Lakeside Town.
The Adventurers' Guild hall erupted in chatter.
Gauss was tired. From last night until dusk today, he'd been hunting almost nonstop. Even with his monstrous stamina, fatigue was setting in. Still, seeing his name finally hit the top—he'd be lying if he said it didn't feel good.
Human competitiveness…
Hands on hips, Gauss shook his head.
"Too strong."
"Finally first," Alia beamed at the board, proud.
"'Finally'… he did it in a single day," Serandur chuckled, shaking his head.
"This is where Sir Gauss belongs," Albena nodded.
Others might not know how frightening Gauss was—his teammates certainly did. In the business of monster culling, he was a monster. Until there's a real gap in power, none of them could imagine the kind of rival who could beat Gauss at this.
"Hey!"
"Herbert's score just changed again!"
Just as they turned to leave, the board shifted.
Herbert: 1117
Herbert had logged his points and snatched back the crown. Gauss's 907 slipped to second.
Many eyes cut toward Gauss's party. It seemed most already knew who he was. But there wasn't much schadenfreude in their looks—everyone understood: if someone could claim first in a single day, reclaiming it later would be as easy as breathing.
Some people score perfect because they barely strain to; some score perfect because the exam itself tops out there. The number looks the same—but the gulf beneath it is enormous.
"Sir Gauss! Want to pick up another job?" Albena cracked her knuckles, as if her rank had been overtaken.
Alia and Serandur glanced at Gauss too. One word from him, and even with the sun gone they'd head out and take it back.
"Let it be." Gauss smiled wryly and waved them off. It wasn't worth fussing over. He wasn't in a rush; he just had to lead at the end. He was tired. He'd done enough for today.
A few in the crowd saw him shake his head and whisper to his companions—they guessed he wouldn't be moving tonight. Sighs followed; they'd hoped to see him surge back on the spot. No skin off their nose, but while they were all working out of Lakeside, it felt a bit like rooting for the home team.
"He's rattled—Herbert's actually rattled."
"I've watched the board for days—he always logs in the morning."
"Can you blame him?"
"He'll only be first for the night anyway."
No one came up to chat. When you're a bit ahead, people get jealous; when you're far ahead, all that's left is admiration and a touch of fear. Under those respectful looks, Gauss left the hall.
…
The quiet night drifted by. After dinner, they walked along Blue Lake, admiring the glowing-blue water and watching the nighttime sail-race. Another amateur event—each skiff's sail had been treated to scatter moonlight into iridescence, so even at night you could track the race.
It wasn't a straight sprint; boats had to round glowing buoys in a set bay—three laps to win. Spectators could back a boat and place small bets. The shoreline roared; people cheered family, friends, or their wagered favorites. The breeze was cool and kind. Gauss and company leaned on the rail to watch from above.
"Pretty lively."
"I think the maple-leaf skiff's got it," Alia pointed, tracking the wakes.
Letting your mind go blank and just enjoying a rare idle moment had its own flavor. Adventuring wasn't all blood and steel—there were sights and seasons worth savoring.
Alia guessed wrong. On the third lap at the last buoy, the leading maple-leaf boat misread the wind, bled time on the rounding, and a silver-gar skiff blasted through for a photo finish.
"Whoooa!!"
Cheers and groans erupted along the bank.
"Didn't expect the reversal," Alia sighed.
While they enjoyed the race, the other towns were anything but calm. Many entrants were already pulling strings or prodding familiar guild clerks—chiefly to verify Gauss's points.
To their despair, every inquiry—no matter how sly—came back the same: the score was valid, both in number and in time. The guild even hinted to a few over-eager snoops not to interfere with other contestants' hunts. Local festival or not, once the guild was involved, they were watching.
…
Another day dawned.
After a full night's rest, the fatigue had faded. Gauss glanced at his panel:
Total Monster Kills: 8311
Common Monster Index: 49
Just one more to hit fifty.
He'd snagged a new species last night near the job site—spineback needlefish—bringing him to 49. "Let's swing by the guild and pick a contract," he said after breakfast.
Under the usual stares, they moved into a private room to choose. The morning board was rich with fresh postings. Gauss skimmed the stone cards—goblins, kobolds, slimes… all old friends, but today was about new entries and big points: enough bodies to score, and a headliner tough enough to count.
A rush-marked contract caught his eye: purge the ettercap nest in Clearbrook Marsh.
Ettercaps: spider-men shepherding their own arachnid broods; moderate intellect; abdomen silk jets; webs by the sheet; anything entering their domain was food. An ettercap's presence turned green woods into a light-less webbed husk. The posting noted villagers missing.
"This one," Gauss decided. New entry, and—frankly—hairy things burned well. Dragons—and Gauss—both hard-countered spiders.
Alia didn't love spiders, but she didn't fear them; she nodded. Gauss glanced at Serandur, then at Albena—she wore a strained smile. "You okay?"
"I—I'm fine. Let's… let's do it."
Huh. Afraid of spiders? Hard to picture, given her size. And anyway—crabs and spiders weren't so different…
Decision made, they set out.
…
The red drake dipped low. Today's hunt wasn't lakeside—it was a murky, mist-wreathed bog. The air grew oppressive; damp rot hung under the twisted, naked branches, the ground a patchwork of muck and pools.
"This is the place," Gauss checked the map. "'Clearbrook' Marsh… truth in advertising, huh."
Hefis rumbled, tossing his head. Everything about it—thin mud on his scales, the clammy air—offended him. Red dragons hated swamps; black dragons loved them. He raised a foot, winced at the stick, and would've flown if not for Gauss's order. Still, his presence drove off the worst of the biting swarms; even the fog thinned, making the place barely tolerable.
Gauss scanned the mist as if it were air—rotted animal husks hung in nets everywhere, like ghastly ornaments in the gray. Serandur handed out antidotes; ettercap venom was no joke. The place had that hair-raising hush that made your skin crawl.
"I'll send clay scouts," Gauss said. Cloud cover made high-alt eyeing useless, so he split a handful of wasp-sized clay flyers, letting the proto-hive sense feed back. A moment later, one link dropped.
"That way—something's odd," he said, pointing. No news is sometimes news. The missing hunters came to mind—chances were slim, but you moved fast anyway. One more minute might change a family forever.
In the whiteout, visibility dropped to three meters. Beyond that—nothing.
Maggie's hair, once tied back, hung ragged—she'd cut it short with her knife along the cheek to keep it from snagging.
She trembled; cold seeped from her feet up into her bones. If she lifted her calf, she'd see her soles and shins had turned a sickly purple from the swamp's long soak. Her lips were white; her body weakening.
"Father…"
The thought of her lost father and uncle drained the last color from her face. Something was in the fog. They'd split to draw it off her. She wanted to run—to seek help outside—but the mist smothered all sense of direction. And she knew she was being watched. The thing in the fog toyed with her like a cat with a mouse.
Maybe it was just in her head—but the skittering in her ears said otherwise. Once in a while, a jagged shadow flickered at the edge of her sight. The slow, creeping terror was a hand at her throat.
Shhff… shhff…
Again! Closer this time. Maggie pressed against a crooked, half-dead tree, both hands over her mouth, tears spilling. Her life flickered before her: quick hands, her father calling her a born hunter; her first trap, first catch; the village festival… The hunts, the walks—the way her speed and reflexes slowly outpaced grown men. If only they'd had the money for a first skill…
She clung to happy thoughts, swallowing dry. The noise—further, fainter… "Is it gone? …Saved…"
Her back was drenched; her heart pounded. Relief made her knees watery. Not safe yet. She drew a breath—another—then, stiff as a board, craned her head around the trunk.
Five paces away in the fog a twisted silhouette stood—silent.
It had never left. It had been there all along.
It was huge. Misshapen. Ugly. No nose. A mouth slit to the ears, packed with fine, needle teeth.
Maggie's blood froze. Her mind emptied. She forgot to breathe. Terror turned her to stone.
Thwip!
Something cold wrapped her ankle. A brutal yank ripped her from the ground—
WHUMP!
She slammed into a web strung overhead.
And the nightmare's breath poured over her, death settling in like frost.
~~~
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