---
[Obtained: Spider Gland ×87]
[Obtained: Monster Meat ×100]
[Obtained: Spider Web ×74]
The sky was already turning a deep shade of violet as evening closed in. The shadows stretched long, and the last rays of the setting sun faded beyond the horizon. Bellon stepped out of the utility room, his body coated in dust and his hair disheveled from the battle earlier.
Behind him lay a scene of carnage—dozens of spider corpses, scattered across the ground in heaps, their twisted legs curled inwards and black ichor leaking from their bodies. They varied in size, from palm-sized hatchlings to massive ones as large as hounds. The air reeked faintly of burnt chitin and decay.
It had been a productive hunt, but there was no time to celebrate.
---
Later that evening, in the dim glow of the bedroom's oil lamp, Bellon sat cross-legged on the floor, silently checking his inventory. The wooden floor creaked faintly as he adjusted his position.
He wasn't preparing for a normal expedition tonight—this was something far more dangerous.
Yarlin had been plotting against him, whispering venomous suggestions and trying to push him into harm's way. Instigating a minor to commit suicide… Bellon knew very well what that meant in both moral and legal weight. It was an unforgivable act. And tonight, Yarlin would pay for it.
But in order to pull this off, Bellon had to be perfectly prepared. There would be no second chances.
He closed his eyes for a moment, mentally mapping the positions of the items in his inventory. In the first three slots—where items could be pulled out instantly—he placed his deadliest weapons: four spears, two unsheathed swords, and two unsheathed daggers. The edges of each blade had been sharpened to a mirror finish, their weight balanced perfectly for killing blows.
Next, he prepared his light sources. Night was dangerous—monsters thrived in the darkness. He lit five candles, each steady and bright, and placed them carefully into his inventory. The moment a candle was stored, its state was frozen in time. The tiny flame on the wick would stay perfectly suspended, unmoving, ready to illuminate the night the instant he retrieved it.
Just in case, he also synthesized two torches.
[Torch – Durability: 100%]
Unlike regular ones, these crafted torches were impervious to wind and rain. They would burn steadily until their durability ran out, unaffected by the elements. In the wilderness, such a tool could mean the difference between life and death.
Weapons—check. Lighting—check. Now he turned to medical supplies.
Bellon approached the synthesis table, the faint magical runes carved into its surface glowing softly.
[Healing Ointment: Restores 30 Health Points]
Materials: Ash ×2, Rock ×1, Spider Gland ×1
He frowned. Ordinary ashes wouldn't work; the recipe required purified ones. Without hesitation, he left for the valley below the tree grove, where he set ten saplings ablaze. The fire crackled and hissed, the smoke curling into the night sky. When the flames died, he carefully collected the fine, gray ash.
By the time he returned, his magic points had just recovered enough to begin crafting. The process was meticulous, mixing the powdery ash with crushed spider glands and ground stone. The result was a smooth, pungent paste—life-saving medicine in a jar.
When he was done, five jars of healing ointment sat neatly in his inventory.
The last preparations were simple: one slice of lemon—its sharp scent useful for clearing the mind—and three sturdy shovels. The shovels were heavy but reliable, perfect for digging or… other less wholesome uses.
Bellon leaned back, letting out a long, slow breath. The preparations were done. Now it was a matter of waiting for the right time.
---
The night deepened. The world outside grew still, save for the occasional whisper of wind through the eaves. Bellon sat with a book open in his lap, though his eyes rarely moved across the pages. He was waiting for the signal.
It came suddenly—three sharp squeaks in quick succession.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
The rat's call.
Bellon's eyes snapped open. His heartbeat quickened, but his hands were steady. He rose, slipped the book back into place on the shelf, and climbed out through the window without a sound.
---
Down below, Maester Yarlin was already waiting, dressed entirely in black. He carried a large wooden bucket, the lid rattling faintly as the live fish inside flopped and thrashed. In the torchlight, Bellon noticed something unusual: a bulge at Yarlin's waist. It wasn't often that the old man carried a sword.
"Lead the way, Maester Yarlin," Bellon said softly.
The old man nodded without expression, and the two of them set off toward the volcano. Neither spoke. Each step forward was silent, deliberate, and filled with unspoken intent.
---
The further they went, the quieter the world became.
The glow of Dragonstone Castle faded behind them until the darkness swallowed everything but the dim flames in their hands. Even the wind seemed to still, as though holding its breath.
Bellon studied Yarlin's back. The old man's hair might have been gray, but his movements were steady, his pace unhurried. Age hadn't robbed him of his strength. Still, Bellon reminded himself—he was young, quick, and prepared. In a fair fight, the difference in years would matter little.
The ground grew warmer underfoot as they neared the volcano.
Suddenly, Yarlin stopped. His right hand slid down to the hilt of his sword.
Bellon had been waiting for just such a moment.
---
His left hand snapped forward, hurling one of the lit candles toward the back of Yarlin's head. At the same instant, his right hand summoned a spear from his inventory.
In one fluid motion, he lunged upward from behind, driving the spearhead into Yarlin's backside with brutal force.
[Critical Damage: ×66]
Small, blood-red text flashed briefly in the air. Yarlin grunted in pain, twisting away from the candle instinctively, only for agony to explode through his lower body.
"Ah!" The cry was torn from his throat before he could stifle it.
Bellon released the spear and summoned a sword in the blink of an eye. Yarlin turned, teeth gritted, and swung his own blade in retaliation.
But Bellon rolled low, sliding between the older man's legs, and as he passed under him, he thrust his sword upward in a precise, vicious strike. Yarlin's legs buckled, and he collapsed with a strangled groan.
Before the man could recover, Bellon had another spear in hand. The tip gleamed in the flickering light, and with a single, practiced motion, he rammed it deep into Yarlin's neck.
Blood fountained, splattering across the ground, the metallic scent instantly thick in the air.
Yarlin fell to his knees, both hands clutching the spear shaft as if he could somehow pull it free. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, blood bubbling past his lips.
Bellon didn't hesitate. With one final stroke, he brought his sword down across Yarlin's throat, ending it.
---
The Maester's body was still. His once-pristine beard was matted with blood, his robes soaked through. Several blades and spears jutted from his body, making him look almost like some grotesque pincushion.
Just in case, Bellon kicked the man's sword away and stabbed him again in the neck, ensuring there was no chance of survival.
The smell of blood was thick now, mingling with the salty tang of the nearby sea.
Only when Bellon was certain did he pull his weapons free, wiping the blades on the grass with a grimace. They could be cleaned properly later.
---
He stood over the body for a long moment, staring down at the lifeless figure. The fight had been… too quick. There had been no prolonged clash, no drawn-out duel—just a swift, brutal execution.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the tacky stickiness of drying blood. It was the first time he had killed a man. He had expected nausea, fear, perhaps even trembling hands. But instead, there was only a strange calm. The lemon slice he had brought to steady himself remained untouched.
He knew why. Even if someone discovered this, there would be no price to pay.
He sighed quietly, the sound lost to the sea breeze.
Bending down, he tugged a ring from Yarlin's cold hand. The flesh was already stiffening. Bellon shivered slightly at the chill. At least this saved him the trouble of hunting the ring down elsewhere.
Four rings now sat in his inventory.
---
Then his gaze fell back to the corpse. An idea struck him. The inventory couldn't hold living creatures—but a corpse was no longer alive. Could it be stored?
A quick test confirmed it could. That would save him the trouble of dragging the body himself.
Before storing Yarlin away, Bellon stripped off the old man's black robe, soaked it in seawater, and used it to wipe away the bloodstains from the surrounding ground. The waves would take care of the rest.
With the body now hidden in his inventory, Bellon turned toward Longshan.
---
The moment he reached the base of the mountain, a blast of hot air hit him in the face. The volcano loomed above, its slopes glowing faintly red in the darkness.
He didn't waste time. Pulling Yarlin's corpse back out, he dumped it unceremoniously onto the ground. Then he scattered a handful of spider glands over the body—the strong scent would attract attention quickly.
Without looking back, Bellon slipped away, ducking into a narrow rock crevice to wait.
---
The night was still for a moment. Then, from the darkness, a deep, resonant roar split the air. It was followed by the rush of wings and the faint, trembling heat of something massive approaching.
A streak of bright yellow fire lit up the slope where the body lay. Dragonflame roared, consuming everything in its path.
Yarlin's remains were reduced to ash in seconds.
Bellon allowed himself a thin smile. The evidence was gone.
---
Far above, the sky was heavy with clouds. Bellon tilted his head upward and guessed from their weight and color that tomorrow would bring a heavy rain.
And when that rain came, it would wash away even the faintest traces of what had happened tonight.
In the end, it would be remembered simply as this:
Maester Yarlin, foolish in his old age, had taken fish from the kitchens and gone alone to Longshan in the dead of night, seeking to feed a wild dragon.
And in doing so… he had brought about his own end..