He scanned the landscape, eyes narrowed, searching for movement. Fang sat alertly beside him, no longer the magnificent storm-wolf, but subtly altered. Lloyd had instructed him to dampen his overt lightning aura, letting his coat appear a more mundane, if still impressive, dark grey. The blazing golden eyes were shielded, appearing a more common deep brown. Camouflage. No need to advertise their true nature out here.
"See anything, Fang?" Lloyd murmured, trusting the wolf's enhanced senses.
Fang shifted, head tilting slightly, ears swiveling. He let out a low, almost inaudible whine, nudging Lloyd’s leg gently and looking towards a shallow depression thick with knee-high, rust-colored grass about half a mile away.
"Got it," Lloyd acknowledged. He focused his own senses, extending his Void awareness, feeling the subtle life signatures within the tall grass. Not just one. A small flock. Maybe… ten? Twelve? Perfect.
He began moving, not directly towards them, but circling, using the rolling terrain for cover, keeping the wind in his favor. Fang moved beside him like a silent grey shadow, perfectly attuned to his master's intentions. Lloyd felt the distant presence of the followers keeping pace, clumsy compared to Ken's undetectable passage. They were getting further from the city, further from help. Their mistake.
He reached a ridge overlooking the depression, peering cautiously through the swaying grass. There they were. Ten of them. Large, shaggy creatures, heads down, grazing peacefully. They looked almost ordinary, save for the sheer thickness and slightly greasy sheen of their wool, which seemed to subtly warp the air around them, creating that faint psychic haze.
Okay, time for pest control, version 2.0, Lloyd thought, kneeling behind the ridge line. Avoid the wool. Avoid the aura. Precision takedowns.
He focused, reaching into his bloodline, drawing on the hidden power. The air beside his outstretched hand shimmered almost invisibly. Ten whisper-thin filaments of steel extruded themselves from nothingness, hovering silently, vibrating with barely contained energy. He pushed his will into them, feeling the innate fire respond, heating them instantly, not to incandescence this time – no need for flashy burns – but to a deadly, invisible sharpness, hot enough to slice through flesh and bone like parchment.
Simultaneously, he sent a mental command to Fang. 'Ready the Chirp. Target priority: fast movers, flankers. Synchronize on my release.'
Fang tensed, lowering his stance slightly. Lloyd felt the crackling energy build within the wolf, the faint, high-frequency precursor to the Thousand Chirp Strike beginning to hum just below the threshold of normal hearing.
Lloyd took a breath, centered himself. Targeted the lead sheep with five of his searing wires, aiming for the legs. Targeted the rearmost sheep with the other five, same targets. Isolate. Immobilize.
He released his control.
The ten wires shot forward, silent, invisible streaks of deadly heat through the tall grass.
Almost simultaneously, the world erupted in the piercing shriek of a thousand birds as Fang launched himself down the slope like a grey thunderbolt, blue-white lightning exploding around his foreleg.
The lead sheep bleated in sudden alarm as invisible forces sliced cleanly through its front legs just above the knee. It collapsed instantly, unable to flee, its distressed cries panicked bleating from the others.
The rearmost sheep suffered the same fate, its hind legs severed by the unseen wires before it could even register the threat. It went down, struggling futilely.
The eight sheep caught in the middle panicked, scattering in random directions, their movement churning up the psychic miasma.
But Fang was already among them.
Chirp-SLICE! The lightning claw flashed, connecting with the neck of a fleeing sheep. The creature dropped without a sound, spine severed.
Before the sound even fully registered, Fang was already redirecting, a blur of motion. Another sheep tried to bolt right – Chirp-SLICE! – collapsing mid-stride.
Meanwhile, Lloyd, still kneeling on the ridge, extended his Void control again. More wires, thinner now, like burning spider silk. He didn't aim to kill, just control. One wrapped around the back leg of a panicked sheep trying to circle around, tripping it into a clumsy fall. Another flicked out, slicing the tendons on the front leg of a fourth, bringing it down thrashing.
Fang, moving with impossible speed, took down two more with precise, lightning-fast strikes to the neck or head, the piercing chirp announcing each lethal blow fractions of a second before impact.
Four sheep remained, panicked, disoriented, trying to flee but hampered by the uneven ground and the terrifying speed of the grey predator relentlessly herding them. Lloyd used his wires again, tripping one, slicing a leg tendon on another.
Fang finished the last two. A final flash of azure lightning, a final piercing shriek, and then… silence. Broken only by the sighing wind and the faint, distressed bleating of the two initially immobilized sheep still alive but unable to move.
Ten Wild Sheep. Incapacitated or killed in less than thirty seconds. The entire engagement conducted from range, minimizing exposure to the curse aura, maximizing efficiency.
Lloyd rose slowly, letting the adrenaline fade. He dismissed the remaining heated wires, feeling the faint drain on his Void reserves. Minimal cost. Maximum result. He looked down at Fang, who stood amidst the carnage, lightning faded, panting slightly, golden eyes burning with predatory satisfaction.
"Good work, Fang," Lloyd murmured, pride swelling in his chest. "Flawless execution."
He started cautiously down the slope, carefully avoiding stepping too close to the downed sheep, the air thick with the lingering psychic static. He needed to harvest the pelts carefully, avoiding direct skin contact with the wool. Gloves and specialized tools would be required, tasks perhaps best delegated later. For now, confirming the kills and assessing the scene was paramount.
As he surveyed the results, feeling a grim sense of accomplishment, he noticed something else. The feeling of being watched by the followers… it was gone. Completely vanished. Not just faded, but extinguished.
He glanced towards the ridge line behind him, picturing Ken Park melting back into the shadows, perhaps wiping a spot of blood from an unseen blade.
Message received, Lloyd thought, a cold smile touching his lips. Swiftly. Silently. Threat neutralized. Ken Park was terrifyingly efficient.
Now, he had ten valuable pelts (once carefully harvested), a demonstrated mastery over a dangerous beast his past self couldn't handle, and confirmation that his hidden bodyguard was ruthlessly effective. Profit, practice, and pest control all rolled into one productive afternoon. Things were definitely looking up. Next stop: figuring out how to skin a cursed sheep without going mad.
----
The silence that fell over the shallow depression in the Whispering Hills was profound, almost unnatural. Ten shaggy carcasses dotted the rust-colored grass, stark against the swaying green, testament to a hunt executed with brutal, calculated efficiency. The sighing wind, carrying the faint, unsettling psychic static of the Cursed Wool, seemed to whisper secrets only the dead could hear. The metallic tang of ozone from Fang's lightning strikes mingled unpleasantly with the coppery scent of spilled blood and the underlying, greasy aroma of the sheep themselves.
Lloyd Ferrum stood amidst the aftermath, the adrenaline of the swift engagement slowly receding, leaving behind a familiar weariness and the low-level hum of depleted Spirit Energy. He wiped his hunting knife clean on a clump of untainted grass, the movements precise, economical. Harvesting the small, milky Spirit Stone fragments had been a messy but necessary task. Five shards. Pathetic, really, considering the effort, but better than nothing. Every copper coin, every sliver of value, mattered now.
As for the main objective, he remove the wool from the sheep and put them into bag carefully, as it may still be cursed.
The System notification confirming the kill count and the meager two-coin reward felt almost like an insult.
Two coins, Lloyd mused grimly, securing the small leather pouch containing the fragments to his belt. One coin for every five moderately dangerous magical creatures. At this rate, I’ll need to exterminate half the pests in the Duchy just to afford a decent Spirit upgrade. His current balance glowed faintly in his mental vision: 15 SC. Ten from the Gold Coin he’d ‘borrowed’ (a necessary ethical compromise, he told himself firmly) and converted this morning, three leftover from previous exploits, and two from this bloody sheep massacre. Still eighty-eighty short of the hundred needed just to start the Maternal Bloodline Awakening task, let alone the thousands required for everything else on his rapidly growing wish list. (Task instruction was a gathering of 100 SC excluding existing 3 SC, that's why eighty eight required)
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He glanced at Fang. The magnificent wolf-spirit sat beside him, panting slightly, the usual crackling aura around him noticeably subdued. The bursts of incredible speed, the repeated channeling of the Thousand Chirp Strike – it had taken a toll. Spirits didn't tire like mortals, their endurance linked intrinsically to their master's own pool of Spirit Power. And Lloyd's pool, thanks to his single, infuriatingly sluggish core, was less a deep reservoir and more a shallow puddle.
Damn it, he cursed internally. Need more power. Need a better core. Need more efficient energy transfer. Need… Coins. It always came back to Coins. The cosmic currency that governed his path back from mediocrity.
He knew pushing Fang much further today was unwise. Performance would degrade. Reaction times would slow. The Thousand Chirp Strike might fizzle instead of striking like lightning. They needed rest, recovery, and a more sustainable income stream than bounty hunting low-yield monsters. The soap. It had to be the soap. Or something equally clever he hadn't conceived yet.
Harvesting the Cursed Wool pelts was the primary objective here, the potential reward far exceeding the pitiful System Coins or the value of the spirit fragments. But skinning ten large, magically toxic sheep required time, specialized tools (long-handled knives, protective gloves he didn't possess), and extreme care to avoid contact with the psychoactive fleece. One wrong move, one tear in the hypothetical gloves, and he could find himself joining the sheep in a state of blissful, drooling insanity. That was a task for later, requiring careful planning and perhaps delegation – maybe Jasmin’s butchering skills could be adapted, with proper precautions?
For now, securing the kill site and planning extraction was the priority. He needed to get back, report the successful contract fulfillment (at least partially, regarding the neutralization), and arrange for a discreet retrieval team. Maybe Ken could handle—
A flicker of movement at the edge of his peripheral vision broke his train of thought. Instincts honed over three lifetimes screamed threat. He didn’t turn his head immediately, instead subtly shifting his weight, his hand drifting casually towards the hilt of his hunting knife, his Void sense extending outwards like invisible antennae.
Three figures. Emerging from the tall, whispering grass on the far side of the depression, moving with a predatory caution that quickly morphed into swaggering confidence as they took in the scene. Rough leather clothing, stained and worn. Crude weapons – a woodsman's axe gleaming dully, two mismatched short swords scarred from use. Faces hard, eyes narrowed, scanning the dead sheep, Lloyd, and the formidable-looking wolf beside him.
Scavengers, Lloyd identified them instantly. The hyenas of the adventuring world, drawn by the scent of blood and opportunity, preying on lone hunters weakened after a difficult kill. He felt a familiar wave of weariness wash over him. Seriously? Haven't I dealt with enough idiots for one day?
He remembered Ken Park's earlier whisper: Four individuals… Intent unclear… Low-level. Ken had neutralized those four. Had these three been lagging further behind? Or were they unconnected, simply drawn by the sounds of the brief, violent struggle? Or… were they the second wave? Sent by someone else after the first group failed to report back? Someone orchestrating this from the shadows?
Who are you working for? The question echoed in his mind as they approached, spreading out slightly, their body language shifting from cautious assessment to blatant intimidation. Is this just random opportunism, or are you Rubel's cleanup crew? Or someone else entirely?
Fang tensed beside him, a low, guttural growl rumbling deep in his chest, the fur along his spine bristling slightly. The subdued lightning aura flickered back to life, faint blue sparks dancing momentarily around his paws. Even fatigued, his protective instincts were absolute.
"Easy, Fang," Lloyd murmured, resting a reassuring hand on the wolf's powerful shoulder, feeling the tightly coiled muscles beneath the fur. "Stand by. Let's hear their sales pitch first."
The three men stopped about twenty paces away, forming a loose, threatening arc. The one in the center, clearly the leader, was a burly specimen with a tangled brown beard stained with something unpleasant, small piggy eyes glittering with avarice, and a cruel smirk plastered across his face. He hefted his axe casually, the movement meant to intimidate.
"Well now," the leader called out, his voice rough and grating, carrying easily across the quiet depression. "Lookie here, lads. Seems the young lordling's been busy makin' a mess." He spat onto the grass, a deliberate show of disrespect. "Bit much for one fancy pup to handle all this mutton, eh?" He leered, his gaze flicking between the dead sheep and Fang.
Lloyd kept his expression neutral, projecting calm he didn't entirely feel. The fatigue was real, Fang needed rest, and engaging in another fight, even against these low-level thugs, would drain their reserves further. But showing weakness was inviting attack.
"Just finished," Lloyd replied coolly, his voice steady. "Tidying up the local pest problem. Unless you gentlemen have official Guild business related to these carcasses?" He deliberately invoked the Guild, testing their reaction.
The leader barked a harsh laugh, echoed nervously by his two companions. "Guild business? Nah. We operate under a different charter, lad." He gestured broadly with his axe, encompassing the dead sheep. "The charter of 'Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers'. Especially when the 'loser' looks about ready to keel over."
One of the sidekicks, a lanky man with a scarred face and nervous eyes, gripped his short sword tighter. "Yeah! Law o' the Hills! Lone kill belongs to whoever's strongest enough to hold it!"
"And right now," the third man, shorter but stockier, added with a gap-toothed grin, "that looks like us."
Predictable, Lloyd thought, analyzing their postures, their cheap weapons, the mix of greed and low cunning in their eyes. Standard scavenger script. Relying on intimidation and perceived weakness.
"Strongest?" Lloyd repeated the word softly, letting a faint, humorless smile touch his lips. "An interesting theory." He subtly shifted his weight again, ensuring his footing was solid on the uneven ground. "Are you quite sure you want to test that theory today? Over some cursed wool you probably don't even know how to handle safely?"
The leader’s smirk faltered slightly at the mention of the curse, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. "Cursed? Bah! Old wives' tales! Wool is wool, and wool fetches coin! Or maybe," his eyes narrowed speculatively, "you're just tryin' to scare us off, lordling? Protect your prize?"
"He's bluffing, Boss!" the lanky one insisted, though his eyes darted nervously towards the nearest carcass. "He looks knackered! And that mutt's barely standin'!"
Fang chose that moment to lift his head fully, letting out another low, resonant growl. The air around him crackled faintly, the golden eyes fixing on the lanky man with an intensity that made him involuntarily take a step back.
"Mutt?" Lloyd murmured, still smiling faintly. "Fang takes offense to that. He prefers 'Elemental Harbinger of Your Impending Doom'. Bit wordy, I know, but more accurate."
The leader scowled, unnerved by the wolf's reaction but unwilling to back down, especially now that his authority was implicitly challenged. "Enough yap! Hand over the pelts, lad! And maybe toss in that fancy knife and coin pouch for our trouble. Do it nice and easy, and maybe, just maybe, we let you and your overgrown dog walk away."
"Walk away?" Lloyd tilted his head, feigning contemplation. "An intriguing offer. Let me consider the terms." His internal monologue raced. Okay, options. One: Unleash Fang fully. Thousand Chirp Strikes until they're twitching piles of ash. Fast, effective, but drains Fang completely, leaving us vulnerable if there is a hidden leader or another wave. Plus, overkill attracts attention. Two: Use the Steel Wires again. Less draining for Fang, more draining for me. Still effective, still potentially overkill. Three: Try something… less flashy? More subtle? Something that conserves energy but still delivers a decisive message?
He thought of the hidden leader again. If someone was watching, they wanted to gauge his capabilities, his limits. A flashy display might scare them off temporarily, but it also revealed his hand. A swift, brutal, low-energy takedown, however… that might be more unsettling. More unpredictable.
Right, he decided. Minimal expenditure. Maximum psychological impact. Let them wonder.
He looked back at the scavengers, his smile fading, replaced by a chillingly calm indifference. "My counter-offer," he said softly, his voice suddenly devoid of warmth, "is this: Turn around. Walk away. Forget you ever saw these sheep or me. Do that now, and you might keep the skin you're currently standing in."
The leader bristled, mistaking the quiet tone for weakness. "Threats? From a pampered pup hiding behind his beast?" He hefted his axe again, taking a step forward. "Lads! Looks like we gotta teach him some respect! Take the wolf down first!"
The three men surged forward, clumsy but determined, weapons raised, faces contorted with greed and aggression.
Lloyd sighed internally. So much for the diplomatic approach. He didn't reach for his knife. He didn't command Fang to attack.
He simply focused his will.
Not on searing heat this time. Not on slicing edges.
He drew on the Ferrum power, shaping it differently. Fine threads, yes, but cool now, imbued not with fire, but with a different aspect of his control – kinetic force, manipulated with pinpoint precision.
As the leader swung his axe in a wild, downward arc, aiming to cleave Fang's skull, Lloyd acted. An invisible filament of force, finer than a hair but carrying immense tensile strength, snapped taut between the axe head and the ground directly in front of the leader’s leading foot.
The axe head hit the invisible barrier with jarring solidity. The abrupt stop, combined with the leader's forward momentum, sent him stumbling violently, roaring in surprise and pain as his wrist twisted awkwardly.
Simultaneously, two more filaments whipped out. One wrapped around the lanky man's ankle as he lunged, yanking his foot out from under him, sending him crashing face-first into the dirt with a startled yelp. The other flicked whip-like against the stocky man's sword hand, not cutting, but delivering a sharp, shocking impact that numbed his fingers and sent his weapon flying from his grasp.
It was over in less than two seconds. No lightning. No fire. No blood, beyond perhaps a scraped nose from the face-plant. Just three grown men suddenly, inexplicably, finding themselves tripped, disarmed, and sprawled humiliatingly on the ground by forces they couldn't see or comprehend.
They stared, stunned, confused, pain mixing with dawning fear. What just happened?
Lloyd stood exactly where he had been, hands loosely at his sides, expression utterly calm. Fang hadn't even moved, just watched the proceedings with those unnervingly intelligent golden eyes.
"My apologies," Lloyd said conversationally to the groaning figures on the ground. "Sometimes the local gravity can be… temperamental." He took a deliberate step towards them, the invisible Void threads dissipating back into nothingness. "Now, about my counter-offer. Does walking away sound more appealing now?"
He let the implied threat hang in the air, the silence broken only by the wind and the pained groans of the would-be robbers. He hadn't seriously injured them. He hadn't expended significant energy. But he had demonstrated effortless, inexplicable control. He had sown fear and confusion. And somewhere, perhaps hidden just over the next ridge, a potential hidden leader now had a very confusing, very worrying data point to consider. The 'knackered lordling' wasn't quite as helpless as he appeared.
----
The wind sighed through the tall grass, carrying the scent of cursed wool and the low groans of the three scavengers sprawled ignominiously on the ground. Lloyd Ferrum stood over them, calm and composed, his counter-offer hanging heavy in the suddenly still air. Walk away. Forget this happened. Live. Simple terms, delivered with the chilling quiet of someone holding all the cards.
He expected fear. He expected compliance. Perhaps a hasty scramble to their feet, followed by a stumbling retreat, casting terrified glances over their shoulders.
Instead, the leader, propped up on one elbow, clutching his bruised wrist, looked at his equally disheveled companions. A flicker of communication passed between them – disbelief warring with bruised pride, stupidity battling self-preservation. Then, improbably, the leader started to chuckle. A low, guttural sound that quickly escalated into a harsh, barking laugh. His companions joined in, raggedly at first, then with growing, defiant bravado.
Lloyd stared, genuinely bewildered for a moment. Laughter? Now? After being effortlessly tripped, disarmed, and humiliated by forces they couldn't even see? Why, his internal eighty-year-old sighed with weary exasperation, is it always a three-man team? And why are they invariably composed of idiots? Is there some cosmic law dictating that incompetent villainy must travel in threes?
"Funny?" Lloyd asked mildly, the faint smile returning to his lips, but this time it held no amusement, only a chilling curiosity. "You find your current predicament amusing?"
The leader pushed himself painfully to his feet, spitting dirt. The earlier avarice was gone, replaced by a furious, cornered-rat desperation. The brief, inexplicable display of control hadn't cowed them; it had enraged them, pushing them past the point of rational calculation. They felt mocked, played with.
"Amusin'?" the leader snarled, wiping grime from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah! Amusin' that you thought a cheap trick like that would scare us off, lordling!" He drew himself up, puffing out his chest, trying to reclaim some semblance of dominance. "You caught us by surprise, that's all! Won't happen again!"
"He's right, Boss!" the lanky one chimed in, scrambling to retrieve his dropped sword, his face contorted with a mixture of fear and fury. "He ain't so tough! Just tricky!"
The stocky one nodded vigorously, retrieving his own weapon. "Time for a real fight! Show 'im what happens when you mess with the Ridge Runners!"
Ridge Runners? Seriously? Lloyd almost laughed again, this time genuinely. They sound like a troupe of badly dressed folk dancers.
But their intent was clear. Diplomacy had failed. Reason had failed. The only language left was force. Lloyd sighed internally. Fine. Plan B it is. Minimal expenditure is clearly not an option with these morons.
He didn't draw his knife. He didn't need to. He simply let the power within him stir, responding to his will. The air around him seemed to thicken, shimmer. Not with heat this time, not with invisible force, but with something tangible, visible.
Strands of impossibly fine, metallic wire began to extrude from the air around his hands, his shoulders, even seeming to weave themselves through his dark hair like living tinsel. They weren't glowing red-hot now, but gleamed with the cold, hard lustre of polished steel, catching the afternoon sun like deadly filaments of captured light. Dozens, then hundreds, of threads materialized, swirling slowly around him, extending outwards several feet, creating a shifting, whispering nimbus of razor-sharp potential. It looked less like overgrown hair and more like a sentient cage of shimmering blades, waiting to contract.
The three scavengers stumbled back instinctively, their defiant bravado faltering again as they confronted this new, far more visceral display of power. This wasn't a subtle tripwire; this was blatant, terrifying menace.
"W-what the hell is that?" the lanky one stammered, his grip tightening on his sword hilt.
"Magic?" the stocky one breathed, eyes wide.
