Night passed quietly. Qian Ye packed his belongings and prepared to embark on his hunt.
Stepping outside of his hut with visible exertion, Cui Yuanhai threw a massive arquebus toward Qian Ye, declaring, “The environment here is unique—ordinary arquebuses lose their power. Thus, these few days I hurriedly crafted this one;勉强称得 a Level Seven weapon. It serves in place for now. Though a bit crude, nothing beats having it on hand rather than without.”
It was a weapon oozing with brutal aesthetic appeal, the muzzle wide enough for one’s fist to fit. The barrel was as think as one fingertip thick. The entire firearm had been forged from wrought steel, with runes carved elaborately across its frame. Its designs were bold almost to an excess, such that the original function was equivalent only to rudimentary array patterns of Level Five weaponry.
The gun’s mechanical framework was primitive, manual from reloading to case ejection with virtually no auxiliary support. Each gear was bulky yet durable—sturdy enough, for even use as a club without fearing damage.
Entirely antiquitated design placed this weapon within blueprints at least three or four centuries aged. Yet precisely the crude brutality of the build allowed survival under Neutral Zone constraints where intricate force arrays suffered degradation from Void Energies and soon failed outright; indeed, an artifact like *Hymmnos Nocturne* faced similar degradation despite costly materials merely from operational proximity to unstable fields.
Perhaps in the Neutral Grounds, only a handful of legendary firearms retained full functionality—top of ten famed blades.
Leverging more effort, Cui produced another hefty crate saying, “These—loaded ammunition, specific to the cannon.” Upon lifting the box’s lid, Qian Ye was met eye to eye with orbs rivaling in dimensions grenades. He sighed between amusement and resignation, recalling that Zhao Yushe surely would embrace the monstrousness more readily than himself had their encounter been arranged differently.
Shortcomings stood clearly visible—it lagged dreadfully when considering ease of operation or transportation efficiency and range—topping a mere hundred or so meters. Cui’s enhancement arrays focused strictly on sheer punch, ignoring precision. Nonetheless, in distances measuring one hundred feet, one would hardly require exact targeting—Qian Ye’s aim seldom faltered.
Such a pursuit of sheer firepower exceeded even the famed *Kai Shan* rifle from Zhao, and damage amplified directly in proximity—a monster up close.
“Name it then,” Qian Ye remarked.
Cui shook his head firmly, “Please no! Only in this devil-may-care hole would I craft such horror… Rumors might stain my legacy irreparably!”
He relented as Qian Ye turned to securing supplies onto an aether skiff, its engine humming steadily while loaded crates jolted with motion, including native timber, silk-threaded shellfish delicacy—in addition baggage for travel preparedness. Finally, Cui steered the glider high, its silhouette vanishing against clouds.
Watching from below, Ye Tong cast a slight worry. “Doesn’t seem risky crossing over?”
“Hopingly, nothing disastrous—Xue family’s influence ensures stability on that front.” Qian Ye gestured at distance, recounting, “Senior will liaise upon arrival. If these pups demonstrate wisdom beyond their station, I suspect they’ll safeguard the elder accordingly.”
“Wolves’ investigation likely points linking Garis’ demise with Clan Xue—but given both are mere juniors without influence on high-tier operations, should the Alpha mark Clan Xue, their family leadership might well discard both pawns to spare greater wrath.”
Qian’s surprised admiration bloomed immediately at such political observation mastery—Ye Tong smirked smugly, teasing back as if recollecting.
“Imperial general chronicles do serve their purpose!”
Qian noted some unrecognizable unfamiliarity about her expression, an odd sensation—untouched words until Ye Tong’s subtle chuckle broke his contemplations.
“Feeling something’s… different?” A coy tease emerged. He nodded with belativeness dawning comprehension as she reminded him again—when he first tore her from military capture, frail injuries bound body and psyche both to fragile states—his habits developed into shouldering every burdensome thought to his side, protective instincts extending even covert vigil to her dealings during encounters with Zhao Ding or others.
Amnesia took his realization of her true essence—the lost Monros heir—a native blood born to powers surpassing Saint-Heir Edward’s legacy. Noble status within vampire courts extended beyond superficialities—strength and survival defined hierarchy and recognition for titles as Sacred Monarchs, proving not through titles alone.
Even nurtured somewhat in controlled challenges early upon her path, her prodigious evolution rates earned notice during initiation trials. The young prodigy Monros bloodline underwent early battlefield baptism under supervised combat situations—an initiation of sharpening edge.
Edward reached the Saint-Heir rank unsheltered: alone, tested, destined for supremacy.
No luminaries born in ranks of Night’s elite emerge without complexities. Ye Tong was no different in her depth—an awakening both humbled and reluctant for Qian.
He inwardly preferred if things forever kept a gentle frame around her—yet dreams remain only as fleeting whispers in wind.
Suddenly recalled, Song Ziging’s remark flitted—’Heaven forbid you fall for cunning women; truth simply cannot keep up.’
Seems seven houses heir speaks only from hard lessons.
All readiness finalized and preparations confirmed—through Blackwood both Qian and Ye Tong traversed the canopy under shadows to descend upon the village outskirts, where a certain Lycan Lord had fallen alongside steed. Estimated response delay from Wolf-King’s elite guards should begin showing very shortly.
Such urban battlefield—tight lanes interlaced within timber frames—favored their style and prowess advantageously.
Meanwhile on village square grounds stood a decrepit elder Werewolf leaning stooped beneath burden weight and age upon gnarled tree branch staff. Gray-braided scalp bore triple-fledged feathered decorations, while faded ribboned cloth strips flapped about its form—customs traced long ago to forgotten ancient packs of primordial clans past millennia.
Only those possessing authority or reputation carried feather emblems of status. These elders denoted clan chieftains—if three feathers, likely a village’s highest Elder figurehead in hierarchy.
The fallen Werewolf Baron gaspered out final moments before expiration, barely missing seeing elder before last breath departed soul.
With a staff’s wave, energy ribbons unfurled into departed frame—some animation stirred once again. Flesh showed brief reanimations twigs stirred, muscle re-tugged, weak and hollow, voiceless beyond hoarse rasps. Body reanimated briefly, but consciousness irretrievably gone.
The shaman leaned back from task exhausted, sweat trickling through furrows, skin sagging with deeper aging.
Observing failed efforts in futile silence at stilling body, old fingers struck staff down hard upon flagstone grounds growling low—”Pathetic.”
Wolves, renowned for vitality and persistence, oft remained breathing long even amid mangled wounds and shattered vital organs—a trait Qian had known when pinning the baron upon post—a cruel display meant both as message and warning through slow dying suffering toward eventual revelation of death’s door.
However, he hadn’t anticipated his resolve snapping too early—yielding before even seeing last messenger face before expiry, an undying shame beneath honor-bound warriors who embraced endurance above all, pain a sacred crucible in their rites.
Another approaching scout brought wooden slab in report. “We found this upon rooftop peak—planted where the clan banners ought rest. Perhaps it meant… a calling card of sorts?”
Elder retrieved splintered board: carved simply, lettered ‘X’.
Annoyance laced growling query: “Just…what is this supposed to be?!”
Possibly symbol, standard, or insignia. More fragments were retrieved and already crudely assembled revealing further markings once whole. Each piece was of same timber dimensions from house top where the first was raised—thus their conjecture of an unusual challenge flag.
After scrutinizing the symbols for long breaths, Elder sighed distastefully: “Ugly. At least now you scouted for this figure who caused all? No trail?”
“None worth tracing. Slightest presence or aroma was masked. Blood reeks everywhere disrupted senses… Worse still—the village’s close vicinity to Blackwoods only compounds things worse.”
Another low curse, Elder dismissed: “Useless dogs!” Deep within though even he recalled Neutral Terrai’s differences from mainlands—the suppressive effects upon scent tracking.
BlackForest swallowed scents like fog—a curse no keen noses tolerated lightly. Even those possessing the finest sense caught nothing except dense canopy fragrance—and even so slight provocation against woodlands awakened toxic retaliatory scents.
Such a fragrance meant absolutely nothing for Qian Ye—but for sensitive nose Werewolf clans, pure chemical warfare, burning agony to nasal cavities where even mild exposure left nose inflamed for days beyond help.
Thus though Elder fumed endlessly—he could scarcely formulate any useful tactics. He could only command continued sweep of every inch within settlement perimeter—search, tear apart, turn village upon every tile until something surfaced.
One scout forced entrance through door with brutal kick—blade high, he edged inside house, recoiling instantly from stench so suffocating, hand instinctively lifting to shield nose. In split distracted moment—chill prickled back—an ancient heirloom already piercing organ of heart from behind: Vampyrate. Silent death, his essence devoured before scream birth.
From life to fade, he toppled unawaken—his corpse bled clean of vital blood. Emerging like mist at his back Qian vanished through doorway once concealed again within shadows behind him.
Scoured by over thrice ten scouts across entire sector, no inch overlooked, while upon town center Elder marched agitated. Unease simmering into dread, the sensation an ever-tightening coil—an omen his long aged intuition dulled from time—but still, the feeling would not cease.
Awaiting him, in corners outside awareness—an aimed rifle sight followed every pace—silent in shade, waiting for the perfect moment… death’s prelude already in position.
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