Chapter 18: grip strength

In this world, it's likely that only the truly wealthy or demon hunters—those who don't regard money as an issue—would wield a family heirloom sword for mere hacking.

A simple piece of iron can kill, so why waste valuable treasures in battle?

This encapsulates the challenges faced by demon hunters.

They battle monsters wielding swords worth hundreds of aurum, yet they can't convert these swords into cash for living expenses or property in the city. Few are willing to safeguard a demon hunter's possessions.

Following their visit to the blacksmith, Lane and Oriden needed to add a new element to their monster-hunting commission.

When equipment requires maintenance, the village will reimburse the costs, and the village blacksmith will accompany Lane to the master blacksmith. This is to ensure an experienced hand can prevent any inflated charges.

Though Lane had no intention of exploiting this.

"I'm not taking advantage of you. See, the armor I brought was already damaged, and I plan to pay for its repair myself," he said with a chuckle, arms crossed, a carefree look on his face.

Old Allen walked ahead, a sneer on his lips.

Sure, you plan to pay, but what if, before you save enough, a water ghost guts you for lack of armor? What if a swamp witch slits your throat? What about developing the fishing grounds? Can the village still profit? D*mn it!

Old Allen frowned at the young man's cotton armor, nearly bursting at the seams. He decided that tonight, the village's skilled women would work overtime to at least patch the outer layer of the armor he brought.

Before the fishing grounds are developed, this discounted demon hunter must survive! Even a broken finger could hinder work efficiency!

Before Lane arrived, Old Allen would never have believed he'd worry so much about a demon hunter's safety. It was expected for mutants to kill monsters, and no one cared whether they lived or died.

But now, he found himself smiling and caring like an old mother.

As they walked, Lane casually asked, "By the way, what happened to the families of those two unfortunate souls who died?"

Old Allen's pace faltered at this.

Lane's keen senses caught the moment, and he narrowed his eyes slightly.

"What happened to them?" he asked, tone indifferent yet probing.

For some reason, Old Allen felt a chill creep up his neck.

"Well, how do I say this…" Old Allen hesitated. "One family is already... dead. Little Turner chased his puppy into the woods and was torn apart by a pack of wild dogs. His screams were horrendous, driving his mother mad. She rushed in after him, and none of the men could stop her; neither returned from the woods."

The village elder sighed, but that was all—tragedies were commonplace in Wylen. His primary concern was whether the death of one family would affect the Bear School's compensation to the village.

Lane pursed his lips, sensing Old Allen's growing unease.

"Didn't you try to save them?"

"Save? How?" Old Allen sighed, shaking his head. "The wild dogs are no longer afraid of people; they've tasted human flesh. Unless you can kill them, mere threats won't work. At that time, only about a dozen men were available, including the elderly and children."

The chill at Old Allen's neck dissipated. He resumed his stride, unconcerned.

Lane followed, head bowed, his steps heavier.

What more could Lane say? He arrived in Auriden filled with gratitude and a sense of atonement. He barely knew the two farmers who had spoken for him and then lost their lives.

Yet he was a compassionate and determined man.

He came to offer help to the widows and orphans struggling to survive, devising a plan to create a situation where everyone could benefit.

But now he learned of a family's demise. There was no one to blame; it was an accident.

His heart swelled with emotions he couldn't decipher.

"There's the Little White family, over there," Old Allen pointed out as they walked.

After the rain, the wind picked up, churning the dark lake under heavy clouds. In the village, however, adults and children went about their routines.

They mended fishing nets, flipped small boats for repairs, and carried buckets filled with fish.

A woman in tattered clothes, carrying a boy, moved through the village, weary but diligent.

She fixed fishing nets for others, lending a hand wherever needed. After a brief smile, her gaze dropped, revealing a numb expression until she encountered the next villager.

The villagers accepted assistance as routine, some showing impatience and irritability. Yet the peasant woman deliberately overlooked it.

The little boy, looking undersized from malnutrition, followed her, trying to help.

He strained to push the heavy bucket of fish, his small body straining under the effort.

That wasn't play; he was genuinely struggling!

Children don't grasp complexities, but family dynamics taught them to follow the adults' lead.

So, on the face of a child who should be innocent, a forced, pleasing smile emerged after a deep breath.

That smile sent a chill through Lane.

Yet he masked his feelings.

Too much enthusiasm or anger would only make the villagers uneasy. He was here to do good, which meant accepting loss. He shouldn't dwell on such things.

The villagers' limited knowledge and understanding could lead to confusion, panic, and hostility.

Lane pressed his hand against his chest to steady himself.

But the touch of his cotton armor felt like a hard cylinder.

Inside was the storage tank containing the genetic seeds.

This time, he didn't release it, remembering the grotesque appearance of the flesh lump inside.

Instead, he tightened his grip around the glass jar, as if holding on to strength itself!