Omen kept still, his body locked in silence.
Above them, the shadows passed — wings blotting out the faint red light. Even Maloch had stopped breathing, his entire body trembling.
Status, Omen thought, his mind whispering the command.
Name: *****
Age: 1,890 years
Rank: Level 50 (Overseer) 100 %
Species: Gargoyle 90 % + Elephant 10 %
[Update Status Panel to see more information]
Omen's breath caught in his throat. His jaw tightened, and he instinctively clutched the gold box closer to his chest.
The winged beasts passed over them like a storm. Their aura pressed down on the meadow until even the soil seemed afraid to move. Then, slowly, the pressure lifted.
Maloch exhaled first — a shaky, whispered sigh. "I think they're gone."
Omen nodded once, carefully standing. The tension in his muscles eased for the first time in minutes.
Then he felt it — the gold box in his hand felt lighter.
Too light.
He looked down. Opened the lid.
Empty.
His eyes widened. "What the hell—"
He was sure Maloch hadn't touched it. Then, a realization hit. The system.
So if I hold gold too long… the system absorbs it?
That's fucking stupid.
He threw the box aside in disgust. It clattered across the grass.
Maloch's eyes lit up instantly. "Whoa—free stuff!"
Before Omen could stop him, Maloch scooped up the box and tucked it into his coat.
"Pocket Dimension," he said proudly. "Helps carry big stuff, hehe."
Omen blinked. "Where did you buy it?"
"I didn't buy it," Maloch said cheerfully. "I rented it from the Wooden Log House. Cheapest one they've got — you just have to cut your pocket open to rent it."
Omen stared. "You sacrificed your pocket… for storage?"
Maloch nodded like it was obvious. "Well, it's that or pay for a ring. Rings cost more." He wiggled his empty fingers proudly.
Omen sighed. "You're insane."
"Efficient!" Maloch corrected, then started walking toward the distant dots of movement ahead.
"Are we going toward them?" Omen asked as the meadow opened into a plain dotted with figures.
"Yup. I need to return this Pocket Dimension and sell loot. Wooden Log House buys from mercenaries like us." Maloch's grin was wide. "Let's move, Young Master. Another flock of those sky bastards might pass by."
Omen followed.
The grass rustled softly beneath their boots. From afar, the figures became clearer — workers, creatures, and giants cutting through enormous trees that bled glowing sap. Smaller animal-folk gnawed through bark while towering brutes swung axes like gods in slow motion.
Maloch gestured grandly. "We're almost there. Remember, don't tell anyone you're pure-blooded. Don't mention gold. Just… don't talk."
Omen said nothing, his eyes scanning every face. The crowd was a blend of species — horns, tusks, tails, fur, claws — all sweating and hacking at the jungle's edge.
"This," Maloch announced with mock pride, "is Wooden Log Town."
They approached a crude gate where guards checked papers from incoming laborers.
"I don't have any proof or paper," Omen said, watching the line.
"Don't worry." Maloch's smirk returned. He veered left, away from the main gate, heading toward a half-collapsed wall.
Omen followed, curious. The area was crowded with shady figures exchanging small bags and hushed words.
"This," Maloch whispered, "is the Gate of Bribe. You give something shiny, they let you in. No questions."
He casually pulled out the same gold box Omen had thrown away earlier and handed it to the scruffy men guarding the broken wall.
Omen's jaw twitched, but he stayed silent.
The men squinted at the box, appraised it, nodded once, and stepped aside.
Omen bent slightly to squeeze through the gap in the wall. Once inside, he straightened — his massive frame drawing quick glances from passers-by before they looked away hurriedly.
"They don't say anything?" he asked.
Maloch chuckled. "Hehe. Young Master, Death visits this town every other day. People learn to mind their own business."
They walked down the main street. The smell of sawdust and blood mixed with sweat and smoke. Vendors shouted, trading everything from cheap blades to bottled beast blood. Every face looked tired, every smile desperate.
"Let's go to the Wooden Log House," Maloch said. "Sell my haul, cash one gold, and maybe get a drink."
Omen nodded absently, still scanning the town. "Alright. Lead the way."
The Wooden Log House was easy to spot — the largest building in town, its roof stitched from giant bark plates. A long line of workers waited outside with carts of wood and bags of monster parts.
Omen frowned. "You're not cutting the line this time?"
Maloch gave him a sideways grin. "We can't break rules everywhere, Young Master."
Omen's left eye twitched. This motherfucker is testing me.
By the time their turn came, the sky had turned dark purple. Torches flickered around the square, and the air smelled like burning sap.
Maloch looked practically giddy as they finally stepped inside.
The interior was chaos — piles of logs, crates of shining resin, workers shouting across wooden platforms. The sound of saws and clanking chains filled the air.
"Don't wander off," said a trembling voice from somewhere near the counter.
Omen turned toward it and saw an old man — small, hunched, with patchy fur and twitching ears. He looked like a monkey who'd spent too many nights drinking sawdust.
Maloch's grin widened. "Mr. Baboon!"
He approached the old clerk like a long-lost friend.
Omen followed silently, towering over them both — his mask gleaming white under the flickering torchlight.