Chapter 3: ghouls

Lane carefully employed the fan-sniffing method, releasing a thin trail of mist and inhaling it slowly. He had to ensure that the magically charged fog wasn't laced with poison or other harmful properties.

If the bio-computer implanted in his brain—courtesy of his journey through the Void Sea—had any available processing power left, he could have simply touched the mist and instantly analyzed its effects. But, alas, that luxury was gone. The computer's resources were currently tied up, leaving his high-tech brain's abilities severely limited.

A sharp tang hit his nostrils, but his mutated body quickly adapted. Lane gave a slight nod. The mist could scorch the lungs of an ordinary man within five minutes, but for a hunter like him, it was merely uncomfortable—irritating, yes, but not dangerous. At least not for the next half hour. It wouldn't hinder combat.

His thin leather boots stepped cautiously into the swirling fog.

With a soft scrape, Lane drew his steel sword. The hilt was made of wood, the crossguard and blade a dull iron-grey steel. A typical Weyland longsword from the province, cheap and unimpressive, but reliable enough. It lacked the magical properties of silver that could subdue monsters, but it was far from useless against creatures of flesh and bone.

From what Lane had gathered, this particular hunt originated from a village elder nearby. He claimed that this valley once housed patches of a rare, beautiful fungus, the only thing the village could sell for a decent price to merchants from Gos-Wilen, the capital. But a year ago, the fog had rolled in, and anyone who ventured into the valley to collect the mushrooms never returned. Now, the village didn't even have a working piece of iron farming equipment left—because they had no money to buy one.

After Lane and Boldon had arrived, the villagers scraped together the last of their savings—fifty-three Aurums—to hire the two "mutants" to clear the cursed mist from the valley. The elder had practically thrown the advance payment at them, his face twisted in disgust and fear, as though dealing with lepers.

That memory gnawed at Lane, reminding him that even if he managed to rid himself of his so-called "teacher," his future wouldn't be any brighter. But that was a concern for later. For now, he had more immediate dangers to deal with.

Lane's amber, cat-like eyes stung as they cut through the toxic fog, but he resisted the urge to blink. His enhanced senses, a product of the hunter's brutal mutations, were gradually sharpening. This was the key to a hunter's strength: a body altered by alchemy, magic, and pathogens, capable of sensing, fighting, and surviving in ways no normal human could.

His leather boots barely made a sound against the overgrown weeds beneath his feet, the faintest whisper of a rustle, like a mosquito's wing brushing the air.

There were no other sounds—no heavy breathing, no thudding heartbeat from a lurking monster. Only the faint echo of his own footsteps and those of Boldon behind him. Remarkably, Boldon's movements were even quieter, his footfalls and heartbeats barely perceptible, despite the fact that he stood almost two meters tall and wore heavy, composite armor.

Lane couldn't help but picture it in his mind—a film reel of violence: Boldon casually lifting a grown man by the neck with one hand and snapping his spine with a flick of his wrist. His "master" could do that without breaking a sweat.

As Lane crept forward, something unusual flickered in his heightened senses—a disturbance, faint but undeniable.

The vertical sl*t of Lane's cat-like pupils sharpened, zeroing in on the disturbance.

"Underground. It's trembling... No, it's digging!"

The earth and rocks shifted as something burrowed beneath the surface. Lane's mind raced—not a Mist Demon!

Before he could fully process it, his body reacted on instinct. His spine arched like a startled cat, and in a swift motion, he sprang backward, leaping nearly a meter away.

With a sudden whump, a gnarled, humanoid claw burst from the ground, scattering dirt and stones in every direction.

A moment later, the creature emerged fully from the soil. It was short, barely reaching the height of a human's stomach, and its grotesque, grey skin gleamed in the fog. Its mouth, stained with blood, stretched into a twisted grin, and the rolls of fat around its neck made it impossible to see where its head ended and its body began. Slippery, vicious, and undeniably dangerous.

Lane's grip on his sword momentarily loosened, then tightened again as he recalibrated his stance. He knew exactly what he was up against.

A Sinister Ghost—another carrion-feeder, much like the Mist Demons, though individually weaker. But there was a significant difference.

They swarm.

A saying from the continent floated through his mind: "If a monster's weak alone, it'll make up for it by swarming."

As if on cue, the fog filled with a cacophony of howls—an unsettling, rising chorus of screeches and growls that sent a chill down Lane's spine.

His heart sank. Boldon, his so-called "master," had misjudged the enemy to save time. Or maybe, just maybe, he knew exactly what was coming but chose to send Lane in first anyway.

Lane shot a quick glance over his shoulder. Through the mist, the giant silhouette of Boldon loomed, standing still and making no move to assist. Lane knew what the veteran hunter was thinking.

Why risk your own neck when you can send a tool ahead to test the waters?

Boldon was watching the confrontation with cold, calculating eyes, ready to see whether the real threat—a Mist Demon—might still be lurking. For him, there was no such thing as too much caution. And Lane, to him, was nothing more than expendable insurance.

But Lane had long since stopped trusting the man with his life.

Seventeen Sinister Ghosts—Lane's sharp eyes scanned the mist, counting their numbers. He could already feel them circling.

"Quinn and swordsmanship—it's all I've got."

His mind raced as he assessed the situation. The lessons drilled into him by his so-called "teacher" flashed through his thoughts. Quinn, the protective sign, and the Bear School's sword techniques—his only defenses against the horde closing in.

Seventeen Sinister Ghosts—a force powerful enough to wipe out an entire village in the sparsely populated region of Wilen.

Most villages in Wilen, counting the elderly, the weak, and the women, barely numbered twenty to thirty souls. In the face of such a horde, even a well-armed settlement would fall quickly.

Yet, the young man who had only undergone the Demon Hunter's mutation a month ago, who had been holding a sword and practicing seals for a mere three weeks, showed no trace of fear. His expression was as cold and unyielding as ice.

"Yeah, I'll manage."

It was the kind of confidence only a Demon Hunter could possess.

Three weeks of training—an ordinary person, even with the right method, would take that long just to learn how to swing an axe without tiring themselves out, let alone mastering the precision required. And that was only chopping wood. When it came to swordsmanship, where stances, terrain, and unpredictable opponents all played a part, it wasn't uncommon for a person to spend a year or two just grasping the basics.

But Lane wasn't just grasping the basics. He wasn't simply holding the sword. He was prepared to use it.

His mind raced, completing a swift assessment of the enemies around him. The monsters, sensing fresh blood, grew agitated, their discipline unraveling at the scent of prey so foolish as to step into their lair.

It was unclear which one moved first, but the pack of Sinister Ghosts surged forward all at once. The fight had begun.

~~~~~~

Four soldiers, clad in Tymorian armor, made their way toward the valley, where the thick magical fog coiled like a living thing.

From the backs of their horses, they spat, laughed, and traded vulgar jokes, the kind that only soldiers seem to find amusing. But beneath their grins lurked something colder. The hardened indifference of men who've seen enough of life—and death—to be numb to both.

Among them was a crossbowman, a bowman, a halberdier, and their captain, who wielded a sword and shield. The captain's shield, strapped to his back, gleamed with the white lily emblem of Tamoria, freshly painted on a blue field.

The crossbowman had just finished a tasteless joke involving a wh*r* and a werewolf, earning a chorus of rough laughter. But as the laughter died down, he cast a wary glance at his captain.

"Captain," he began, hesitating. "You think we'll be all right? Against that mutant freak, I mean."

Before the captain could respond, the halberdier snorted and spat.

"Freak or not, you scared? Look around. We're four good men here! First sign of trouble, you and the bowman will stick him full of arrows before he can even draw breath. And that's a crossbow you're holding, right? A d*mn good one. No one dodges a crossbow bolt."

The halberdier smirked, shaking his head as if the thought itself was absurd.

"Yeah, but..." The crossbowman's voice still wavered. "I've heard stories. They say those freaks... can use magic."

At the mention of magic, the air between them seemed to grow heavier. Even the confident halberdier shifted uneasily in his saddle, as if the word itself was a curse.

The captain chose this moment to speak. He lifted a small pendant hanging around his neck, a turtle-shaped stone worn smooth by touch.

"Relax," he said, his voice steady. "Lord Veselard gave us this. Told me it'll keep any of those dirty spells away."

The men eyed the turtle stone with a newfound sense of security. Common folk whispered that such stones could ward off magic. And if the captain said it, well—it had to be true.

The tension eased. Even the crossbowman's face broke into a smile as they rode on, following the narrow woodland path until the fog-cloaked valley came into view.