Duke Mihail Castiya.
Third in line for the throne, and one of the very few dominant Alphas on the continent, his reputation was renowned.
The castle where he spent most of the year boasted a scale befitting the vast territory he ruled. Enclosing an entire low hill that bordered a river, the outer walls were studded with seven massive stone towers, tall and imposing, each positioned to cover a different direction. Narrow, elongated arrow slits pierced the towers, allowing archers to easily strike approaching enemies.
The stone walls connecting the towers were so thick that no siege weapon could possibly breach them. Beyond those walls lay a deep, wide moat, ensuring that no enemy could enter the castle unscathed. Proven repeatedly through brutal wars in the past, anyone could confidently declare the Duke of Castiya’s castle impregnable.
The reason the castle was built like a military fortress was that it truly stood at a strategic military crossroads. However, more than two hundred years had passed since the end of the wars that once engulfed the continent. Now, the fortress’s military function had largely faded. Maintaining only the necessary defensive structures, the interior had been renovated and expanded into a grand private residence tailored to its owner’s tastes, complete with beautifully landscaped gardens—transformed into a lavish home befitting a high-ranking noble.
The master of that enormous and splendid castle, Mihail, was currently walking alone through the vast, dense forest west of the castle. His chest rose and fell slowly in rhythm with his measured breaths. A gentle breeze slipping between the thick trees carried Mihail’s scent away in the opposite direction of his prey.
A red stag, relentlessly pursued for nearly three days without rest, sniffed the air as if trying to gauge the hunter’s position.
But the wind pushed Mihail’s scent away, rendering the stag’s keen nose useless. As if issuing a threat, it swung its beautiful, dangerous antlers through the air several times. The beast knew its pursuer hadn’t given up yet.
Mihail, his body expertly concealed among trees and undergrowth, observed his prey. It was a powerful red stag bearing massive, elegant antlers like a crown. Autumn had arrived—the stag’s mating season.
Young, healthy, and at the peak of its strength, the stag’s antlers were at their sharpest, strongest, and most beautiful of the year. Those crown-like antlers would undoubtedly crush rivals in mating battles, and its glossy red coat, flaunting its vitality, would captivate any doe.
After cautiously scanning for its pursuer, the stag seemed to relax for a moment. It snorted softly and lowered its head to drink from a small trickling stream. It was the first time it had drunk water during the three relentless days of pursuit.
Watching the stag drink, Mihail licked his dry lips. Just as the prey hadn’t had a single sip of water in three days, neither had the hunter. His empty stomach twisted painfully with hunger, and his parched mouth and throat screamed for even a single swallow of water.
Yet Mihail ignored his body’s desperate pleas and focused solely on the prey. This overwhelming hunger and thirst were to be satisfied not with berries, mushrooms, small game, or streams—but with that prey alone.
When the stag finished its brief rest and drink, gathering enough strength for another desperate escape, Mihail shed his stillness and lightly pressed his leather boot against the ground. Beneath the thick grass, a small patch of soil compressed with the slightest sound—more than enough.
The stag’s ears snapped upright. Without a moment’s hesitation, it bolted in the opposite direction of where Mihail was hiding. Mihail’s own body, pushed beyond its limits over days of pursuit, launched after the prey. Despite the agonizing hunger, thirst, and screams of his abused muscles, Mihail’s eyes gleamed with eager anticipation as he gave chase.
Mihail was a hunter of the highest caliber. With little besides war to unleash his instincts upon, he’d immersed himself in hunting since childhood.
There were many ways to hunt, but the method Mihail favored was brutally simple: select a single prey and pursue it relentlessly until it collapsed from exhaustion. It was wildly inefficient, consuming enormous amounts of the hunter’s time and energy—but that was precisely why Mihail preferred it.
When prey encounters a hunter, it runs with everything it has. Rather than closing the distance from the start, Mihail maintained a steady gap, persistently tailing the stag and narrowing that distance little by little. Some cunning prey would scatter their tracks chaotically to shake pursuit, but an experienced hunter wasn’t so easily fooled.
The chase could last hours—or stretch on for days and nights. Deprived of even a moment’s rest, the prey would eventually collapse, utterly spent. Eyes that had surrendered everything, waiting only for death. Shallow, exhausted breaths escaping a fragile chest. Only then did Mihail reveal himself.
By that point, Mihail too had burned through all his surplus energy, his throat scorched with thirst and his insides twisted with hunger. Hours—or days—spent chasing and being chased, as if only hunter and prey existed in the world, carved each other’s presence deep into their senses.
After a brief respite, the pursuit resumed and surged toward its end. A normal deer would’ve collapsed long ago. A normal human would have as well. But the prey was the strongest, youngest beast in the vast forest—and Mihail was no ordinary human.
Unlike the earlier days when he’d matched the stag’s pace like a herder, Mihail now steadily increased his speed. The stag, drawing out its last reserves of strength, leapt over fallen trees and tore through thick underbrush in desperation. None of it posed any obstacle to Mihail.
The distance between them shrank. The frantic pounding of hooves grew closer. The stag’s ragged breaths fanned the hunter’s excitement as the prey came within reach.
Another day passed like that. At last, the slowing hoofbeats stopped entirely. In the dense forest, where even birdsong had fallen silent, the only sound was the stag’s harsh, wheezing breaths, as though it might topple over at any second. Its body swayed, barely supported by its four legs. Its drooping neck made even the weight of its proudly grown antlers seem unbearable.
Mihail slowly stepped out from behind a tree. Upon finally seeing the hunter who had pursued it so relentlessly, the stag seemed to lose what little strength it had left. It bent its legs, sank to the ground, and then toppled onto its side as Mihail approached step by step.
Thud!
The massive body of the red stag—easily over 200 kilograms—hit the ground with a heavy crash.
As he had for the past five days, Mihail didn’t rush. He closed the distance slowly, letting the prey fully feel his presence. He savored the shattered hooves worn down by desperate flight, the exhausted chest rising and falling weakly. Though it had collapsed from pursuit, its antlers, glossy red coat, and elegant, powerful body were all magnificent.
Mihail bent one knee and knelt beside the stag. The animal, gasping for breath, gazed calmly at him as if it had already accepted its fate. Mihail drew the only weapon he carried—a dagger—and mercifully slit its throat in a single motion.
Vivid, living red blood burst forth from the wound like wine. Mihail quenched his burning thirst with the hot blood and tore out the liver to sate his brutal hunger. No expensive wine or delicacy could compare to such a meal.
Mihail returned with the massive stag slung over his shoulder ten full days after leaving for the hunt. A soldier atop the watchtower at the outer gate spotted his return first and sounded the alert. Several knights training in the outer castle—capable of housing thousands of soldiers with ease—immediately mounted their horses and rode out to meet him.
Mihail’s appearance was nothing short of appalling. His once-white shirt had lost all trace of its original color, stained with green grass, dirt, and blood, torn in several places until it resembled rags. His trousers were in no better condition.
He might have looked somewhat more presentable had he worn even light leather armor, but when Mihail went on hunts like this, he always wore nothing more than a simple shirt and pants, quality leather boots, and a single dagger.
It was an outfit wholly insufficient for hunting a massive, violent stag during mating season—one blow from antlers or hooves would be enough to kill. But the hunter was Duke Mihail Castiya. With resolve, an Alpha—a species entirely different from ordinary humans—could beat even a several-hundred-kilogram bear to death with bare hands, let alone a red stag.
Mihail dropped the stag from his shoulder. The 200-kilogram body hit the ground with a dull thud. Though it had been prey he’d chased relentlessly for five days, after satisfying himself with fresh blood and hot liver, it was now worth little more to him than a slab of meat. As always, the stag would become dinner for the soldiers training in the outer castle.
Passing through the outer castle surrounded by heavy stone walls and entering the inner grounds, the scene changed entirely. Instead of fortress-like battlements, there were ornate gardens and a beautiful residence. The gardeners and servants, accustomed to the sight, bowed calmly at the blood- and dirt-covered master in rags.
As Mihail entered the mansion, a servant who’d been waiting after receiving word presented a basin. The moment Mihail submerged his hands, the clear water clouded with crimson blood and floating bits of fur. After roughly washing and drying his hands with a cloth, they were mostly clean—but the once-white fabric was now soaked in dark red stains.
