Blade institute: the unseen prophecy

1

The institute's heavy double doors creaked ominously as I pushed my way inside, leaving a trail of bloodied footprints that marred the polished stone floor. The night had been unforgiving, and the evidence of a brutal demon hunt was clear in the tattered state of my clothes and the way my limbs trembled with exhaustion. My hands, still clutching the twin blades that had been my constant companions, ached from the relentless fight, their once gleaming edges now slick with dark, viscous blood.

As I stepped into the dimly lit hallway, the familiar scent of old leather and sharpened steel greeted me. Jack, the institute's blade handler, stood by the armory, leaning casually against the wall. He was a towering figure, broad-shouldered with the kind of muscles that spoke of a lifetime spent wielding weapons. His tousled brown hair gave him a roguish appearance, but it was his eyes—piercing and yellow like a wolf's—that always caught people off guard. They glowed faintly under the dim lights, an unsettling reminder of the warrior he once was before he took up the quieter life of maintaining our weapons.

He eyed me as I approached, his gaze lingering on the blood splattered across my face and clothes. One eyebrow arched in a mix of concern and amusement. "Rough night?"

I smirked, though it was more of a tired twitch of my lips than a full smile. "What gave it away?" I handed him the blades, their edges still wet with the blood of demons. "Can't you tell by the state of me?"

Jack chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the very air. "Nah, you look as fresh as a daisy. Just a little... bloodier than usual." He inspected the blades, whistling softly at the sight of the nicks and chips on the edges. "Guess that means you won, though."

"Winning's a matter of perspective," I muttered, my eyes heavy with fatigue. "If coming back alive counts, then yeah, I guess I did."

Jack gave me a knowing nod and a pat on the shoulder, his massive hand nearly knocking me off balance. "Take it easy, kid. The headmaster's gonna want a full report, and you don't want to face him half-dead."

"Thanks for the pep talk," I grumbled, but there was no real bite in my words. I turned and began the slow march down the hall, the weight of the night pressing down on me like a lead blanket.

The headmaster's office was at the end of a long corridor, flanked by portraits of past hunters whose eyes seemed to follow you as you walked. Their stern, judging gazes did little to lighten my mood. I pushed open the door, the wood heavy and solid beneath my touch.

Inside, the headmaster, a man who could have been carved from stone, sat behind his desk. His iron-gray hair was neatly combed, and his face was a roadmap of deep lines etched by years of worry and responsibility. He looked up from the ancient texts spread out before him, his cold blue eyes narrowing as they took in the state of me.

"Report," he demanded, his voice clipped and authoritative.

I snapped to attention, the exhaustion gnawing at my bones making it an effort. "The demons were holed up at the bar on Main Street. We took them down, but we lost one of our own. Couldn't get to her in time."

His lips thinned into a hard line, the only sign of his displeasure. He was a man who had seen too many good hunters lost to these battles, and every life weighed on him like a stone. But after a moment, he nodded, the steel returning to his gaze. "Clean yourself up. We have another hunt tomorrow night. And don't forget—there's a new recruit joining us."

"A new recruit?" I echoed, surprised. The headmaster wasn't known for bringing in fresh blood unless absolutely necessary. "Do we know anything about them?"

"Nothing that concerns you right now," he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Just be ready."

I nodded, accepting the news without further comment. New recruits were always a gamble. Some didn't last long, while others turned out to be the best hunters we had. Time would tell which this one would be.