through the bond whenever she notices movement.
Nothing aggressive yet.
After enough walking, I find a suitable place near a cluster of thick roots beside a slight rise in the ground. It's defensible, dry, and hidden enough. Before I hunt anything, before I gather resources, before I test combat against sanctuary creatures, I need somewhere secure. A shelter always comes first.
I lower my pack, kneel, and start examining the area for workable branches, anchor points, and signs that something larger than me already claimed this spot.
This section of Verdant Strand sits around the middle layer according to the guild map.
Far enough from the outer edge that the noise of entry routes has faded, but not deep enough to feel truly dangerous yet.
If I go farther inward, the chance of running into a D-rank monster rises sharply. The guild notes marked several zones deeper ahead where territorial movement becomes less predictable, and I have no interest in testing my luck before I understand how this place breathes.
For now, middle ground is enough.
I raise one hand and feel the contract.
Hope appears in a burst of pale light, wings spreading wide before she lands on a root in front of me, feathers catching the late afternoon glow.
"Scout the area while I work."
She tilts her head, already looking pleased with herself.
"I'll find you something worth shooting soon. Maybe something dramatic."
"I'd rather you focus on finding the herbs we came for."
Her expression drops instantly.
"You always ruin the fun when you sound responsible."
Even through the complaint, she launches upward anyway, beating her wings hard until she disappears through the trees.
The contract hum remains steady as she moves farther away.
I turn back to the camp site.
The first step is clearing ground.
The grass here grows thick and uneven, hiding roots and damp patches beneath the surface. I use a short utility blade to cut a wide enough circle around the chosen spot, tossing aside loose vegetation while checking for insect nests or signs that something already uses this patch at night.
Nothing alarming.
Good.
Next comes wood.
Dead branches are easier to find than expected once I move farther between the trees. Verdant Strand sheds constantly. Twisted limbs, dry enough to snap but not rotten, pile naturally under the larger roots. I gather what I can carry in two trips and stack them near camp, separating thicker pieces for structure and thinner ones for fire.
I start digging.
The soil is softer than expected, dark and damp beneath the surface. I carve a shallow trench around the shelter area to help redirect any runoff if rain starts during the night. Not elegant, but practical.
The shelter itself takes longer.
I wedge thicker branches between exposed roots and a low leaning trunk, building a rough frame first. Cross supports come next, then layered branches, then broad leaves and cut vegetation pressed over the top to form a roof.
It looks stable from one angle.
From another, it looks like it might collapse if the wind changes its mind.
Still, it stands.
I clear the inside enough to lay supplies away from direct exposure and set a small fire pit a short distance in front of it, lining the edge with stones.
By the time I finish, sweat sticks my shirt to my back despite the cooling air.
A pulse runs through the contract. Images suddenly spill into my mind. Blurred at first, then sharper as Hope forces the connection. A cluster of narrow-leafed herbs near a moss-covered stone. Pale stems with violet edges. Another patch farther east beside a fallen trunk.
Exactly what the request described.
I steady myself against the wave of borrowed vision.
"Good job."
Her reply arrives instantly, smug even without spoken words.
"Naturally. Try sounding more impressed next time."
I almost laugh.
The connection fades.
I bring my bow before leaving camp, along with a full quiver. Even if the herbs should be simple gathering work, walking unarmed in a sanctuary feels irresponsible.
The first patch is easy to locate thanks to Hope's guidance. The second takes longer because the terrain folds strangely around shallow water channels and root clusters, but once I find the pattern, collection becomes efficient.
Cut near the stem.
Do not uproot.
Separate damaged leaves.
Store dry.
Within hours, my pouch grows heavy enough that the contract request is effectively complete. I crouch near another cluster, tying the pouch shut when I realize how much I already have.
It's enough to return, submit immediately, and call today successful.
But leaving now feels premature.
The sanctuary changes as evening approaches. The light softens, shadows lengthen, and every distant sound becomes more noticeable. Part of me wants to stay simply because I built the camp and because there is something satisfying about spending one full night out here.
Another part wants to hunt.
Monster parts mean money.
Even weaker creatures can sell for absurd amounts depending on rarity.
A single Silver Promise Dove, if properly harvested, could cover an ordinary family's rent for a year in a decent district. Sell the rest carefully and someone could afford a used car from old world stock.
The problem is catching one.
Silver Promise Doves are weak, friendly by sanctuary standards, and everywhere if you know where to look.
They are also absurdly fast.
An ordinary person could stand beside one while it sleeps and still fail to grab it before it vanishes.
I start preparing dinner instead, deciding that if something appears naturally, I will take the opportunity. The fire catches after a few stubborn attempts. Dry twigs first, then thinner branches, then controlled feeding until the flames hold steady.
I am reaching for my food bag when the contract suddenly sharpens.
A flutter overhead.
I look up just in time to see Hope descending awkwardly through the trees, wings uneven as she struggles to balance something heavy in her claws. A Silver Promise Dove hangs beneath her. Its silver feathers glint even in the fading light. She lands badly, nearly tipping sideways before correcting herself and dropping the bird near the fire.
I stare.
"What are you doing?"
Hope lifts her head proudly.
"I hunted dinner for you. Like old times."
The sentence lands strangely.
Back then, old times meant she brought me tiny creatures from around the orphanage grounds. Lizards, field birds, once an aggressively unfortunate squirrel.
Now she has dragged down a Silver Promise Dove. Her own kind, at least visually. The reminder hits me again that guardians do not see themselves as the same as their monster counterparts at all. To Hope, whatever she is now stands apart.
I still do not think I am used to that.
"Are you going to eat too?"
She recoils, offended.
"Why would you think that?"
Then she immediately puffs her feathers.
"Of course I'm going to eat the game I caught. I'm hungry."
I blink.
So much for that thought.
Maybe I expect too much dignity from her.