…That same night a few miles away from Zhu's safe zone…
The forest's unnatural quiet shattered beneath the thunder of hunting hounds.
They tore through the undergrowth in a snarling tide, muscles taut, breath steaming as iron collars glinted against their dark fur. Their eyes burned with trained purpose, noses low to the ground as they followed a scent only they could perceive. Behind them ran their handler, a man clad in forest-green leathers and reinforced overalls, worn but meticulously maintained. His cloak was pinned tight to his shoulders, marked with the sigil of the guild, an old fashion loin roaring.
The handler's expression was filled with urgency and discipline rather than fear.
The party burst into a clearing and the camp revealed itself.
Torches ringed the perimeter, their flames guttering low despite the lack of wind, casting warped shadows that crawled across canvas and earth. Several tents stood in parallel lines, almost military in their precision. At the center, dominating the formation, loomed a massive command tent reinforced with rune-stitched seams and iron stakes driven deep into the ground.
Near its edge stood a bloody spike.
Mounted upon it was the severed head of a Nyxric. Its mouth was frozen open in a silent snarl, fangs bared, eyes dull and lifeless. Even in death, its final expression was fierce and defiant. Dark blood had long since soaked into the soil beneath, staining the ground black and drawing flies that buzzed thickly in the torchlight.
Servants moved quietly through the camp, heads bowed, their hands busy with menial tasks. Carrying crates, stoking fires, cleaning blood from weapons they refused to look at too closely. Armed guards patrolled between the tents in pairs, armor muted and practical, hands never straying far from their blades. Their eyes scanned the tree line constantly, wary of what the forest might send next.
The houndmaster slowed as they reached the heart of the camp. The well trained hounds moved to their cages while the servants closed them in. While they were trained the dark mana may cause them to go berserk, in that case it it better to be safe than sorry. The houndmaster jogged to the command tent, dropped to one knee, and bowed his head.
"Report for Guild Master Brian," he called out sharply.
The torchlight flickered.
And somewhere inside the tent, something shifted.
Shadows flickered against the canvas, but no one responded to his words. The scout remained where he was, his head bowed and posture steeped in well-practiced submission. He knew better than to speak again.
Muted sounds drifted from within the tent, low voices, breathless laughter, minutes ticked by. Inside the tent the dubious sounds continued. He could hear erotic moaning, flesh slapping flesh, the squish squish wetness that left nothing to the imagination.
Whatever indulgence Guild Master Brian had chosen took precedence over reports, bloodshed, or duty. It always did.
Fifteen long minutes passed before the tent's entrance finally parted.
A figure emerged from the dim interior, adjusting his clothing with slow, unapologetic ease.
Guild Master Brian was a large man, his imposing presence owed partly to his height just over six feet but more to the confidence of someone who had never been denied anything. His build was thick and powerful, though softened by excess; a prominent gut strained against the tight fabric of his shirt as he tucked it into his trousers.
He was not handsome. His face was too broad for elegance, dominated by a heavy nose and thin, perpetually displeased lips. Thick, bushy brows cast shadows over eyes that felt sunken, not from age, but from a lifetime of looking down on others. There was no warmth in his gaze, only appetite.
Brian had been born into money and elevated further by circumstance rather than merit. As a Level D earth-element mana user, his power was respectable but unremarkable yet wealth had ensured he never faced the consequences of his limitations. Gold bought influence. Influence bought obedience. And obedience fed his cruelty.
He cared for nothing beyond immediate pleasure and gratification. Lives, contracts, even guild members were expendable so long as his desires were met.
A servant hurried forward, head lowered, and placed a heavy chair behind him. Other servants quietly shrank themselves. The camp that was somewhat lively with working people a few minutes ago was now quiet and almost deserted. Brian dropped into the chair without acknowledgment, spreading himself comfortably as though the camp were his personal estate.
Only then did the scout dare to lift his eyes still silent, still waiting.
Guild Master Brian leaned back, fingers drumming against the armrest.
"Now," he said at last, voice thick with entitlement, "let's hear that report."
The big man snapped his fingers.
From within the tent emerged a trio of beautiful young women, bare from the waist up, their movements practiced and unhurried. Soft giggles followed them as they swayed toward their master, pressing close as though drawn by gravity itself. They draped themselves over him without hesitation, familiarity evident in every touch.
Brian hooked one arm around two of them, hauling them closer as his hands roamed possessively, his attention fixed solely on his own amusement. The women laughed quietly, their eyes carefully averted, their smiles polished and hollow.
This was Brian's private hunting party.
They had ventured into the forest not for duty or guild contracts, but for sport hunting high-value prey meant to be claimed, displayed, and enjoyed. Brian was not a man who shared prizes. Partners meant division, and division meant less gratification. So he came alone, surrounded only by those who served him.
They had stayed in the forest far longer than was wise.
Even with the protective barrier surrounding the camp, the dark mana saturated the air. It crept into lungs and bones alike, slowly weakening the mostly Level D guards and servants. Fatigue clung to them, tempers frayed, and more than one had begun to cough up darkened phlegm by nightfall.
A servant returned quietly with a goblet of deep red wine. Brian took it without looking, drinking deeply before exhaling in satisfaction. Comfortable now, indulgent, he waved one thick hand toward the kneeling scout.
"Proceed."
The scout straightened slightly, careful not to meet his gaze.
"We tracked the den of the female Nyxric, sir. It was empty. There were clear signs that the cubs had been there, but someone reached them first. We are currently tracking the other party and expect to intercept them by morning. Once our trackers confirm their location, the communication beacon will notify us."
Brian's lips pulled back into a grin, revealing large, yellowed teeth.
"Good. Very good." His voice rumbled low and pleased. "Make preparations to welcome our visitors to our humble camp site."
The smile never reached his eyes.
The laugh that burst from the man sent a chill through everyone within earshot. It was low and jagged, steeped in malice, and it lingered far longer than comfort allowed. Guards stiffened. Servants lowered their heads. Even the hounds fell silent.
When it finally faded, Brian leaned forward in his chair.
"Is that all?" he asked.
The scout bowed even deeper. "No, my master. There appear to be no more than two members in the party we are tracking, and neither displays high-level mana."
Guild Master Brian stroked his thick, snarled beard, dark fingers moving slowly as he considered the news. Then his lips curled.
"Very good. Very good." His grin widened, ugly and anticipatory. "Tomorrow will be entertaining. I expect we will have… quite a bit of fun."
With a careless motion, he shoved one of the women toward the scout. "Here. A reward for your work. Enjoy it."
The scout froze for only a fraction of a second before catching her. He knew better than to refuse. Bowing low, he said, "My thanks, Guild Master."
The woman's face betrayed her terror. She did not struggle, she knew what resistance earned her. Around them, several guards let their gazes linger, eyes sharp with hunger, already claiming her in their thoughts.
"When he's finished," Brian added lazily, "the rest of you may partake. I'm feeling generous tonight."
A snap of his fingers cut through the murmurs. Another woman emerged from the tent, her movements slow, practiced, empty. In the center of the camp, beneath flickering torchlight, Brian made no effort to conceal himself he pulled down his pants and she attended to him, as though the camp were nothing more than an extension of his personal quarters.
No one looked away.
This spectacle was not new. The camp, made up mostly of guards and servants, had long learned to endure such nights in silence. Wine flowed. Laughter rose and fell. Torches burned low as the hours dragged on.
Brian drank deeply, indulged freely, and reveled in his excess, convinced, utterly certain, that he had many more days ahead of him.