Chapter 153: the mystery

Across his back lay a bow, its polished curve. At his hip rested a quiver of arrows, their fletching like feathers dipped in, whispering of flight and purpose. Yet the true weight he bore was not of weapon or quiver, but of destiny hidden beneath his royal-blue jacket and the simple white tunic of a boy still caught between dreams and the burden of a forgotten crown.

He traced the knotted branches above with eager eyes, as if the forest had laid out a map just for him.

Then he saw it: a faint shimmer, soft as dawnlight. Perched high in the crook of an ancient oak rested an ancient robin’s nest, its threads glinting blue in the dappled sun. His pulse quickened, a thrill coursing through him—this was the treasure he had come for.

But beneath the stillness, the forest watched him back. From a stagnant pool at the tree’s roots, something stirred. Murky water rippled as unseen eyes blinked open, glinting faintly gold in the shadow.

The creature slid forward, soundless, then sank back into the mud whenever the boy glanced its way. Patient. Watching. Waiting.

“Hmm?” he mumbled to himself, trying to shake a strange feeling of being watched. Just a tiny creature, toying with me?

With nimble determination, he seized the trunk, his fingers finding purchase in the ridges of bark. His feet pressed against the rough surface, clinging as brittle twigs snapped away under his weight and fell like frail bones to the earth below. Higher and higher he climbed, the air growing cooler, the light breaking into shards of gold between the leaves.

Soon the forest stretched far beneath him, a vast and heaving sea of green. The trees swayed with the wind like rolling waves, and for a fleeting moment he felt as though he were sailing atop a living ocean, captain of his own daring voyage.

At last, his hand found the branch where the faint shimmer glowed. Carefully, he pulled himself up, his chest pressing against the wood, and he leaned forward. Slowly, his head rose above the rim of the nest like a dawning sun cresting the horizon.

Inside lay three tiny eggs, glowing faintly with a bluish sheen, as though each carried a secret spark of the sky within its fragile shell.

“Hehe,” a wide smile stretched across his face as he saw the three shiny blue eggs.

“Got it!” He whispered a sound of triumph, a feeling of pure happiness that was better than any royal decree.

He stood in the tree, sightseeing the paradise below, taking a deep breath of the fresh forest air.

“Grahh-grahh-grahh!”

“Hehe,” he laughed, spotting more black blue feathers nearby. That’s a piece of cake! Nothing to fear here.

The joyful squawks of Cassowary parents filled the air as Xerxez crept through the thick bushes, waiting for his opportunity.

I’m sure I can snatch their eggs. I am a child of Thallerion! He thought to himself, a swell of pride filling his chest.

With a final, joyful cry, the Cassowary seemed to celebrate something, but Xerxez was already moving.

He snatched several of the green eggs from their nests as if they were the most valuable treasure in his young life. The male Cassowary, caught off guard, turned aggressive. Oh no!

“Hrrrnkkk, hrrrnnkkk!!!”

This—this was what Xerxez proudly called hunting. Not demons, not abyssal beasts, not the nightmares that haunted old legends… no, he was a hunter of eggs. A title no less daring in his own mind.

The children of Thallerion often laughed at him for it. They mocked his strange passion, refusing to join him in his escapades.

“Bah, they don’t know the thrill. They don’t understand the rush, the taste of victory when you’ve outwitted the birds themselves.”

But today, victory almost had teeth.

He bolted through the thicket, a storm of furious wings on his heels. The male birds transform into a size of ostrich, it’s feather become blade flightless, shrieked and lunged, their sharp beaks snapping dangerously close—one nearly caught him square on

Xerxez stifled a laugh and peeked through the branches. “I was prepared for that beast transformation.”

His heart was hammering, but his grin stretched wide, wild and proud. In his hands gleamed the prize—eggs tinted green, smooth as river stones.

“Mother once told me she tasted a green egg,” he whispered to himself, holding one up to the fading light. “Said it was the most delicious thing she’d ever eaten. Maybe… this is what she meant.”

Then his gaze shifted. Beyond the underbrush, prowling with deliberate steps, the cassowaries themselves lurked—towering, watchful, their ember eyes glinting like guardians of some ancient treasure. Their beast form become normal into normal Cassowaries.

“I know, I know…” he thought, smirking. The males guard their nests for nearly fifty days, never leaving. “Everyone says stealing from them is dangerous, they transform into a beast.”

His fingers tightened around the eggs. The thrill sparked in his chest.

“But to snatch them, to outwit a beast twice my size… that’s the moment I feel alive. That’s when I’m no mere boy—I am a real hunter.”

He slipped the green eggs into his pouch basket with care, the shells knocking softly against one another like hidden jewels. His eyes darted back to the cassowaries, still pacing and agitated, their long talons carving shallow furrows into the mud.

Then—ripples.

Something stirred beneath the swamp’s murky veil. A shadow, massive and fish-like, glided just beneath the surface.

It moved with a strange, deliberate grace, then vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Xerxez leaned forward, squinting.

“What was that? Another beast? Or some spirit of the marsh?”

The thought thrilled him. Fear never struck—only fascination. His young heart burned with curiosity, the same spark that made him climb trees and steal eggs no other dared touch.

He lingered there, watching the water vigilantly, as though the surface itself might confess its secret.

Then, from not far away—where the cassowaries often bathed—came another sound. Not the guttural croak of swamp birds, nor the shrill cry of beasts. This sound rose like a note of glass, a clear and haunting pitch that shimmered in the air as though the wind itself had sung.

Xerxez’s ears twitched, his whole body still.

“SQUAWK! … SWAAAWK!”

His chest leapt, a grin breaking across his face. That sound… no mistake about it… His breath caught with boyish excitement. The Crane. The mysterious Crane of the swamps…

“Is it possible, that was a crane entity? Or a human, transforming into a crane?”

The tales spoke of it—an otherworldly bird with feathers like moonlight, a creature said to appear only to chosen eyes. Children whispered about it in bedtime stories; elders dismissed it as an entity of Crane, they said it was just a bird.

But here it was, its cry echoing through the trees, calling to him like destiny itself.

Xerxez pushed deeper toward the towering trees, his ears straining for the echo of that haunting cry. His heart thudded with a reckless wish.

“If I could snatch even one of their eggs, it would be the greatest hunt of my life. A treasure no other child could boast.”

He longed to find their nest—he had waited for this moment for so long. His grandfather had told him stories of the mysterious cranes, their silver feathers gleaming like fallen stars. Xerxez had promised that one day he would bring him an egg. But that promise was now a whisper to the dead; his grandfather had passed away a year ago.

“Don’t worry, Grandpa,” he murmured softly, his breath dissolving into the humid air. “Wherever you are, I’ll bring you the egg of that mysterious bird… and leave it at your tomb.”

The vow steeled him, even as the swamp grew eerily alive around him. Every step carried new risks. Cassowaries prowled the underbrush, their claws ready to strike should he trespass too near their nests again.

And in the mangroves… something stirred. A shape, half-seen, shifting in the shadowed water—its presence heavy, as though it were watching him.

Xerxez paused, his pulse quickening. Just a fish, he told himself, brushing off the unease with a grin. His thoughts returned stubbornly to the sound that had started it all: the mysterious cranes. The real challenge of this hunt had only just begun.

“Pssst!”

Xerxez froze. That wasn’t a birdcall, nor the cry of a crane. It was sharp, deliberate—like a whistle meant only for him.

Curiosity tugged him forward. He waded into the knee-deep swamp, the murky water rippling around his legs. Something glimmered at his feet, half-buried in silt, its surface winking faintly in the dim light.

“Whoa… what’s this? A shell?” He crouched, brushing away the muck.

At first glance, it seemed no more than a stone or a seashell. But then, the dull surface broke into brilliance—veins of jewel-like shards ran across it, embedded in a strange, ornate design. His breath caught.

“My mother would love this. It looks like… a treasure.”

He tugged harder, and the muck released it with a wet squelch. Not a shell. A dagger.

Its blade shimmered with a pale glow beneath the grime, the hilt crowned with gemstones. He turned in a slow circle, suddenly uneasy.

“Who would leave a thing like this here?”

The swamp answered with violence. From the mangroves, water surged, thrashing as though a massive fish—or something worse—was charging straight at him.

Then the dagger jerked in his grip.

Xerxez nearly dropped it. “What—?! It’s… shaking?” The weapon quivered like a living creature, humming with strange energy.

And then he heard it.

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