The Willson Guild's common hall was tense. The jubilant celebration of the previous morning had evaporated, replaced by the heavy, anxious silence that always preceded a high-risk hunt.

My father, Darius, had a large map of the Grey Hills region unrolled on the main table, the "Grizzly Pass" marked with a stark, red circle.

Standing around the table were the four hunters I had been given to command. My team.

Total party: six. Myself, as leader. Marcus, as second-in-command. And the four veterans my father trusted most.

Darius pointed to the map, his gaze heavy as he looked at me. "These are the best we have, Michael. Listen to them. They know these lands."

I met the eyes of the four hunters. My stomach tightened. This wasn't the Academy. These weren't students vying for rank.

These were seasoned, scarred hunters who looked at me not as a champion, but as a fifteen-year-old kid in a clean uniform who was about to get them all killed.

Garth, a man built like a boulder with a beard to match, was the guild's main shield-bearer. His face was a mask of barely concealed skepticism. He hadn't said a word, but his posture screamed dissent.

Sila, a woman in her late twenties, was the archer. Her movements were precise, her eyes sharp and analytical. She just watched me, her expression neutral, which was somehow more unnerving than Garth's open disapproval.

The last two were twins, Riker and Kael (not to be confused with the Academy's Kaelen), both C-Rank rogues specializing in daggers and traps.

They just looked nervous, their eyes flicking between me, my father, and the imposing figure of Marcus.

"You've picked your team, Michael," Darius said, his voice heavy. "Now, what's your plan?"

I ignored the skepticism, my gaze fixed on the map.

My mind was already in the 'Sunken Vault,' in the 'VR Labyrinth.' This was just another dungeon, another set of variables.

"Ogres are simple," I began, my voice preternaturally calm, cutting through the tension.

The 'Mindbreaker' title and my 'Aura Dominion' skill had given my presence a subtle, focused edge that was hard to ignore. "They are classified as 'Brute' type monsters. High strength, high stamina, ridiculously high pain tolerance."

I tapped the red circle. "They also have low intelligence, poor coordination, and a pack structure that relies entirely on a single alpha—the Chieftain. Their weakness isn't a spot on their neck. Their weakness is their predictability."

Garth scoffed, a low, rumbling sound.

"With all due respect, sir," he spat the title like it was ash, "Academy theory is fine and all. But when a three-meter-tall Chieftain is charging you, 'predictability' doesn't stop its axe from splitting your shield—and your skull."

The other hunters winced, but none disagreed. This was the core of their fear.

I didn't get angry. I didn't get defensive. I just met his gaze, my eyes cold and steady. "Then you won't be blocking his axe, Hunter Garth. You'll be making him miss."

Garth's bushy eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"Your job isn't to be a wall. A wall will just get shattered," I said flatly. "Your job is to be the bait. You're our fastest C-Rank heavy armor. You will engage the Chieftain first and only the Chieftain.

You will draw its attention, absorb its first blow, and then you will move. You will lead it away. A circle, a figure-eight, I don't care. Your only objective is to keep it angry, keep it focused on you, and not die. Can you do that?"

Garth stared at me. He had expected a textbook plan. He had expected a child's arrogance. He had not expected to be told to run. His pride was stung. "...I'm a shield-bearer, not a damned street performer."

"Good," I said. "Then you're used to heavy loads. This will be no different. You're carrying the most important one."

Before Garth could protest further, Marcus stepped forward, his C+ aura, tinged with the unnerving wisdom of his cultivator past, flaring just enough to silence the room. "Michael's analysis is sound.

A standard 'head of the snake' assault is what the Vipers would try, and it's what the pack expects. This strategy bypasses the Chieftain's strength." He looked at Garth, his gaze hard. "You will follow the command. Understood?"

Garth, faced with the combined pressure of the Guild Master's son and his unnervingly mature brother, finally gritted his teeth and gave a stiff nod. "Understood."

I turned back to the map. "Good. While Garth has the Chieftain occupied, the pack's coordination will shatter. They're just big, dumb brutes who follow the loudest noise. Without their alpha, they'll be confused, disorganized. That's when we strike."

My finger traced a new path. "Sila, you'll be on this ridge. You have one target: the pack. Aim for their legs. Hamstring them.

Slow them down. Do not engage the Chieftain unless Garth is about to die. Riker, Kael—you're with me and Marcus.

We are the blades. We will move through the pack as a single unit. We isolate, we cripple, we execute. We kill the body of the guild before we kill the head."

The plan settled over the room. It was brutal, efficient, and counter-intuitive. It relied on perfect timing and absolute trust in Garth's ability to survive.

"We kill the pack," I concluded, "then all six of us converge on the isolated, enraged, and very tired Chieftain. We end it. That's how we get a clean, fast victory."

Darius looked at Marcus, who gave another subtle nod. The strategy was sound. Aggressive, but sound.

"...Alright," Darius said, his voice heavy with finality. "That's the plan. Gear up. You leave in ten minutes."

The wagon ride to the Grey Hills was tense. The four veterans sat on one side, murmuring quietly amongst themselves, casting wary glances at me. I sat on the other, next to Marcus, polishing Draken and reviewing the map, seemingly unfazed.

My external calm was, of course, a practiced lie. My heart was pounding. This was my first real D-Rank dungeon raid, my first command in the field. But I knew Ogres. I'd fought their digital ancestors a thousand times.

Their AI was always simple: IF intruder DETECTED -> CHARGE. IF leader_attacked -> PROTECT. IF leader_absent -> PANIC. This reality wouldn't be so different.

"You're not nervous," Marcus observed quietly, his voice low enough for only me to hear. He was watching me with that unnerving, analytical gaze of his.

"Should I be?" I replied, not looking up from my sword.

"Most new leaders are. Especially when their team thinks they're a fool."

"They don't have to like me," I said, finally meeting his eyes. "They just have to obey. The plan will work."

"You're that confident in your 'theory'?"

"I'm confident in their weakness," I said. "Ogres are just numbers, Marcus. Strength, stamina, attack patterns. If you know the variables, you control the outcome."

Marcus fell silent, his frown deepening. I hadn't meant to, but my cold, 'Samar the Gamer' persona had leaked through again. It sounded less like a hunter's confidence and more like a scientist's calculation. He didn't understand it, and that made him wary.

"...You're a strange one, little brother," he murmured, before turning to look out at the passing trees.

We arrived at Grizzly Pass in the early afternoon. The pass was a narrow, high-walled canyon, the air already thick with the foul, unmistakable stench of Ogres—a rank combination of filth, rotten meat, and spoiled ale.

A shattered merchant cart, its wheels splintered and its cargo of grain scattered, lay near the entrance, confirming the threat. Huge, crude footprints, each the size of a dinner plate, were pressed deep into the muddy path.

We dismounted, moving in silence. Sila, the archer, slipped ahead like a ghost, her movements fluid and silent. She returned five minutes later, her face pale but her eyes sharp.

"Found them," she whispered, her voice tight.

"Main clearing, just around the third bend. It's... it's a big pack. I counted twelve, not including the Chieftain."

"And the Chieftain?" I asked, my voice low.

She swallowed. "It's huge, Michael. Easily C-Rank. Bigger than the reports said. It's just... sitting on a log, sharpening a tree trunk like it's a toothpick."

The twins, Riker and Kael, exchanged a nervous glance. Garth's hand tightened on his shield.

I, however, felt a cold surge of adrenaline. Twelve. A C-Rank Chieftain. The variables were set.

"Good," I said, my voice crisp and authoritative, cutting through their fear. "That changes nothing. Sila, get to the ridge. You have your orders. Garth, you're up."

Garth looked at me, then at the Chieftain's reported size, and spat on the ground. "Damn kid. Fine."

He slammed his shield, activating its defensive runes, the heavy metal glowing faintly.

"Team," I said, drawing Draken. The dark blade felt cold, eager. "Positions."

We moved. Sila vanished into the rocks, climbing to her perch.

Garth took a deep breath and stomped heavily towards the clearing, banging his sword against his shield, making as much noise as possible. Riker, Kael, Marcus, and I melted into the shadows of the canyon wall, flanking the entrance.

We heard Garth's roar first. "HEY, UGLY! YOUR MOTHER WAS A TROLL AND YOUR FATHER SMELLED OF GOBLIN!"

A moment of silence.

Then, a sound so loud it shook the rocks beneath our feet.

RRRRROOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAARRRRR!

It wasn't just a roar; it was a declaration of war. The ground began to shake, the thud of massive footsteps approaching, fast.

"He got its attention," Marcus whispered, a predatory grin on his face.

I nodded, my gaze fixed on the clearing. "Wait for it..."

Garth reappeared, sprinting back past our position. "IT'S COMING! IT'S—BY THE SPIRITS, IT'S FAST!"

He wasn't wrong. The Ogre Chieftain burst into view. It was a four-meter-tall mountain of muscle, matted fur, and pure rage. Its skin was a sickly green-grey, covered in boils and old scars.

Its massive, misshapen head was dominated by a single, bloodshot eye and a tusked jaw. It wielded the sharpened tree trunk—now clearly a C-Grade magical club—and it was charging after Garth with the speed of a runaway boulder.

As it thundered past, its pack of twelve smaller (though still massive) Ogres followed, roaring in support.

This was the moment.

"Sila! NOW!" I roared.

TWANG!

From the ridge above, Sila's arrow flew, a perfect, glowing arc. It struck the Chieftain's single eye.

THWACK!

The beast howled, a sound of pure agony, clawing at its face. It didn't stop, but it staggered, blinded and furious, crashing into the canyon wall.

Garth didn't stop running, using the moment to gain distance.

"The head is blind and busy," I snapped at my team. "The body is ours. Marcus, Riker, Kael—engage!"

With a shared war cry, the four of us burst from the shadows, charging not at the wounded Chieftain, but at the disorganized, confused pack of twelve Ogres who had just watched their leader run past them and get shot in the face.

The fight for Grizzly Pass had begun.

(To be continued )

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