LightReader

Chapter 13 - Spoils

"Like taking candy from a child. Shameful only if the child had a future. This one was already bent—maybe before the hoods found him. They just handed him the rope and called it a ladder."

He set the Short Sword, left-handed, and finished what the point had started. One hard saw across the neck, clean and quick. He wrapped the hair in the cult cowl so it wouldn't paint the grass, then lowered the weight into the satchel.

[Stored: Mathis's Head — Miscellaneous]

"Methods," he told the quiet. "And the promised head."

Then the pockets.

He stripped the robe from the body—a novice's habit dyed a vain violet, the color cults confuse with mystery. Same tier as his own, which made it useless except as cloth.

[Penumbra Initiate Habit — Dyed Cloth (Violet) — L1] → [Stored]

"I won't be mistaken for a penumbra," he said, dry. "Keep it for patches."

A brooch pinned beneath the collar caught a smear of light: a sliver of dusk, day surrendering to night in polished metal—the Order's little sermon in shape.

[Brooch of the Penumbra — Token] → [Stored]

"Culum sleeps lightly," he murmured. "Less noise than last age, still breathing. Keep the mask. It will fit other faces."

He turned the belt and found the expected knife.

[Initiate's Dagger — Steel — L1] → [Stored]

Sandals laced with stained thong; trousers better than the starter rags he wore—thicker weave, fewer lies.

[Unequipped: Poor Boots — Leather — L1] → [Stored]

[Equipped: Worn Sandals — Poor Leather — L1]

[Unequipped: Starter Trousers — Poor Cloth — L1] → [Stored]

[Equipped: Sturdy Trousers — Common Cloth — L1]

He shook the purse. Five coins rang like a modest opinion.

[Coins: +5 Bronze]

"Bronze, truly," he said, amused. "On the inside too."

He checked once more—no hidden pockets, no second blade, no ring to pretend at rank—then let the overlay rise for the thing that mattered. The bar had moved; the points were waiting.

[INT +1] [WIS +1] [STR +1] [PER +1]

Numbers turned where they needed to.

INT 9 · WIS 8 · STR 5 · PER 6(DEX 1 · CON 1 · STA 1 · WIL 3 · CHA 1 · PRV 2)

HP: 70

IP: 70

Breath: 32

[Skill Points: 1] — held.

"Later," he told the last cold light. "You'll earn your keep."

He eased up to the lip, just enough crown showing to be mistake and not man. Perfect Sight rose and wrote its cold captions over fur.

Direwolf — Level 7.Direwolf — Level 8.

"Make this work," he told the dirt.

He took Mathis by the wrist and shoulder, twisted until the old hinge gave. No drama. No prayer. An arm came free of a life that had already left. He lobbed it downslope toward the bristle and grunt below, then followed it with a stone thrown mean and low. Meat for scent, pain for clarity.

Brush shivered. The Razorback answered with a satisfied grunt and tore into the gift a dozen paces under the trees.

"Good. Stay busy."

He hooked his hands under what was left of Mathis and levered the body up onto the crown. One quick breath. Then he heaved it over to the wolves' side.

For a heartbeat both shapes froze, surprise doing its simple math at the sight of meat that fell from an empty sky. Instinct found the conclusion; they hit the corpse like it had debts. Teeth worked. Growls braided.

He didn't wait. He slid out of the hole, kept low, and let gravity write the first lines. When he reached the flank, he put the mound at his back and threw the rest of Mathis—spine-first—down toward the wolves to keep them honest. Free food makes poor soldiers.

Then he ran.

Not hard—enough to be certain. He spent Breath in coins, not handfuls, saving a clean edge for the wall. Behind him the feast turned to argument in the time it takes hunger to remember pride.

Snarls climbed into yelps. Something heavier broke brush with a bad temper and a better claim. Tusks spoke the language of eviction. The sounds changed from eating to lawsuit.

He smiled without heat. "Let the court convene."

He slid back from the rim and took cover behind a tree—near enough to see, far enough not to be chosen.

[Breath 16/32]

He watched the lawsuit unfold: wolves snarling, the Razorback arriving like a verdict. Perfect Sight rose and wrote the cold line above bristle.

Razorback — Level 12.

"Stronger than your cousin," he noted, flat. The wolves had pride; they didn't have odds.

He let his lungs quiet.

[Breath 20/32] … [Breath 22/32]

He timed the exchanges: the boar's drives, the wolves' cut-ins, the little silences before weight decided. First wolf overreached; the tusk answered. It went down hard, legs arguing with commands that didn't arrive.

The second hung on—pinned against brush, mouth full of foam, still biting because math hadn't reached him yet.

Nameless moved. Slow. Low. A patient arc to the Razorback's blind quarter.

When the back opened—hide drawn tight over the ridge where muscle ran taut—he raised his right hand and let the world forget a small piece of itself.

Doubt.

[Doubt — 35 Damage]

[IP 70 → 47]

The boar screamed—a furnace note—and he was already withdrawing, clean and quiet, into a new line.

The head began to turn, rage smelling for a face.

The cornered wolf chose that heartbeat. It launched, teeth to ham, all pain and no plan. The Razorback faltered sideways, attention pulled back to the thing that looked like prey and wouldn't die yet.

Nameless slipped behind a boulder the size of a cart wheel and let stone edit him out. The boar swung once, half-committed to the new scent, and then forgot—anger re-anchored to the wolf's last, stupid courage. The wolf made it count—two more rakes, a desperate clamp, a swan's last song.

"Take your bow," he murmured.

The Razorback gathered itself for the finishing charge—low, murderous, everything in it committed to erasing one problem forever.

He moved.

He spent everything his lungs had left on the first step and didn't stop spending until there was no price left to pay.

[Breath 22/32 → 0/32]

He ran the angle he'd measured twenty heartbeats ago, hit bristle at speed, and climbed—boots finding purchase because desperate things have a grain. In the same motion he cracked the seal inside his ribs and poured a third of his reserve into the one trick that didn't care about hide.

Hands to skull. Doubt again—this time through bone.

[Doubt — 50 Damage (Critical)]

[IP 47→ 24]

The boar's legs forgot to be legs. It drove the tusk anyway—momentum finishing the thought it had started—then folded, heavy as an argument that lost its point mid-sentence. The wolf collapsed with it, breath leaving in a thin question.

Silence took the clearing the way law takes a room after a hanging.

He stepped clear, empty-lunged, hands steady. The overlay stayed honest and quiet.

[XP Gained: Kill — Razorback (L12)]

[XP +134]

[Level Up]

Emperor — Level 6.

[Intellectual attack +7]

[Intellectual attack 7/10,000]

He stood a breath longer, letting the shake leave his hands. The pinned wolf wheezed under the boar's weight—eyes glass-bright, refusing the fact of it.

[Breath 5/32]

He stepped onto the heap, a single, tidy motion. The short sword slipped under the jaw and drew one clean line through cord and wind.

[Breath 5/32 → 0/32]

The fight in the eyes tried to hold; his cut was faster than its stubbornness. It went out.

Both wolves lay together now—the first where the tusk had taught it math, the second quiet beneath the Razorback. He'd finished his scapegoat.

[XP Gained: Kill — Direwolf (L7)]

[XP +20]

[Short Sword Proficiency +2]

[Short Sword Proficiency 12/10,000]

He let the tremor bleed off, then sat with his back to a stone and waited until breath remembered him.

[Breath 0/32 → 14/32]

Work, then. Not glory.

He rolled the Razorback onto its side, set the short sword where a knife should be, and took the tusks first—twist, cut at the gum, lever out with both hands until the roots gave.

[Razorback Tusks ×2 — Acquired]

Hide next. He opened the seam from brisket to groin, kept the edge shallow, and peeled the heavy skin in slow, patient pulls. Bristle came off in handfuls where fire had singed it earlier; he braided the longer guard-hairs by habit.

[Razorback Hide (Heavy) ×2 — Acquired]

[Razorback Bristle Bundle ×1 — Acquired]

He didn't try to take the whole beast. One man carries only so much. He dressed out the shoulders and loins, left the rest for the ridge and the sky.

[Raw Boar Meat ×8 — Acquired]

The wolves gave more cleanly: pelts first, then quick cuts for meat that would stew if anyone was hungry enough to call it food, a scatter of teeth and claws for trade.

[Wolf Pelts ×2 — Acquired]

[Wolf Meat ×4 — Acquired]

[Wolf Fangs ×4 — Acquired]

[Wolf Claws ×4 — Acquired]

He checked the ground to be sure he hadn't written a map for someone else, then turned to Mathis.

He dug a shallow grave a pace off the brush—arms and trunk together—nothing ceremonial, just depth enough to deny dogs. Two sticks, a strip of vine, a cross that would last one rain.

"Even idiots deserve a burial," he said, setting it. "At least you were useful."

He wiped the edge, checked his carry, and opened the pane to stack the day where it belonged.

[Stored: Razorback Tusks ×2]

[Stored: Razorback Hide (Heavy) ×2]

[Stored: Razorback Bristle Bundle ×1]

[Stored: Raw Boar Meat ×8]

[Stored: Wolf Pelts ×2]

[Stored: Wolf Meat ×4]

[Stored: Wolf Fangs ×4]

[Stored: Wolf Claws ×4]

[Hunter's Medium Satchel — Leather — 30 Slots]→ Used: 14 / 30 (stacked items counted per stack)

By the time the last slot flickered shut, his lungs felt like they belonged to him again.

[Breath 14/32 → 22/32]

He lifted the satchel, tested the weight, and started down off the mound toward the line that led him home.

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