Morning arrived without ceremony.
Eren woke to the muted sounds of the inn stirring—boots on wood, a chair scraping against the floor below, the low murmur of voices carrying through the thin walls. Light filtered through the shutters in narrow slats, pale and uncertain, illuminating dust that drifted lazily in the air.
For a moment, he lay still.
The town felt different in daylight. Less threatening, perhaps—but not safer. Night hid intent. Day exposed it.
He sat up and dressed without haste, movements economical. When he opened the door, the hallway was already busy. A pair of mercenaries passed him, arguing quietly over coin. A serving girl hurried past with a tray, eyes downcast. No one stopped him. No one greeted him.
That suited him.
Downstairs, Tomas was already seated at a corner table, a mug untouched in front of him. He looked up as Eren approached and gestured to the chair across from him.
"You sleep?" Tomas asked.
"Enough," Eren replied, sitting.
Tomas grunted. "Good. We don't coddle here."
He slid a folded sheet of parchment across the table. It was rough, reused—old ink scratched out and replaced with newer writing.
"Contracts," Tomas said. "Nothing official. Nothing pretty. Town business."
Eren unfolded it and scanned the contents.
Missing livestock. Disturbed fields. Two reports of attacks near the northern hills. No embellishment. No heroic framing. Just locations, dates, and crude sketches of tracks.
"These are small," Eren said.
Tomas nodded. "By design. People want to see what you do before they trust you with worse."
"And the pay?"
Tomas tapped the parchment. "Copper for confirmation. Silver for kills. More if it's clean."
Eren absorbed that.
Coin. Tangible. Measurable.
This was a different kind of reward.
"How do you verify?" Eren asked.
"Bodies if possible. Proof if not. Teeth. Ears. Sometimes just a witness who lives long enough to talk." Tomas's eye flicked up. "No theatrics."
Eren folded the parchment and stood. "Which one."
Tomas didn't hesitate. "Northern fields. Something's been stalking livestock at night. Farmers are scared. Guards are tired."
Eren nodded once.
As he turned to leave, Tomas spoke again. "This isn't a hero's job."
Eren paused. "I know."
"Good," Tomas said. "Heroes make promises. Hunters finish work."
Outside, the town was fully awake now. Smoke rose from chimneys, thin and gray. Merchants arranged goods with practiced speed. Farmers led animals through the streets, eyes sharp and suspicious.
Eren moved through it all like a passing shadow.
The fields lay just beyond the northern wall, a stretch of uneven land dotted with fences and stone markers. Crops struggled in the hard soil, rows irregular where neglect and fear had disrupted routine. A man waited near the edge, wringing his hands.
"That him?" the farmer asked when Eren approached Tomas, who had accompanied him to the gate.
"Yes," Tomas replied. "Show him where."
The farmer nodded stiffly and led Eren along the fence line. "Lost three goats in two nights. No blood left behind. Just… gone."
Eren knelt near the disturbed earth. Tracks were faint but present—light, narrow, clawed. Not goblins.
"Wolves," he said.
The farmer swallowed. "Big ones?"
"Enough," Eren replied.
The hunger stirred faintly.
Not excitement.
Recognition.
Eren followed the tracks into the low hills, moving steadily, senses stretched outward. The air carried the scent of animals and damp earth. Wind shifted unpredictably, carrying sound in fragments.
He found them near a rocky outcrop—a small pack, four wolves, their eyes glinting with unnatural awareness. Mana clung to them like a residue, warping muscle and instinct alike.
They noticed him immediately.
The first lunged.
Eren moved without thought.
The fight was brief and efficient. He did not chase unnecessarily. He did not waste movement. Each strike ended with certainty. When the last wolf fell, the silence that followed felt heavier than the battle itself.
The hunger surged—subtle, contained—but unmistakable.
Strength layered onto strength.
Not much.
Enough.
Eren stood among the bodies, breathing slow and steady. He felt no elation. No triumph.
Only confirmation.
He took what proof was needed and returned to town before dusk.
Word spread quickly.
Not loudly. Quietly.
By the time Eren reached the inn, the farmer had already paid. A small pouch of silver rested in Eren's hand, heavier than it looked.
Coin meant food. Equipment. Information.
Progress.
Tomas met him again that evening. "Clean," he said. "Efficient."
Eren nodded.
"You're learning how this place works," Tomas continued. "Keep this up, and people will stop whispering."
"And start expecting," Eren said.
Tomas smiled thinly. "Exactly."
That night, Eren sat alone in his room, turning the coin between his fingers.
The hunger was quiet.
It had been fed.
Not by mercy.
Not by hesitation.
By work.
Eren lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
This world did not reward intention.
It rewarded results.
And tomorrow, the work would be harder.
The hunger would be watching.