At the southern edge of Hell's Corridor's grassland, far from the wasp hive, the victorious hunters hacked out a clearing, lit bonfires with dry grass, and sat on the ground, chatting about their future lives and the turbulent situation.
Elsewhere, after such a bountiful harvest, hunters would roast meat and drink wine by the fire. But here, in this killing ground, even the elite hundred-man team suppressed their excitement, remaining vigilant against roaming dangerous insects while celebrating.
The fully loaded egg containers were placed at the camp's center. Having completed their mission, they would leave tomorrow. Some might return on orders, but for most, this marked the end of their hunter careers.
By the fire, Moya stared blankly at the dancing flames, consumed by an indescribable sense of loss.
During the hunt, his cowardice had caused him to urinate in fear when the wasp swarm charged. Though few witnessed it, the disgrace spread quickly. Now, many eyed him with scorn, restraining themselves only out of respect for Lant.
Becoming a powerful warrior by implanting battle eggs was Moya's deepest dream, but he knew it would never come true.
Lant and Rick thought Moya unsuited for combat due to his personality, but long ago, Love had privately told him the truth: his low adrenaline levels—crucial for triggering egg powers—made it impossible. Without sufficient adrenaline, even a battle egg couldn't grant him transformation. He was born unfit to be a warrior.
Moya had hidden this secret, but after the hunt, his craving for strength surged more fiercely than ever.
"Moya, why sitting here alone?" Lant, in high spirits, approached and sat beside him.
"Oh, nothing." Moya secretly touched the stone with the strange egg in his pocket, forcing a smile. "Boss Lant, you'll join the Duchy army in Ison City after we return, right?"
"Yep. The Insect Hunter Guild has sworn allegiance to Emperor Arthur and renamed itself the United Front Department. My appointment letter arrived before the mission. I'll be officially commissioned after reporting to Ison."
"Congratulations. You'll make an excellent general." Moya envied him, unable to hide his dejection.
Noticing the fleeting sadness in Moya's eyes, Lant clapped his shoulder. "Don't worry—I've applied for you to be my assistant. You'll come with me. I've got your back. Cheer up."
"Thanks..."
Moya forced an awkward smile, but a voice in his heart repeated: Assistant... just an assistant...
In the underground dungeon, Rick trained profusely in the gravity chamber, now set to 8x gravity, with 40kg lead weights strapped to his limbs.
It was only the fourth day. For four days, Rick had trained relentlessly, pushing his already extraordinary physique. His reddened eyes and pale lips betrayed his exhaustion, but he couldn't stop—even when collapsing from fatigue, he forced himself to continue.
In four days, Rick had achieved a miracle Arthur could hardly have dreamed of. Yet Rick felt it wasn't enough. Though Arthur had given him a week, Rick didn't trust the timeline's precision. If he didn't push himself, he might turn into a monster before the week ended. He had to race against time and his own limits, leaving both far behind to find peace.
Heavy gasps and sweat splattering on the floor were the only sounds in the gravity chamber. Rick had just managed 200 push-ups with every ounce of strength, feeling as if all energy had been drained. His lungs ached as if about to burst, and every mouthful of saliva tasted of blood.
"Is this all... I can... damn... cough..."
Leaning on his knees, Rick found the lead weights on his limbs heavier than ever. The 8x gravity tearing force bent his spine—only the last shred of will kept him from collapsing to the floor.
"No... I finally escaped that life... I haven't even enjoyed living... How can I fall now..."
His eyes, hidden beneath damp bangs, reignited. He gritted his teeth, straightening his overburdened spine. Like a rusted robot lacking lubricant, he inched toward the bench beside the chamber, a distance of mere four or five meters taking twenty minutes.
Once seated, he couldn't move a finger from the pain, only managing to tilt his head and suck from a straw hanging above the bench. Gulping the sweet nutrient fluid, his body absorbed it like a parched sponge, replenishing exhausted energy.
This nutrient solution, a special blend by insect experts, was costly and used by high-rank hunters during breakthrough training. The chamber's supply met Rick's daily needs, proving Arthur's investment in him.
After downing a liter in one go, Rick felt every muscle heat up as the solution took effect. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the wall, regulating his breath and unconsciously using the Breath Refinement Technique learned in underground Tanzan City.
The technique was an advanced body art for breath control. Humans drew power from breath, but ordinary people utilized only 20-30%—most was wasted. Insects, in contrast, needed little oxygen, proving higher breath efficiency.
The technique aimed to bridge this gap, using each breath to mobilize all organs and blood, enhancing oxygen absorption. This invisibly multiplied strength by 2-3 times, storing otherwise wasted nutrients and converting them into explosive power.
The catch: it required extreme physical toughness, especially for internal organs. Muscle training strengthened organs slowly, making this a grueling journey. But Rick lacked time—his organs couldn't keep up with his muscular growth, making this risky technique his only choice.
Initially hesitant, Rick preferred dying from ruptured organs over becoming a mindless monster. At least then, he'd die a human Insect Master, maybe even have his name etched on the Insect Hunter Guild's honor roll.
Far from the hive, at the southern edge of Hell's Corridor's grassland, the triumphant hunters had hacked a clearing, lit bonfires with dry grass, and now sat around the flames, chatting about their future lives and the turbulent situation sweeping the world.
In any other place, such a bountiful harvest would have been celebrated with roasted meat and wine by the fire. But here, in this land of constant peril, even the elite hundred-man hunting team suppressed their excitement. While rejoicing, they remained vigilant against the dangerous insects roaming the prairie.
The fully loaded egg containers were placed at the heart of the temporary camp. Having completed their mission, they would depart tomorrow. Some might return on orders, but for most, this marked the end of their hunter careers.
By the fire, Moya stared blankly at the dancing flames, consumed by an indescribable sense of loss.
During the hunt, his innate cowardice had caused him to urinate in fear when the wasp swarm charged. Though few had witnessed the disgrace, the word spread quickly. Now, many eyed him with thinly veiled scorn, restraining themselves only out of deference to Lant's authority.
Becoming a powerful warrior by implanting battle eggs was Moya's deepest dream, but he knew better than anyone that it would forever remain unattainable.
Lant and Rick assumed Moya was unsuited for combat due to his personality, but long ago, Love had privately confided the truth: his adrenaline levels were far below average—a crucial factor for triggering the power of battle eggs.
Only a surge of adrenaline could stimulate the egg within and enable transformation. Thus, Moya's congenital deficiency meant even a battle egg couldn't grant him that ability. He was born unfit to be a warrior.
Moya had buried this secret deep, but after the hunt, his craving for strength surged more fiercely than ever.
"Moya, why sulking alone?" Lant, in high spirits, approached and settled beside him.
"Oh, nothing." Moya secretly touched the stone with the strange egg in his pocket, forcing a smile. "Boss Lant, you'll join the Duchy army in Ison City after we return, right?"
"Indeed. The Insect Hunter Guild has sworn allegiance to Emperor Arthur and rebranded as the United Front Department. My appointment letter arrived before the mission. I'll be officially commissioned after reporting to Ison."
"Congratulations. You'll make an excellent general." Moya's voice held genuine envy, but his face betrayed profound dejection.
Noticing the fleeting sadness in Moya's eyes, Lant clapped his shoulder. "Fear not—I've applied for you to serve as my assistant. You'll come with me to take up the post. I've got your back—cheer up!"
"Thank you..."
Moya forced an awkward smile, but a voice in his heart repeated: Assistant... just an assistant...
In the underground dungeon, Rick trained in the gravity chamber, sweat drenching his body. The chamber's gravity had been cranked to 8x, and he'd strapped 40kg of lead weights to his limbs.
It was only the fourth day, yet Rick had pushed his already extraordinary physique to new limits. Bloodshot eyes and pale lips testified to his exhaustion, but he could not relent—even when collapsing from fatigue, he forced himself to continue.
Achieving so much in four days was a miracle Arthur could scarcely have imagined, but Rick deemed it insufficient. Though Arthur had given him a week, Rick doubted the timeline's precision. If he didn't push himself to the brink, he might transform into a monster before the week ended. He had to race against time and his own...