Cameraman Never Dies

Judge put away the diary of Victor, the slightly unhinged researcher. In his Studio, the contents were now secure. He couldn't shake the feeling that if anyone else got their hands on it, he'd be missing out on... well, madness, probably. But still, it had value. Not to mention, it was almost 3:00 in the morning.

With a heavy sigh, Judge returned to the Studio, switched places with his real body, and was back in his baby crib. "Ahhh, finally... That was one long day." He flopped down, pulling the tiny blanket over himself like it was a king's robe. "I deserve a solid sleep after two entire days (nights) of... being in the forest." He thought of the diary mentioning about dragon's destroying the continent, he was curious because his family represented the dragons, but there was no answer.

Within seconds, he fell into the deepest sleep he'd had in—well, two damn days, give or take.

———

Meanwhile, Hawthorne was not having a good day, he had traveled all the way to Tross from the capital. His mission would need a thorough searching, but the forest was big. He gave himself a week to search —nothing— before cutting his losses and leaving.

He exited the gates of Tross and headed straight into the ominous forest of Devfronds. His black long coat billowed behind him, giving him that dramatic look he'd perfected over the years.

And while his waistcoat glistened in the moonlight, what really caught the eye was the sleek armor underneath. Shining like new but worn like an old friend, it had seen its fair share of battles. A long sword without much width was hanging from his waist. An underarm holster held two handguns, perfectly polished. There was a handbag on the waist at the back, it must likely hold the bullets for the guns.

All of his attires were telling, "I'm mysterious, rich, and powerful!". Not that Hawthorne cared about showing off. This wasn't a stroll; this was a mission. So he had to take measures to ensure his safety. Even at the cost of being too mysterious.

He ventured deeper into the forest, the eerie stillness interrupted by the occasional rustle. It wasn't long before his peace was shattered by a low growl. Emerging from the shadows, a lower monster—something vaguely resembling a big, angry badger—blocked his path. It had the nerve to jump out like it was an encounter from Pokemon.

Without hesitation, Hawthorne's hand flew to the hilt of his sword. A swift, clean motion, and the beast was down before it could even register the sharp gust of wind that sliced through the air, it was a merciful and painless death. "Honestly, you'd think they'd know by now," he muttered, flicking his sword to rid it of any stray blood. Staining the wood and bushes red.

He sheathed his sword and continued his march into the woods, He had a long way to go, he wondered how could a researcher get so deep into the woods. Even though going deep into the woods wasn't mentioned in the diary, he had the skill to determine someone's approximate location when he had something or someone close to them. The wind spirits were his friends.

Hours and much more monsters later, deeper into the heart of Devfronds, the threats became more serious. A menacing presence loomed ahead—more than just another simple monster. Hawthorne's steps slowed, and his senses heightened.

It was time for real combat. He poised to strike, his sword at the ready.

From the shadows emerged a pack of ferocious beasts, their sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. These weren't your run-of-the-mill creatures. These were high-level monsters, the kind that you didn't just stroll past on a midnight walk. They were classified as High Predators, one step closer to cataclysm-level monsters.

The rankings for monsters were simple but effective:

Menaces: The lowest threat level, often pests or nuisances. They might cause trouble, but they're not typically lethal unless in large numbers or under unusual circumstances.

Predators: Dangerous creatures that actively hunt and pose a significant threat. Skilled fighters, need caution when facing them, but they're manageable with proper preparation and skill.

Cataclysms: Extremely dangerous monsters that can wipe out small towns or villages. They often require groups of highly skilled individuals or battalions to bring down, posing a serious threat to entire regions.

Catastrophes:The highest rank, representing world-altering threats. These monsters are capable of destroying entire cities or larger, and they're almost impossible to defeat without massive coordinated efforts, typically requiring powerful and legendary fighters or divine intervention, which rarely happens.

And all of these, except catastrophes and cataclysms, were again sorted into three—low, mid, and high.

Hawthorne grinned, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. Embedded in its pommel was a crystal—a catalyst—a tool that stored ether from the environment, allowing him to fight longer without draining his own ether reserves. Catalysts were like a lifeblood to a mage when they were fighting. Without catalysts, mages would quickly burn through their own ether reserves.

The air around him began to stir. With a flick of his wrist, a gust of wind sliced through the first beast, its body crumpling to the ground in an instant. The rest of the pack hesitated, making them be on their guard, now very careful of him. They growled and roared at him.

Hawthorne advanced toward the others, his movements fast and calculated, like a true hunter. The wind swirled around him, sharp and deadly, but there was something else too. A faint crackle.

Lightning flickered in the air, bolting between gusts of wind. As Hawthorne stepped forward, the air in front of him grew thick—so thick, in fact, that his feet landed on nothing but condensed air. With each step, he walked higher, as if on invisible stairs. He moved like a predator of his own, walking on nothing as the monsters beneath him flailed in confusion. He was unmistakably a veteran in fighting. 

Another beast lunged at him, but before it could reach him, a bolt of electricity shot from his blade, zapping the creature in midair. It collapsed with a thud, its fur singed and smoking.

The remaining beasts hesitated, unsure of whether to attack or flee. Their pride and thirst for revenge for their fallen comrades looming around the air.

"Come on," Hawthorne taunted, his voice echoing in the wind. "You wanted this, right?"

With a final, sweeping motion, he conjured a gale strong enough to send the last of the beasts flying back into the darkness from which they had come. Sharp air twisting and shredding them, sending blood everywhere as they were blasted back.

Breathing heavily, Hawthorne lowered his sword. The fights till now had drained his catalyst, with almost about a quarter left, and he did not want to fight with the small amount of ether that was left in the catalyst, he knew about the danger the forest possessed, even with the all the ether he possessed, there was still a chance that he could die.

The catalyst in his sword always absorbed some of the surrounding ether, but not enough to keep up with his relentless attacks. Most catalysts were self-sustainable that way, but the cheap ones were usually one-time use.

He leaned against a tree, taking a moment to catch his breath. "Alright, that was… fun," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. His body was exhausted, and even with the help of the catalyst, he knew he'd pushed himself too far, since he had been fighting all day.

Suddenly, a loud screech pierced through the night, so sharp it made the very trees tremble. Hawthorne's head snapped up toward the sky. He knew that sound.

A giant, monstrous bird—one that could only be described as a Sky Talon, he was sure that was its name, a Catastrophe-level creature—was soaring above him. Its enormous wings cast shadows over the trees, and its screech sent shivers down his spine. The blue moonlight making the creature even more magnificent.

Hawthorne's eyes narrowed as he watched it fly away. That screech wasn't one of victory; it was a scream of retreat. And if a beast of that caliber was fleeing, it could only mean one thing: something—or someone, had scared it off. Who or what kind of monster was capable of doing such a feat?

His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, but he hesitated. His ether was low, and even with a catalyst, he couldn't take on whatever had spooked the Sky Talon in his current state.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath, eyes still locked on the retreating figure of the bird. "I hate taking breaks when things get interesting."

With a sigh, he climbed up a huge tree. Hiding his presence, he leaned back against the tree, forcing himself to relax. He'd investigate the cause of the bird's retreat—but first, he needed to recover. Whatever scared off a Catastrophe-level beast was not something to face when running on empty ether reserve.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, allowing his body to rest. "Alright, alright. Rest now, investigate later. Just... don't get eaten in your sleep, Hawthorne."

He had reached the proximity of his location, All he needed now was to search the area thoroughly. He glanced at a waterfall a little further away, that was where the bird flew up from, "I should look above the waterfall tomorrow, let's look below the next day." He slowly slipped into sleep, still his guard up.