"Don't matter what it is!" the leader roared, trying to rally his crumbling courage, recognizing that retreat now meant utter humiliation. "He's just one man! We got spirits! Summon!"
With desperate urgency, the three men focused inwards, drawing on their own meager reserves of Spirit Power. The air around them crackled with three distinct, weaker energy signatures.
From the leader burst a creature resembling a large, sleek black cat, but wreathed in flickering flames of an unnatural, icy blue. It hissed, arching its back, blue fire dripping from its ethereal whiskers. A Blueflame Lynx, Lloyd identified it. Basic fire affinity, decent agility, but low power output.
The lanky man summoned his spirit – a hyperactive squirrel, larger than normal, with fur standing on end, crackling with tiny sparks of yellow electricity. It chittered aggressively, darting back and forth. A Sparktail Squirrel. Basic lightning, fast but fragile. (No, it's not pickachu.)
The stocky man produced perhaps the most visually alarming, yet ultimately weakest, of the three: a lumbering dog, seemingly sculpted from cooling, cracked lava. Heat radiated from it, and dribbles of molten rock dripped from its maw. A Magma Hound. Slow, tough hide, weak fire projection.
Three Manifestation-level spirits. All distinctly low-tier, probably reflecting the limited potential of their masters. Compared to Fang, even in his slightly fatigued state, they were like candle flames next to a bonfire. Compared to Redborn? They were practically decorative.
Right, Lloyd assessed clinically. Elemental mismatch. Fire, lightning, more fire/earth. Annoying, but manageable.
"Get him! Sic 'em!" the leader screamed, pointing a trembling finger at Lloyd.
The Blueflame Lynx hissed again and darted forward, launching a small ball of flickering blue fire. The Sparktail Squirrel zipped up onto the leader's shoulder, chittering furiously, gathering electrical energy for a weak bolt. The Magma Hound lumbered forward, opening its jaws to release a pathetic spurt of molten slag that splattered harmlessly several feet short of Lloyd.
Lloyd didn't even flinch.
With effortless flicks of his wrists, guided by pure intent, several of the gleaming steel wires surrounding him lashed out.
Swish! One wire intercepted the blue fireball mid-air, slicing cleanly through the magical construct, dissipating it into harmless azure sparks.
Zip! Another cluster of wires formed a shimmering, momentary shield that deflected the Sparktail's weak electrical discharge uselessly into the ground.
Clang! A third wire met the lumbering Magma Hound head-on, not cutting, but delivering a sharp kinetic blow to its snout that sent the creature stumbling back with a surprised yelp, shaking its rocky head.
The spirits paused, momentarily confused by the effortless neutralization of their attacks. Their masters stared, dumbfounded.
"My turn," Lloyd murmured, a predatory gleam entering his eyes.
The cloud of fine wires around him surged outwards. They didn't aim for the scavengers themselves, but for their spirits. Why waste energy on the puppets when you can cut the strings?
The Blueflame Lynx tried to dodge, relying on its feline agility, but the wires moved faster, anticipating its movements. A dozen threads instantly wrapped around its limbs and torso, binding it tightly, the cold steel seeming to sizzle against its blue fire, disrupting its energy flow. It yowled in surprise and pain, pinned helplessly.
The Sparktail Squirrel tried to dart away, but a cage of shimmering wires snapped shut around it before it could build speed, trapping it mid-air, its frantic electrical discharges grounding harmlessly against the conductive metal.
The Magma Hound proved slightly tougher, its rocky hide resisting the initial binding attempts. But Lloyd simply sent more wires, weaving an intricate net that enveloped the creature, tightening, constricting, not cutting, but applying immense, inescapable pressure. The Hound struggled, roaring, trying to melt the wires, but the steel held firm, its sheer quantity overwhelming the spirit’s low-level heat.
Within seconds, all three spirits were neutralized, bound, struggling futilely within gleaming, inescapable prisons of steel wire. Their masters watched, aghast, their primary weapons rendered utterly useless.
"H-how?" the leader stammered, staring at his ensnared Lynx. "Iron manipulation shouldn't be that fast! That fine!"
"Who said anything about iron?" Lloyd replied softly, the cloud of wires around him beginning to contract slightly, drawing closer, their whispering hum intensifying.
He could end it here. Crush the spirits, potentially causing severe backlash to their masters. Or he could simply hold them, demonstrating absolute superiority. But the fatigue was starting to bite. He needed to finish this quickly, decisively, and hopefully learn something in the process. He needed a knockout blow.
His mind flashed to Earth again. Not to anime this time, but to basic physics. Ballistics. Projectiles. Concentrated force delivered at range. He looked at his hands. He could manipulate steel. He could generate heat, though he was conserving that now. Could he combine those?
Forget wires, the thought sparked. Solid projectiles.
He focused, drawing Void energy, shaping it not into threads, but into small, dense spheres held within his cupped palms. He compressed the nascent steel, making it incredibly hard. He imbued it with just a touch of his internal fire, not enough to make it glow visibly red-hot, but enough to give it a searing thermal signature upon impact. He felt his limited Spirit Power stir, the meager energy he’d cultivated earlier. Could he use that as a propellant? Not channeling it through a weapon, but using its raw kinetic potential?
Modern knowledge meets medieval magic, he thought, a thrill running through him despite the situation. Let's try some improvised ammunition.
He shaped three spheres, each about the size of a large marble, dense, heavy, radiating a faint, almost imperceptible heat. They spun slowly in his palms, humming with contained energy.
He took aim. Not at the scavengers, but at their struggling, bound spirits. Precision wasn't key here; overwhelming force was.
"Time for a field test," he muttered. Then, pouring a directed burst of his own limited Spirit Power behind each sphere like releasing a compressed spring, he launched them.
They didn't fly like arrows or bolts. They shot forward with startling velocity, propelled by raw spiritual force, spinning rapidly, emitting a low, angry buzz from the friction and the internal heat. Three miniature cannonballs of superheated, spinning steel.
THWACK! The first bullet hit the bound Magma Hound square in the chest. The impact didn't just chip the rock; it shattered it. Cracks spiderwebbed across the spirit's form, followed by a concussive shockwave. The Hound roared, its form flickering violently, then dissolving into dissipating smoke and pebbles, the binding wires falling slack.
FZZEET-CRUNCH! The second bullet slammed into the cage holding the Sparktail Squirrel. The spinning, heated metal tore through the fine wires and obliterated the small spirit in a shower of sparks and electrical discharge. It vanished instantly.
WHUMP! The third bullet struck the struggling Blueflame Lynx. The impact was devastating. The spirit let out a final, choked yowl as the superheated sphere punched clean through its ethereal form, leaving a sizzling hole, before the entire Lynx dissolved into wisps of rapidly fading blue smoke.
The backlash hit the three scavengers simultaneously. They cried out, clutching their heads or chests, staggering as the sudden severing of their spirit bonds, coupled with the violent dissipation, sent jolts of sympathetic pain racking through their bodies. Their faces went pale, sweat pouring, eyes rolling back slightly. They wouldn't be summoning those spirits again anytime soon; the drain, the shock to their cores, was immense.
They stared at Lloyd, not with anger now, but with raw, naked terror. What was he? Iron manipulation? Fine wires? And now… launching spinning metal death-orbs from his bare hands? This wasn't just a tricky lordling; this was a monster.
"Any further objections?" Lloyd asked quietly, the cloud of fine wires still swirling gently around him, a silent promise of more pain to come. He held another spinning, faintly humming steel bullet loosely in his palm, letting them see it.
That was the final straw.
"N-no! None!" the leader choked out, scrambling backwards, tripping over his own feet in his haste. "We're leaving! We're gone! Didn't see nuthin'!"
"Yeah! Gone!" echoed the other two, practically crawling away before finding their legs and breaking into a desperate, stumbling run back towards the direction they came, casting terrified glances over their shoulders.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
"A message for your employer!" Lloyd called after their retreating backs, his voice carrying easily. "Tell whoever sent you – Rubel or otherwise – that the next time they send dogs, they should expect to lose them. Permanently."
They didn't slow down, just ran harder, vanishing into the whispering grass like startled rabbits.
Lloyd watched them go, the steel bullet in his hand dissolving back into latent energy. He let the cloud of wires around him dissipate as well, feeling the strain ease slightly. The improvised bullets had worked, surprisingly well. Crude, definitely not optimized, but effective. Another tool for the arsenal. Combining Void shaping with Spirit Power propulsion… interesting potential there.
He looked down at Fang, who gave a tired but satisfied 'woof', nudging his hand. "Yeah," Lloyd agreed, scratching the wolf behind the ears. "Idiots." He surveyed the now-quiet field, the ten sheep carcasses waiting. "Right. Let's secure this site and figure out how to get paid without ending up cursed or broke." The hunt was over, but the work, as always, was just beginning.
The wind sighed through the tall grass, a mournful sound that seemed to cling to the aftermath of violence. It carried the faint, unsettling metallic tang of ozone from Fang’s lightning and the coppery scent of blood, overlaying the strange, greasy psychic static emanating from the ten woolly carcasses scattered across the depression. Lloyd Ferrum stood amidst the quiet carnage, the adrenaline drain leaving a familiar ache behind his eyes. He wiped his hunting knife meticulously clean on a clump of untainted grass, the motion automatic, ingrained.
Ten Spirit Stone fragments. Secured in the small leather pouch now weighing almost nothing at his belt. Pathetic. He’d faced down ambushes, executed precision takedowns, managed a fatigued Spirit partner, and his reward felt like finding loose change under a sofa cushion.
Just then, the familiar, slightly smug chime echoed solely within his mind.
[System Notification: Threat Neutralized!]
[Analysis: User successfully repelled hostile opportunists (Designation: 'Ridge Runners' - Low Threat) using a combination of non-lethal Void Power manipulation (Kinetic Threads) and targeted Spirit Power application (Steel Bullet Projection - Improvised). Tactical improvisation noted.]
[Result: Threats routed. Minimal energy expenditure achieved compared to previous encounters. Psychological deterrence maximized.]
[Bonus Reward Issued: 5 System Coins (SC)]
[Current Balance: 15 (Previous) + 5 (Reward) = 20 SC]
Twenty? Lloyd blinked at the mental display. Twenty miserable System Coins. After everything? First the sheep massacre netting a pitiful two coins, now this pathetic bonus for dealing with incompetent thugs? This System needed a serious lesson in appropriate compensation. He suppressed a groan. He needed one hundred fresh coins just to start thinking about his mother's bloodline. Forget the thousands Fang’s upgrades would demand, or ranking up his own burgeoning Steel abilities. At this rate, he’d be eligible for retirement benefits in this life before he could afford Ascension.
Need gold, the thought hammered insistently. Real gold. Enough to hit that daily conversion limit. This bounty hunting gig is barely covering pocket change. The soap venture felt miles away, a distant dream requiring capital he simply didn’t possess. Frustration gnawed at him, sharp and insistent.
He glanced down at Fang. The magnificent wolf-spirit sat beside him, a study in contained power, though the slight droop to his ears and the slower rise and fall of his flanks betrayed the energy drain. The Thousand Chirp Strike was potent, yes, but clearly demanding. Pushing him further would be foolish, reckless. They needed rest, a retreat, and a radically different plan for acquiring wealth.
First, deal with the immediate aftermath, Lloyd forced himself back to the present, pushing down the financial panic. The pelts. The valuable, cursed pelts. Skinning them now? Out of the question. Too risky without proper gear and preparation. He needed to secure the site, report back, arrange retrieval.
"Ken," Lloyd called out, his voice cutting cleanly through the wind's whisper. No need for subtlety now; the unwelcome audience had fled, tails figuratively between their legs.
As expected, a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom near the ridge line, resolving into the solid, imposing form of Ken Park. The bodyguard walked openly towards Lloyd, his steps silent on the grassy earth. His face was the usual impassive granite, but Lloyd, hyper-attuned now, detected the faintest flicker in those observant eyes as they swept the scene – the strategically downed sheep, the lack of any visible struggle beyond the initial takedown, Lloyd and Fang appearing weary but unharmed. Ken missed nothing.
"Young Lord," Ken acknowledged, his voice the familiar level baritone. He stopped a respectful distance away.
"Those last three," Lloyd gestured vaguely towards the empty hills where the 'Ridge Runners' had vanished. "The scavengers. Were they connected to the first group? The ones you… handled… earlier?"
Ken’s response was immediate, analytical. "Negative, Young Lord. The profiles are distinctly different." He elaborated without prompting, his voice crisp. "The initial four exhibited professionalism incongruent with local opportunists. Disciplined movement, coordinated observation, equipment suggesting external resourcing, likely military or quasi-military background." He contrasted this sharply. "The latter group – crude tactics, poor equipment, clear motivation of greed overriding caution. Their behavior aligns perfectly with low-level scavengers common to these border territories. Likely drawn by the sounds of the initial engagement or the scent of the kill."
"But the first group…" Lloyd pressed, frowning. "Professional. External. Disciplined. Not scavengers. Not Rubel's clumsy pawns either, based on their methods."
"Precisely," Ken affirmed. "Their objective felt… singular. Targeted observation of you, Young Lord. Assessing vulnerabilities. Waiting for an opportune moment." His gaze held Lloyd’s. "The logical conclusion, given the context, is attempted elimination of the Ferrum heir."
Elimination. The word hung cold and heavy between them. Not just harassment, not just political maneuvering. Assassination. Lloyd felt a chill despite the afternoon sun. It resonated too closely with memories he tried to keep buried.
"Why?" Lloyd asked, the question directed as much to himself as to Ken. "Why now? Who benefits most directly from my removal?"
"Viscount Rubel possesses clear motive and has demonstrated willingness to act against the main line," Ken stated objectively. "However, the methodology of the first group does not align with his known resources or typical operational style. Too clean, too professional. Suggests a higher level of training and backing."
"Exactly," Lloyd agreed, his mind racing, connecting dots from two lifetimes. Rubel was ambitious, treacherous, yes. But he operated within the Duchy's political framework, using coercion, bribery, internal agents. This felt… different. Larger. More dangerous. "Someone external. Someone with the resources to field trained killers discreetly within our borders. Someone with a vested interest in destabilizing the Ferrum Duchy."
He looked out over the whispering hills, the fragmented memories coalescing. Old rivalries. Border disputes simmering for generations. Political marriages proposed and rejected. Whispers of espionage, of agents provocateurs. It wasn't just one possibility; it was a web of potential enemies. But one name resonated strongest, a recurring antagonist in the turbulent history between the nations.
"Ken," Lloyd said, turning back abruptly, his voice low but carrying a weight that made the seasoned bodyguard focus intently. "What if the threat isn't internal? What if it comes from across the border?"
Ken remained silent, waiting.
"What if…" Lloyd hesitated, tasting the name, the weight of the accusation. "What if it's the Altamira clan?"
The reaction was instantaneous, seismic, though Ken Park controlled it with legendary discipline. A barely perceptible widening of the eyes. A fractional tightening of the jaw. A sudden, absolute stillness that spoke louder than any gasp. The air around the bodyguard seemed to crackle with suppressed shock.
"The Altamira clan, Young Lord?" Ken repeated, his voice losing its perfect monotone for the first time since Lloyd’s return, gaining a sharp edge of disbelief, of profound gravity. He wasn’t just a bodyguard now; he was a Baron of the Duchy, a high-ranking military officer, hearing his young charge accuse the ruling dynasty of a powerful neighbouring kingdom of attempted assassination.
"The rulers of Eldoria?" Ken pressed, needing clarification, needing justification for such an earth-shattering claim. "On what possible grounds do you make such an accusation, my lord? This implies… state-sponsored action. An act of covert aggression that could ignite conflict between our nations."
He stared at Lloyd, the professional mask firmly back in place but unable to entirely conceal the seriousness, the sheer political weight of the words just spoken. "Do you have evidence? Intelligence? Or is this… speculation?" Ken chose his words carefully, respectful yet demanding substance. He couldn’t dismiss the heir's claim, especially not this heir, the one who had demonstrated such unnerving foresight and hidden power recently. But neither could he accept such a potentially catastrophic accusation without foundation.
Lloyd met Ken's intense gaze, understanding the skepticism, the need for more than just a gut feeling fueled by fragmented memories of a life Ken knew nothing about. He couldn't reveal the source – the reincarnation, the future knowledge. He needed a plausible explanation, rooted in the present, however tenuous.
"Evidence?" Lloyd echoed, shaking his head slightly. "No, Ken. Not concrete proof, not yet." He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "But consider the history. The long-standing rivalry between Ferrum and Altamira. The contested territories near the Dragon's Tooth Peaks. The trade disputes over Azure Strait passage."
He ticked off points mentally, drawing on dusty history lessons from both lives. "Remember the 'Emerald Incident' fifteen years ago? The alleged Altamira spies caught mapping our border fortifications? Officially dismissed as rogue agents, but the whispers persisted."
He paused, letting Ken process the historical context. "Consider their recent military buildup along the western border. Ostensibly defensive, but the troop compositions suggest offensive capability. Consider the failed marriage proposal alliance between Eldoria and the Southern Marquisate last year – a move clearly aimed at encircling us."
"Standard geopolitical maneuvering, Young Lord," Ken countered quietly, though his attention remained unwavering. "Rivalries exist. Tensions fluctuate."
"True," Lloyd conceded. "But add this: My father has been pushing aggressively for increased control over the Dragon's Tooth mining concessions. Concessions the Altamiras have coveted for generations due to the rich veins of adamantine discovered there." He leaned in slightly. "What better way to disrupt those negotiations, to throw the Duchy into chaos, than by eliminating the heir? Create instability, weaken my father's position, potentially pave the way for a more… pliable successor?" He let the implication hang, glancing meaningfully towards the memory of Rubel and Rayan. The Altamiras might even see Rubel as a useful pawn, someone they could manipulate if he seized power.
"It's circumstantial," Lloyd admitted frankly. "A web of motive and opportunity. But the professionalism of those attackers… it fits. Eldoria has the resources, the intelligence apparatus, the history of covert action. And they have the most to gain from destabilizing the Ferrum line right now."
He held Ken’s gaze, projecting conviction. "I can't prove it yet, Ken. But my instincts, honed by… recent events… tell me the Altamira shadow falls long here." He deliberately kept it vague – 'recent events' could cover the confrontation with Rubel, the sudden need to develop his powers, anything but the truth of reincarnation.
Ken remained silent for a long moment, his gaze distant, analytical mind processing the historical context, the strategic implications, Lloyd's unusual certainty. He knew the history, the tensions, the recent military shifts. Lloyd’s argument, while lacking direct proof, wasn't entirely baseless. It formed a coherent, if alarming, strategic picture. And Lloyd's recent track record for uncanny insight couldn't be easily dismissed.
"The Altamira clan," Ken murmured again, the name tasting like potential war. He looked back at Lloyd, a new level of seriousness, of shared understanding, in his eyes. "If your assessment is accurate, Young Lord, then the threat level has escalated exponentially. This changes the entire security calculus."
"Precisely," Lloyd affirmed grimly. "Which is why I need to get stronger. Faster. And why," he added, a flinty edge returning to his voice, "I need resources. Yesterday."
He looked out over the field of cursed sheep, then back at Ken. "Help me secure this site. Arrange for discreet retrieval of these pelts – tell the Guild I secured them but require assistance with safe handling due to the curse. Use estate resources if necessary, but keep it quiet. I need the reagents Master Grimaldi offered."
Ken nodded sharply, instantly shifting back into operational mode. "Consider it done, Young Lord. I will dispatch a specialized team from the estate guard, experts in handling hazardous materials. They will retrieve the pelts and deliver them directly to Master Grimaldi, securing the quicksilver in your name."
"Good," Lloyd said, relief washing over him. That was one problem handled. "Now, let's get back. I need rest. Fang needs rest." He glanced down at the wolf, who leaned tiredly against his leg. "And I need to figure out how to turn quicksilver into usable System Coins, or find another way to earn that Gold Coin before tomorrow morning." The hunt was successful, the potential threat identified, but the fundamental problem remained. Power required Coins. And Coins required ingenuity he was still struggling to fully grasp.
—-
The return journey from the Whispering Hills was marked by a grim sense of accomplishment rather than triumph. The ten cursed pelts, bundled carefully using makeshift tools and sheer nerve, were now Ken Park's problem. Lloyd trusted the stoic bodyguard implicitly to handle the retrieval and delivery to Master Alchemist Grimaldi with the utmost discretion. The potential payout in purified quicksilver was substantial, a vital step towards consistent System Coin conversion, but it wouldn't be immediate. And the five coins earned from the Ridge Runner bonus felt like finding lint in his pocket after winning a bar fight. Pathetic.
He needed that daily Gold Coin. He needed the ten System Coins it represented. The memory of the Maternal Bloodline Awakening task notification, demanding a fresh hundred SC, pulsed insistently at the back of his mind. A hundred coins felt like a mountain range he had to climb with pebbles in his boots.
Back within the familiar, imposing walls of the Ferrum Estate, the first order of business the next morning, even before contemplating breakfast or the potential fallout from his violent excursion, was the System conversion. The ritual was becoming grimly familiar. Standing alone in the pre-dawn chill of his borrowed suite (the sofa still radiating its usual lumpy malevolence), he accessed the System interface.
He pictured one of the precious Gold Coins from his meager allowance.
[Currency Conversion Protocol Activated.]
[Input Detected: 1 Gold Coin.]
[Confirm Conversion to 10 System Coins?]
Yes, Lloyd confirmed mentally, feeling a phantom lightness in his non-existent pockets. The System didn’t physically take the coin, merely deducted its value from his known resources – a level of surveillance that was both convenient and slightly unnerving.
[Conversion Complete. 1 Gold Coin Deducted.]
[10 System Coins (SC) Added.]
[Current Balance: 20 (Previous) + 10 (Converted) = 30 SC]
Thirty. Better. But still seventy agonizingly short of the hundred needed just for the Awakening task. Seven Gold Coins worth of daily conversions. Nearly half a month of his entire allowance, assuming he spent absolutely nothing else. Unacceptable. The soap venture wasn't just a good idea; it was rapidly becoming his only viable path to meaningful power progression.
