Time slipped by.
Over the next few days, Gauss and the others first saw Andeni off. Watching her disappear at the end of the road, he felt a pang—who knew when they'd cross paths again.
On the fourth day, Gauss finally received Solin the dwarf's call to depart. The two teams met up, left Lincrown, and set out along their planned route toward the ruin.
Their mounts were standard northern stocky cobs—shoulders barely four feet high, but thick-legged with broad hooves, ideal for carrying weight through woods and rough ground.
On Solin's saddle hung several small skins that thumped softly as the horse walked—he drank often, and had tried to "sell" it to Gauss. One whiff of the stuff—straight up the skull—and Gauss declined. He stuck to very weak fruit wine, which barely qualified as wine, and even then, never outside town. Clear head first.
The ruin lay some distance from Lincrown. The ad-hoc party would hug the edge of the Jade Forest for two to three days before taking an entrance inward. No one was in a hurry.
Around noon a hot gust flattened the grass along the wild path; late-spring green rolled like waves. A bristled boar snorted out of the brush—tight-muscled, short-tusked, rootling for fat tubers, lifting its head now and then to check for hunters.
Once it saw nothing amiss, it dropped its snout again—
Fwish!!
Heat snapped in the air; a slash of red. The boar twitched—then a flaming shaft passed through both ears and out the skull, the heat snatching life in an instant.
"Not bad, Gauss," Solin called, ambling up and perking right up at the kill. He grabbed the boar by the scruff, ignoring the bristles, and lifted it easily. "About 150 pounds—two days' worth. Why not the bigger one? That one looked 400 at least."
"Enough is enough," Gauss said. "Harder to keep; you get sick of it; then it's just waste."
"Fair point." Solin slung the near-boar—nearly his own size—over one shoulder like a rag. Dwarves are strong by nature—more so a Level 5 fighter. Ten times the weight wouldn't have fazed him.
"Let's find a stream, gut it, and eat. I'm hungry."
Echo wheeled overhead and quickly found a brook. They cleared a patch. Gauss reached for his skinning knife—but Solin was already working. He bled, skinned, and dressed the boar with swift, precise cuts.
He glanced at the knife in Gauss's hand; they shared the same look—the nod of one camp cook to another. Most parties have one. It's not a "side" job; food feeds morale. A good cook makes the road lighter and the spirits higher. It's why, though they took turns, Gauss often took lead or chipped in—his knife was the best among his trio.
Solin was clearly his party's cook—and an artist. He sorted and set the cuts, then shook a few small pouches of ground spice with pride. "We dwarves don't just forge steel—we live well."
Soon they had water, a fire, and greens and herbs plucked. The smell rose. Even Gauss had to admit it: next to Solin he felt like a tinkerer. He swallowed—then kept helping.
"How about it—didn't brag," Solin preened.
"You could run a tavern," Gauss said, giving him a thumbs-up.
"Damn right."
The ingredients were simple, but under Solin's hand they sang: stew, skewers, crackling spiced skin. His blends drew out the boar's sweetness and banished the funk—nothing but savory in the mouth. He drank from his great cup and ate with gusto; the others followed suit. Gauss most of all.
"Didn't peg you for a big eater—manly," Solin said, rubbing his swollen belly and watching Gauss still going. He'd thought his appetite unmatched—then a caster out-ate him. Odd.
Even Nancy and Elton, usually composed, gave Gauss another look—his outline sharpening in their minds: a mysterious male caster who could turn draconic and put food away.
Fed and happy, they moved on. Food is the best social grease; one cookout tightened bonds. Solin even drew out Serandur and Alia—swapping stories of class, hometowns, and team-building.
They followed the forest's edge; afternoon sun stretched their shadows long.
—
Clack-clack-clack.
Scattered hoofbeats grew clearer in the dusk. Six riders approached. "Made it before dark," Nancy said, reining in as the village emerged. "Let's ask the headman for a house—pay to rent a room."
"Right," Gauss said, glancing at the run-down cluster. No inn here.
They took the dirt lane in. Hooves raised powder off cracked earth. Dead fields on both sides lay to weed; what few rows remained drooped, untended. Broken tools lay abandoned; wood swollen and rotting.
The closer they came, the more the decay pressed in: low mud-brick huts sagging together, walls split with ugly cracks, a warped sign over the gate with the name worn away. Too quiet—no evening cluck and bark, no children's laughter. Only the moan of the wind made your skin crawl.
Their arrival broke the hush. Filthy rags twitched up over windows; shadows moved; eyes peered out at the dust-caked, well-armed strangers. No one came to greet them.
"Feels… off," Solin muttered, rubbing the back of his head and taking a firmer grip on his hammer. Even his cob snorted, pawing the ground.
It had been obvious before they entered—fields neglected, tools left to rot—nothing a normal, if poor, village should show.
Elton traced a sign and frowned, shaking his head subtly. "Nothing… at the moment."
As they paused in the middle, a sturdier hut door creaked open—likely the headman's. A thin, stooped elder in patched coarse linen shuffled out, face a map of wrinkles, eyes cloudy. He leaned on a stick and peered at each horse and face—lingering on Solin's bright armor, Nancy's staff, Elton's holy symbol, Gauss's and the others' weapons—then rasped like a torn bellows:
"Strangers… where from? What business in our Rollingstone Village?"
Not friendly—tinged with something like… rejection.
"Sir, we're adventurers from Lincrown. It's late; is there an empty house we can rent for a night? We'll pay." Poor welcome or not, he was the first to speak; Gauss stepped up. Information first. Whether they'd actually stay here—they'd talk it through. It was late; wild camping wasn't ideal.
"Sorry. Rollingstone doesn't… welcome outsiders. No spare houses. Best be on your way." Clean, hard refusal—almost inhumanly so. Night was falling and he wanted them gone.
Solin's brows knotted. "Hey, old man! We'll pay! Where do you expect us to sleep—feed wolves?"
The elder flinched at the dwarf's roar, stepped back, but shook his head. "No… is no. Money… no use. Go—before it's fully dark…"
At the end, a plea leaked in.
"Are there sick folk?" Elton's voice cut through the mounting dismissal. He didn't look at the elder; he looked toward the broken homes. "More than one?" Not a question—stated.
The old man jolted; fear and distrust flashed in his eyes. He clutched his stick hard. "D-don't talk nonsense!"
Elton stepped forward and raised his holy symbol; soft white light lapped outward—calm, easing the heart. "Please don't be afraid. I am a cleric, servant of Light. Perhaps… let me see them? Even if I can't cure, the Light can ease their pain."
The elder looked from the glow to Elton's gentle face; resistance slackened a shade—then he glanced aside and turned to stone again. "Please, leave Rollingstone."
The six looked at each other. Solin rubbed his head and nodded. "Let's back off for now."
Under the village's guarded eyes, they moved along the lane. Not far out, Solin halted them. "He was… afraid of us," Gauss said.
"Monsters? Or folk twisted by them?" Solin asked Nancy. She shook her head. "Just ordinary people."
Serandur had been frowning, thinking. Gauss turned to him. "Any leads?"
"Feels familiar. Let me… think," Serandur murmured.
Solin hopped down and set his fists on his hips. "We camp here," he said. "Here? Maybe farther is better," Gauss asked. They were close to the village still.
Solin scratched the back of his head. "Here. No wolves or big cats near a village. Safer."
Safer… sure. Gauss bit back the quip. Solin wasn't blind; if he chose to stay, he had his reasons.
They cleared a patch outside the village, lit a fire, pitched tents. As Solin cooked, smoke and good smells drifted on the evening breeze. The menu matched noon, with a few greens added.
Gauss ate happily—wondering if the next recruit should be chosen for cooking.
They were halfway through when a slim figure flickered out of the fire's shadow. A woman of about twenty in a washed-thin, patched dress, slight enough to blow over, face pale, lips bloodless—eyes big and fixed on the food.
Her appearance was so abrupt Solin nearly sprayed his drink. Nancy had seen her first and edged closer to Gauss.
"Can you spare a little?" the woman asked—and flicked her tongue. It was long, thin, not quite human; and her skin… was starting to slough and rot. Gauss weighed her—then reached for a skewer and held it out.
As his hand neared—Bang!!
Her skin split like a thousand tiny claws ripped from within. A slick, gray-black, furred claw lashed for his face.
Ting!!
A steel sword flashed to meet it; sparks jumped. The woman skittered back. Her body twisted into something that shouldn't be possible—long, arched, on all fours, a spinal crackle of bone. The others had her ringed already.
The change hadn't stopped. Her face warped, mouth tearing to the ear, pink muscle bared, belching a wave of black filth. Her big eyes went ink-black, needle-red malice burning within.
"Demon-spawn," Nancy warned. Even as she said it, the change finished. The human veil shredded; a man-sized horror loomed—skin crawling with live, knotting rats and rotting fur.
A bloated trunk, limbs turned into long rat-forelegs with hooked talons, a great barbed tail woven from knotted rat-tails cracked the ground. A huge rat muzzle opened and shut, spewing green vapors—through which a forest of tiny fangs glinted.
Gauss's scalp prickled; gut revolt surged—natural human disgust. He couldn't help thinking of his and Alia's first job—ratmen in a ruined chapel—and the old ratman who'd thrown himself into a poison pool. Vespeteria, he'd said. Three days later Gauss had had a rare nightmare.
So you've come chasing that?
Across the fire, Solin, Nancy, and Elton traded a look—were the threads tied?
Mind-links flashed:
[Sure enough—start purging, and trouble finds us.]
[Make it quick.]
[They'll be confused.]
Decision made, Solin raised shield and hammer and strode for the rat-fiend, each step punching divots in the earth.
"Rrraaah!!" he roared—dwarf bulk wrapped in a cannon's worth of fury—and crashed in. The hammer drew a burning arc under moonlight and fell on the monster's skull. It raked up a taloned forelimb to block. The blow was so heavy the air seemed pressed thin; hammer and pressure slammed down.
Thud!!
The limb broke; the diminished force fell on its head—crack—green pus and bone fragments burst; the skull dented, hammered into the trunk.
It still didn't die. It shrieked, rage and pain, and its other claw swept for Solin's head. His tower shield snapped up—Screee!! Talons sparked, a golden glow welled over the shield's face, and the hit failed to breach the mountain-solid defense.
Gauss leapt in to roll the wheel. Solin's strike had shocked him—he'd almost thought it done. He triggered Ironscale; scales climbed his skin with each step, his right hand closed on air, and a dragon-claw formed—mana fused with bloodline.
The others, especially Solin, Nancy, and Elton, watched with wide eyes. The demon-spawn wasn't beyond them—Solin alone could handle it—but this was a fine time to gauge Gauss. They could cover him if needed.
Gauss didn't know their calculus. He had a simpler one: Solin had half-crushed it—time to finish. And Solin had been knocked back—frontline duty shifted to him. He exploded off the line—[Brute Force] and [Enhanced Leap] firing, Ironscale pushing his stats higher; no heavy armor to slow him—he was fast. A blur edged in blue shot through the dark.
He closed—right arm corded, scales locked, claw humming. He raised it high and brought it down with ten points of raw STR, plus Brute Force—
BOOM.
The claw hit the fiend's chest; the impact boomed deeper than Solin's hammer. The rat-fiend went off like a bomb planted inside: skull shards, rotted fluids, pus, and a spray of mouse-sized lumps launched in a ring. The blast threw it back—but a black haze rolled, and the ruined body steadied.
In the mind-link, Nancy piped: [Solin, looks like he hits harder than you.]
[Ha… ha—are you serious? I'm a dwarf warrior!]
[He's barehanded. You've got top-tier kit. And he smashed it worse.]
Two arrows in Solin's pride. He liked Gauss—but that stung. [I didn't go all out.]
[Sure you didn't.] She knew he hadn't—she also knew what she'd just seen. It was hard to believe the man in front of her was a Level 3 caster. If he got to her in tight? She doubted she'd have it easy.
Solin hefted his hammer to finish it—when the fight wrapped itself. Feeling the fiend's obscene vitality, Gauss chose to end it in one go. Another pile driver punch blew a deep hole in its chest.
He clenched the white staff in his left hand.
Between the dragon's five fingers, blue light compressed—
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud!
Five Magic Missiles burst from the claw and plunged into the hole—and detonated. The gap widened, the blast wave bled by the thing's flesh and stopped cold against Gauss's now-solid ward.
"Squeee!!"
It screamed, black mist shrouding it again—but he didn't give it time. His fist clenched; the claw hardened. A second blow—then a third—then a fourth—each set off another detonation inside—
Until the fourth—WHUMP—a final, destroying blast. The body couldn't hold together; it burst outward, showering the ground with stinking meat and slime. The stench rolled heavy. The chunks smoked and dissolved into the air.
Gauss stood, scales heaving on his chest—and waited. The text flashed:
[Plague-Rat Demon-Spawn Slain ×1]
[Elite Points +10]
Same title as the ratmen before. So this "plague-rat demon-spawn" was of a piece with those things? It had come for him because of that old job?
He frowned. A strange energy slid up through his foot while he wasn't looking. The egg inside him trembled; he shook loose of thought. "What now, egg?" he muttered.
Around them, the camp fell still—only the fire popped. Solin, halfway to proving himself, stopped and scowled—Gauss had ended it in fewer breaths than he'd thought possible. Sometimes having a teammate too strong wasn't that fun.
Nancy tilted her head; the cool distance in her eyes was gone—replaced by a look that said she was reevaluating him. It wasn't that he'd beaten the spawn—it was how: the easy braid of magic and brute force.
The way he slipped between melee and spell; the way his ward ate raw blast; how mana lay down in his hand like a lamb.
What was this monster?