Ashmark slammed his fist against a pine trunk, bark splintering under his knuckles. Decades had passed since that cursed hunter escaped, and still the memory burned like fresh coals in his chest. His grey beard trembled as he snarled at the forest canopy. Gutripper rested against his shoulder, the spear's weight a constant reminder of unfinished business. The celestial whales sang their songs somewhere beyond the stars, and he knew they demanded blood. That hunter's blood. Ashmark would find him, no matter how many years it took, no matter how deep his hooves cracked from the endless search. He kicked at the dirt, sending stones scattering. His body had grown older, slower. The thought made rage flood through his veins. He needed to stay sharp. He needed to be ready. Ashmark reached for the bone blade at his belt, its purple gems catching the filtered sunlight through the trees. The sparring weapon felt light in his grip compared to Gutripper. He slashed at the air, testing his speed. Again. Faster. His muscles screamed but he pushed harder. The hunter would not defeat him twice. When he finally stopped, sweat dripped from his wild hair onto the forest floor. His breath came in heavy bursts, but satisfaction settled in his chest. Each strike brought him closer to that day of reckoning. The whales would witness his triumph. Their songs would turn to hymns of his victory when he finally drove Gutripper through that cursed hunter's heart. Through the trees ahead, he spotted something that made him freeze. A small structure sat in a clearing, built from bones and grey stones. Purple flames flickered along its edges, casting strange shadows across the ground. Ashmark's hooves carried him forward. This place felt different. Wrong. Sacred. The bones formed patterns that reminded him of whale ribs arching toward the sky. He gripped Gutripper tighter. The whales had led him here for a reason. This shed would be where it happened. Where he would finally face that hunter again. Where decades of waiting would end in blood and vengeance. Ashmark stepped into the clearing and smiled. The stage was set.

Ashmark circled the bone shed three times, studying every angle. The purple flames never flickered in the wind. His cracked hooves crunched against dry leaves with each step. He needed to understand this place before the hunter arrived. The whales had guided him here—he felt certain of that truth in his bones. But knowledge would give him the edge. He pressed his palm against the grey stones, feeling their cold surface. No warmth came from those strange flames. He peered through gaps in the bone structure, searching for traps or weapons inside. Nothing but shadows met his gaze. Ashmark gripped Gutripper and thrust it forward, testing his stance on this ground. His muscles remembered the movement. Again. Faster this time. The spear cut through air with a sharp whistle. This clearing would be his arena. Every rock, every root, every shadow—he would know them all. When that cursed hunter finally showed his face, Ashmark would be ready. The sun dropped behind the trees, turning the clearing grey. Ashmark thrust Gutripper forward again, then spun and struck low. His muscles burned but he refused to stop. Inside the bone shed, he spotted a lantern crafted from bones sitting in the corner. Purple flame danced within its frame, never dying, never dimming. He grabbed it and carried it outside. The eternal light pushed back the darkness across the clearing. Perfect. Now he could train through the night. Ashmark set the lantern on a flat stone and returned to his stance. The hunter had beaten him once because Ashmark was unprepared. That mistake would not happen again. He struck high, then low, then spun with Gutripper extended. Sweat soaked his grey beard. His hooves ached against the hard ground. But pain meant nothing. The whales sang their approval in his mind as he trained beneath their stars. When dawn came, he would still be here, still moving, still preparing for the moment when his enemy finally appeared. Hours blurred together under the purple glow. Ashmark's arms shook with each strike, but he refused to rest. He stumbled during a spin and caught himself against the shed wall. His breath came too hard, too fast. The realization hit him like a fist—he was older now, weaker than before. Rage flooded through his chest. He kicked at the shed and something fell from inside with a thud. A backpack made from animal skins landed at his hooves, purple gems glinting in the lantern light. Crude stitching held it together, old but strong. Ashmark picked it up and felt its weight. He could store backup weapons here, keep them close during training. If his grip failed or Gutripper slipped, he would need options. The hunter would not wait for him to catch his breath or find his weapon. Ashmark slung the pack over his shoulder and returned to his stance. This was the beginning. Learn the ground. Build his strength. Stay ready every moment. The real fight would come, and when it did, decades of shame would end in blood.

Ashmark stared at the bone lantern's purple flame and felt truth settle in his gut. The whales had not brought him to this clearing by accident. This bone shed was his temple now, his training ground until the hunter appeared. He stepped outside and spotted something he had missed in the darkness—a cobblestone path cutting through the trees. Purple gems dotted the stones, gleaming in the morning light. Moss crept over the surface, but the path was still clear enough to follow. Ashmark's hooves clicked against the stones as he walked forward. This walkway felt old, ancient even. Warriors had walked here before him. He could sense it. The path twisted and turned through the forest, leading somewhere that mattered. His grip tightened on Gutripper. The whales had shown him the shed first, then this path. They wanted him to follow it. The walkway ended at a clearing where three tall stones stood in a triangle. Ashmark circled them slowly, studying the carvings cut deep into the rock. Names. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Warriors who had won legendary fights. His chest burned with rage and hunger. These stones marked victory—the kind he deserved but had been denied. That cursed hunter should have died decades ago, and Ashmark's name should have been carved here under the whale songs. He slammed his fist against one stone, feeling the impact rattle through his arm. This place showed him what waited on the other side of his vengeance. Glory. Recognition. A name that would last beyond his bones. Ashmark turned back toward the gem-dotted path and the bone shed beyond. The whales had given him everything he needed—a sacred place to train, a reminder of what he would claim. When the hunter finally came, Ashmark would carve his own name into these stones with the tip of Gutripper, still wet with blood. He marched back to the bone shed with fresh fire in his chest. The whales sang louder now, their voices clear in his mind. They wanted the world to know he was here, ready and waiting. Ashmark grabbed the bone lantern and carried it out to the edge of the gem-dotted path. He placed it where the walkway began, where anyone traveling this forest would see its purple flame. The cracked skulls that formed its frame caught the light, casting shadows across the cobblestones. Let them come. Challengers, spectators, and especially that cursed hunter. This lamp would draw them all to him. Ashmark stepped back and stared at the beacon he had created. His hooves had crushed a thousand skulls before, and soon they would crush a thousand more. But only one death mattered. The whales had blessed this place for that single moment of revenge, and Ashmark would be here when it arrived.