The second half of the patrol was calmer, though stray monsters still popped up—shadowy things in every shape imaginable, all of them weak and easy to put down.
According to Reslin, these were gray-tier creatures, the lowest spawn of the Black Fog. Battlefield ash. Dust you brush aside. Not even a factor in real fights. Even a normal civilian—if they've got guts and know their way around a weapon—can handle one.
Out where the Fire's reach is thinner, you see them at night a lot. Usually they're harmless: they shy from light, and as long as the ward-lantern's on, they won't venture into a home. But leave them alone long enough and they start to mutate in the mist—feeding on each other, nesting, levelling up into real threats. The Fog thickens, more nasties show, and they start ambushing anything alive, warm, and bright.
When that happens, the Survey Corps teams up with a frontline unit or a battle cluster and forms a kill-squad to clear the area.
"Not inside the Royal City though," Reslin said.
"Except the sewers," Calamon added.
"Why?" Rod asked.
"Because the sewers are huge. Constant cleaning would kill us. We keep the surface clear so nothing pops up, but nobody goes mid- or deep-sewer unless something special kicks off."
"Why build them that big?"
"No clue. City of Giants, right? Maybe giant…well, you can guess."
That was the end of that topic.
They did handle one special case: a fully formed three-headed hound shattered a ward-lantern and forced its way into a home. The residents yanked their alarm-bell. From over a thousand meters out, Rod spotted the rippling air and warned Reslin. The four of them sprinted, and made it just in time—monster down, family of four saved.
The husband was torn open—intestines out. Rod figured he was done for, but Calamon pressed a hand to the wound; pale blue ripples spread under his palm and the gash knit visibly. The man stayed ghost-pale, but his breathing steadied.
The wife clung to Calamon's leg, sobbing thanks. They had no money, she said—their alarm-bell was the cheapest kind, too faint for most wardens to notice. Her husband had always said luck would hold as long as the lantern stayed lit. It hadn't.
Their two daughters hugged her and cried. They'd lost all hope—then the "four uncles" came and saved them.
Mortified, Calamon pointed at Rod. "Thank this uncle. He saw the alarm ripple. Without him we wouldn't have known."
Reslin was firm: "You got lucky. If Uncle Rod here didn't have freak-tier soul-sight, you'd be corpses. Alarm-bells are a must. No matter how poor you are, don't cheap out on that."
The girls dabbed each other's tears, turned with blossom-wet faces to Rod, and chirped in unison: "Thank you, Big Bro Rod!"
…
Back at the Iron Cross ward office, Calamon was still salty. "Why am I 'uncle' and he gets 'big bro'?"
Reslin and Aiger were dying. Aiger thumped Calamon's knee. "Look at Rod's baby-smooth face. Dude's prettier, younger, and taller than you. If you looked like him, Dona wouldn't have bailed."
"Shut it, pipsqueak!" Calamon flared.
"Pipsqueak? I'm one-seventy! You're barely taller!"
Before clock-out they crossed paths with the ward's real on-call sentinel: a man in a half iron mask, cold and silent. Per Reslin, official wardens are all level-seven-and-up fighters, way stronger than the patrols—the real safety net for the block, the ones who handle what we can't. Rod's spirit-whistle and flare were for calling him.
The masked guy didn't chat—just brushed past and handed over to the warden-chief.
Tonight had gone smooth; the chief was grinning so wide his big scar looked friendly. He couldn't stop praising them.
"Good, good—excellent work, boys. I knew you were the best. Reed, solid. Casey, solid. And Lulu—always our ace. As for Rod—no wonder you're a Special—textbook performance. The Treacey family will remember you for life. I'll note everything in detail—your tutors will be proud."
Rod felt awkward. Aside from that last save, he'd barely done anything. The monsters were so weak he hardly needed to call anything out; even the patrol report was written by Reslin. He'd been the one clinging to thighs all night, and somehow the chief thought he was the lead.
Reslin's trio didn't mind. On the double-decker spiritbus back to Goldworth, they said they were thrilled to have him—his monstrous soul-sight patched their entire team's "dead-wood" deficiency, and his dirty jokes were cinematic, vivid, and—uh—motivational. They were hyped for tomorrow.
Rod finally relaxed. Seemed these three big thighs were officially his to hug. Once again, the fastest way for men to bond: raunchy jokes.
Back in his dorm, Rod tallied the haul.
All told, the patrol was a win. He hit his target and banked over ninety Dust-Like Souls. Yet even dumping them all into Wintry Azure, the status only crawled to Weak Flame, and Strength nudged from 2 to 3.
When he first lit it, its Strength had been 13.
Maybe the mobs were just too weak. Their souls were dust—literally.
I need more and stronger souls—ideally enough to lock it like Devourer's "Constant Flame."
But…
He eyed the spirit-gun's cylinder. Of the fifty true-silver rounds, only five remained. He still owed the broker three-hundred-fifty silver, and Casha had fronted two hundred for that water-tower fiasco—she hadn't said it was a gift.
Not a coin saved; debts already five-hundred-fifty.
Money was now a problem.
Borrow first, pay back after I win Goldworth's Star. Ten thousand silver from first-tier Star would clear everything.
With that settled, Rod flopped onto the bed to grab an hour—but it felt like he'd just shut his eyes when someone shook him awake.
"Class time, lazybones!"
He cracked an eye. Casha's bright blue gaze and gold fringe filled his world. The girl was getting bolder by the day—she let herself in every time, no matter what he was doing.
Maybe it was last night's spirit drain, but Rod's skull throbbed. He was wrecked. "You guys go ahead? I need ten more minutes."
Her brows shot up. She yanked him off the mattress, shoved shoes onto his feet herself, and hauled him out the door.
Team Ten was already in the hall. Every pair of eyes looked at dozy Rod with awe—no one else would dare mouth off like that to Casha, and no one else would get away with it. Anyone not named Rod got the Iron Fist alarm clock.
—She was the only one in the squad who'd awakened her fireseed abilities: Steel Might and Iron Hardening, both brute-force monsters. The whole group together couldn't take her. That made her both the icon of Team Ten and a waking nightmare for lads like Wayne and green-mop Zales.
On the way, Casha hammered on the importance of this lecture—an adjusted course tailored for their upcoming patrol duties. She also warned them selections had begun at the section level. Everyone needed to be razor-sharp and push for Team Ten to score "Outstanding Section," which came with real goodies: dragon-hand grass oil, seven-hue spore powder—prime stuff for awakening spirit and unlocking abilities.
That last bit woke everyone up. Half the team still hadn't awakened at all; the only one actually using her fireseed was Casha. Bottom-tier stats for their section, and invisible in the entire Third College.
No wonder she'd been more…intense lately. Nobody wanted to cross her.
Except Rod.
He, aside from Casha, was the star of Team Ten—a real shot at Goldworth's Star, which would boost the section's score. So she gave him slack.
Wayne and Green-Mop no longer envied him. Marrying a woman like that? Future looked…painful.
…
In class, Rod forced himself to focus. He had to bag Goldworth's Star. First in the entire year was the goal; unrestricted campus access was the pivot of everything—and crucial to staying alive.
Today's big lecture: Common Monster Habits and Traits.
The instructor was a slightly unhinged old man—white hair, creased face, one blind eye, a prosthetic right leg.
"ALERT!"
He barked it the instant he limped through the door, making the whole hall jump.