Its a Start

Steven’s eyes locked onto the Wyrmling Hunt—3 silver gleaming like a beacon on the cluttered bounty board. A juvenile wyrm in the cliff caves, a D-rank prize that sang to his bronze card and blazing fists. No hesitation—he snatched the parchment, scrawled his name, and pocketed it, his 36 copper jangling as he strode out of the guild hall. The promise of 300 copper—enough to rent the Cobbler’s Spare for days or bank toward the Widow’s Cottage—lit a fire in his gut. His Rabbit Fury Fur gloves flexed, Saiyan Fury simmering beneath his skin, ready to erupt. He headed west, the Mistveil’s fog curling around him as he aimed for the cliffs.

The journey took an hour, the city fading into rugged coast—crashing waves below, jagged cliffs rising sharp against the gray sky. The caves dotted the rock face, dark maws exhaling a damp, briny chill. The flyer pinned the wyrmling to a northern hollow, a tunnel marked by claw-scored stone. Steven paused at the entrance, the air thick with salt and a faint, musky stench—reptilian, primal. His bronze card felt heavier now, D-rank mettle about to be tested. He cracked his knuckles, golden flickers dancing at his fingertips, and stepped inside.

The cave swallowed light, walls slick with moisture, the floor crunching with shale and bone shards. His boots echoed as he ventured deeper, ears straining—then a low hiss slithered from the shadows. Ahead, the tunnel widened into a cavern, and there it crouched: the wyrmling. Ten feet long, sinuous and scaled, its hide a mottled green-black, spines jutting along its back. Yellow eyes glowed, slit pupils narrowing, and a forked tongue flicked as it coiled, claws scraping stone. Smaller than a full wyrm, sure, but those fangs glinted venom-sharp, and its tail lashed like a whip.

Steven grinned, adrenaline surging. “Alright, you scaly bastard—let’s dance.” He ignited Fists of Holy Fury, golden flames wreathing his gloves, and charged.