The Cave Princess - Chapter 4

I’m strong. There’s plenty I can do for the village. Maybe one day, I won’t even be a hunter anymore.

She imagined a future where she became Valenta’s wife, settling into village life.

But I’ll still have to hunt a little. I’d need leather to make clothes for Valenta. After all, in a village without a dedicated hunter, leather is precious.

The thought of the red lion pelt lying dormant in her cabin’s storage brought a hopeful smile to her face.

The idea had come to her when she saw Valenta coughing in the cold, remarking that the temperature had dropped significantly. She immediately thought of what she could do for him.

It was as if her mind had been illuminated with clarity.

The red lion pelt was a trophy from one of her father’s most remarkable hunts before his passing. He had ventured far into the mountains and, against all odds, succeeded in slaying the beast.

Johanna’s father had almost died that day, his belly torn open by the lion’s claws. He was bedridden for a month, but even in his weakened state, he had been overjoyed at the sight of the pelt.

“Let’s sell it for a high price,” he had said, storing it away. But he had died before ever bringing it to the market.

Johanna imagined Valenta’s reaction when she gifted him the pelt. He would be as thrilled as her father had been—perhaps even more.

In her daydream, he embraced her tightly, moved by the gesture and the love behind it.

But her thoughts were abruptly interrupted as she stepped onto the granite path leading to her cabin.

“…”

The silence was suffocating. It was as if the world had been plunged into a vacuum.

No wind stirred the leaves; the forest seemed frozen in an unnatural stillness.

Johanna’s sharp gaze swept over the quiet woods. She knew this feeling. She had experienced this ominous stillness before.

As the memory of a tragedy from five years ago flashed through her mind, she instinctively crouched, her body reacting like prey confronted by a predator.

The sweet scent of yellowing camphor tree leaves filled her nostrils, mingling with the faint, decaying aroma of rotting leaves on the ground.

But beneath it all, there was something else—a subtle, sinister presence creeping through the forest, setting her nerves on edge.

In the mountains, an unarmed human is never a strong creature.

But an armed human—a hunter—is a top predator.

And if even a hunter felt the need to be cautious, it could only mean one thing: there was a predator nearby, one that even a hunter would fear.

“This isn’t good.”

Even though whoever had been here would have already heard her presence, Johanna instinctively held her breath and worked to conceal her movements.

How much time passed, she couldn’t tell. Then, far away, the rhythmic sound of a woodpecker tapping against a tree broke the silence, and she felt her tension ease, like a taut string snapping.

The Black Mountains, with their dense and intertwined trees, were home to many lynxes. Despite their cute appearance, they were stealthy and quick. Like a lynx, Johanna moved soundlessly into the fenced area of her cabin.

Her cabin’s front yard, like herself, was sparse and unadorned. The autumn leaves scattered across the ground made it seem lonelier than usual, but everything else appeared normal at first glance. Still, the damage was evident upon closer inspection.

Shards of glass were strewn across the ground. The window was completely shattered. Johanna’s face twisted into a fierce scowl.

It was a square window she had installed a year ago, made from glass Valenta had given her.

When she stepped inside, the destruction was far worse. Just two days ago, the cabin had been tidy and livable. Now, it was in complete disarray, as if someone had turned it upside down and shaken it violently.

The once-useful but modest furniture was smashed and broken.

Her eyes fell to the floor, where a slick, black liquid had pooled. Nearby, an overturned container lay open—it was the jar of black oil she had stored for lighting lamps.

The oil, oddly enough, provided her with a clue. It revealed the intruder’s movements.

Johanna’s sharp eyes lit up as she noticed the trail of black, oily footprints leading away.

The malicious destruction suggested intent, and the footprints confirmed it: the intruder was a sentient being.

The size of the prints, spanning over a hand’s breadth, indicated they belonged to an adult male.

“Barefoot? That’s strange.”

Though the forest floor was soft with fallen leaves, it was also scattered with sharp rocks. Climbing the mountain barefoot wasn’t something most would attempt.

Like tracking prey, Johanna mentally reconstructed the intruder’s movements.

She had been away in the village for two days, so the perpetrator must have entered during that time.

“Judging by how fresh the oil is, it hasn’t been long—half a day at most.”

The intruder had come, unleashed their rage, and left.

The black footprints led to the back door. Was the destruction their only goal? Nothing seemed to be missing. Could it have been someone from the village?

Several faces of those who disliked her flashed through her mind, but none seemed bold enough to do something like this.

When Johanna reached the backyard, her jaw dropped in shock.

The sight before her was far worse than the destruction inside the cabin.

The backyard had been a sunny, well-kept space she had cleared five years ago by cutting down the overgrown trees. She had tended it lovingly, shoveling snow in winter and pulling weeds in summer. She planted small, wildflowers she had found on her mountain treks—humble, nameless blooms instead of the grand, exotic flowers sold in the village.

She had carefully dug them up, ensuring their roots weren’t damaged, and spent hours arranging them with delicate precision.

Now, her backyard was a mess of dirt and destruction.

The flowers she had nurtured, their stems bathed in sunlight, were trampled and broken, their heads drooping pitifully. The decorative river stones she had collected one by one were scattered haphazardly, stripped of their former order.

But worst of all was the grave.

The once-rounded mound was utterly desecrated, as if a beast had clawed through it.

The gravestone, which she had painstakingly shaped despite her lack of skill, lay toppled and snapped in half.

As Johanna approached the desecrated grave, her face finally contorted in a mix of shock and rage.

The flesh had long decayed, returning to the earth, leaving behind white bones now scattered around the grave.

Her pale face grew even paler as she stepped forward. Thunk. She felt something beneath her boot. Looking down, she saw a dirt-covered bone partially unearthed and sticking out from the soil.

She recoiled instinctively, and as she stepped back, a long bone—a femur, judging by its length and shape—came fully into view.

Not daring to take another step for fear of stepping on more bones, Johanna stood still, scanning the area with sharp eyes.

What once had been a strong, whole skeleton was now scattered chaotically, as if the bones were mere objects instead of the remains of a person. The form they once constituted was unrecognizable. Some were even broken.

She noticed fragments of ribs—once curved and intact—now jagged and shattered into small pieces near what remained of the coffin.

At that moment, the perpetrator ceased to be just an infuriating intruder. They became someone she wanted to tear apart with her bare hands.

Her mind reconstructed the scene: a man, taller than her by at least two heads, rampaged through her cabin before digging up the grave and ripping open the coffin lid. Then, as if in a grotesque mockery, he stomped on the peacefully resting remains, shattering the ribs into a crude, oval shape.

Johanna trembled violently as she stared at her father’s ruined ribcage, her rage bubbling over.

“How dare they…”

Her head felt like it might split open from the fury pounding inside it.

She and her father had never been especially close. He had been little more than a provider and protector until she could fend for herself—a caretaker fulfilling a formal obligation.

But he had been the only human being who had been remotely close to her until she was left alone at fifteen.

Watching families in the village had taught her how different their relationship was from ordinary fathers and daughters. She had often felt disappointed by his coldness.

But now, seeing his defiled remains, she felt a personal violation so intense it was as though the insult had been directed at her.

With a face as cold and rigid as ice, Johanna began carefully examining the ruined grave and the grotesquely scattered bones, desperate to find any trace of the perpetrator.

Then, a chill ran down her spine.

A strange, unnerving sense of familiarity crept over her, like cold fingers brushing against her back.

“This isn’t just because someone dislikes me. This goes beyond that—it’s excessive.”

The destruction, the defilement—it wasn’t mere disdain.

It reeked of something deeper. Something darker.

Hatred.

No, it felt heavier than hatred. There was a bitter, festering rancor here—one so personal and consuming that Johanna, standing at the scene, could scarcely imagine its source.

This feeling—Johanna had experienced it once before.

Her mind flashed back to the cabin from five years ago, filled with the stench of death. Her slender neck stiffened, a lightning-like certainty striking her.

The perpetrator then and now was the same.

A crime born of hatred.

Her head darted around as she inspected the eerie backyard and the filthy, ransacked cabin with meticulous attention.

Carefully avoiding her father’s scattered bones, she combed through the scene, and her intuition hardened into absolute conviction.

The traces are just like last time.

She recalled the gnaw marks left on the remains, the sharp bites coupled with other damage—the kind caused by blunt violence.

Shattered glass objects, furniture broken as if kicked in a fit of rage—these familiar patterns were unmistakable. Johanna’s expression hardened when she saw a wardrobe, caved in with a single, angry kick.

It’s the work of a Chuin.

Her deduction stopped there, as she still couldn’t decipher the connection between her father and the Chuin.

To her knowledge, her father had never done anything to incur such a deep-seated grudge from one of their kind.

Gathering the scattered bones from the yellowed tablecloth, Johanna fell into deep thought. A memory surfaced—her father returning from a hunt, his face unnaturally pale.

“What happened? Why do you look like that?” she had asked.

“It’s none of your concern,” he had snapped sharply. The abruptness of his reply had startled her and left her hurt. She hadn’t dared to press him further.

Her father had been out of sorts for several days after that, but within a month, he was back to his usual self.

What had happened that day? Had he encountered a Chuin? Had there been some kind of conflict?

But over what?

“I know so little about them.”

Her clearest memory of the Chuins came from when she had hidden in a bush as a child, watching them with wide, curious eyes. It was a mating ritual.

She recalled the unnatural, almost mechanical movements of their pale, bluish limbs, their chitinous skin clicking grotesquely as they rubbed against each other. The scene had been seared into her mind, vivid as though it had happened yesterday.

Johanna shook her head violently, trying to dispel the memory. An inexplicable disgust and revulsion washed over her, souring her mood.

Whatever the truth was, her father had clearly come into conflict with the Chuin—a reckless and dangerous act.

“Wolves and wild boars are dangerous, but at least you can trap them and hunt them,” Valenta had once sighed. “But the Chuins are different. They’re as smart as humans. You can’t kill them easily. For us, they’re a nightmare. Why would the gods create such abominable creatures?”

Thinking of Valenta’s lament, Johanna’s heart grew heavy.

“It’s happened again. Should I move?”

Her thoughts immediately turned to the village. If she told Valenta what had occurred, he would be alarmed and might insist she leave the mountains for her safety.

He had already suggested that she consider giving up hunting—or at least moving to the village to live there. The idea had lingered in her mind ever since.

The idea of leaving the place where she had lived for 20 years was daunting, despite the undeniable allure of Valenta’s suggestion. She had told him she needed time to think.

But now, with this incident, it felt as though—as Valenta often said—“the gods were arranging events to guide her actions.”

As she looked at the ruined backyard, the one part of the cabin she had cared for with all her heart, a firm resolve took root within her.