Ryland Carter's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Ryland Carter sharpened his blade in the dim corner of a tavern, watching three men argue over cards at the next table. He needed hunters—loyal ones who wouldn't run when the undead got close. His family had become those monsters because of him, because of the cursed blade he'd forged with too much pride. Now he hunted the undead to make it right, but doing it alone wouldn't be enough. He needed a squad, people who would follow his orders without question. The next morning, he stood before an old warehouse he'd bought with months of hunting bounties. The building's roof sagged and its walls needed work, but it had good bones. He pulled out a wooden sign and hammer from his pack. The sign read "Ryland's Training Arena" in bold letters. He nailed it above the entrance, each strike echoing through the empty street. Inside, he marked spaces on the floor with chalk. One section for combat drills. Another for weapons practice. A third for studying undead behavior and weak points. He dragged in practice dummies and set up racks for blades and crossbows. By sunset, sweat soaked through his shirt. The arena wasn't perfect, but it would serve its purpose. Here he would test recruits, weed out the weak, and forge the strong into something better. Here he would build the squad that would help him make things right. He locked the door and walked back into Deadville's streets, already thinking about where to find his first hunter. The next day, Ryland returned with a cart full of materials. He needed something to test his recruits with, something that would show him who had real skill and who would freeze up. He spent hours building a training dummy that looked like the undead—tattered clothes hanging from its frame, arms positioned to grab. He stuffed it with sand and straw until it had weight. When he finished, he set it up in the combat area and stepped back. It wasn't his family staring back at him, but it was close enough to make his chest tight. This dummy would show him which hunters could face the real thing. His arena was ready. Now he just needed to find people brave enough or desperate enough to walk through his door. The problem was simple—nobody knew about his arena yet. He grabbed a piece of dark wood from his supplies and started carving. His hands moved steady as he burned letters into the surface. "Join Team Ryland everyday at 6 a.m." He drew a hunter fighting an undead creature beneath the words. The image was rough but clear. When he finished, he carried the sign through Deadville and mounted it where people gathered. He stepped back and studied his work. Tomorrow at dawn, he would find out if anyone would answer his call. His training arena stood ready. His dummy waited for its first strike. All he needed now was someone willing to fight beside him, someone who wouldn't quit when things got hard. He walked back toward the arena, already planning the first day's drills.