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.