Sorath had fallen asleep with an expectation of a painful awakening, and the world gave him exactly that.

A numb, cold ache pounded in his forehead and teeth, but his neck was intact. His heart was thudding slow and loud, skipping a beat as he found himself unwounded. This rock crevice wasn’t filled with his own blood. Only his lips were injured, cracked from minor frostbite. He gently sucked on them and pushed through a thorny bush.

Puddles from overnight drizzles were frozen solid. Trees and grassy spots on this hillside were dusted white in hoarfrost, glistening. Late-autumn cold snaps were early; the gods were either bored or displeased, both in Sorath’s opinion. At least it wasn’t a heatwave. He would choose ice over fire any day.

So would Cyesten’s Farmers.

Either way, food prices were about to catapult into the sky. Best to stock up on canned tomatoes, broccoli, butter, salt, smoked meat, and high-quality flour. That, or he could live off cheap hardbread and fermented cabbages for the next four months. Sailors did. He could too.

Sailors also woke before dawn, and the sun right now was two finger-widths over the horizon, a horizon more bumpy than flat at this distance from the Crags. Under their white tips, the rock was dark brown tinged red, lacking a single green dot. It was as described in textbooks: inhospitable, otherworldly, a constant battle to survive. Terrible for sleeping in.

Sorath rushed through his morning stretches before hurrying back to their hideout, hoping mountain lions hadn’t snagged their corpses for breakfast. He had forgotten to do this—this being another first.

He Backstabbed to a bobcat, jumped thrice over stacked ledges, and took a ten stride fall onto hard ground. The impact pushed dangerously close to his Vitality’s limit, yielded a dozen experience points. He sprinted the remaining quarter league.

Divine luck had it that their corpses were untouched. In daylight, the gore was a thousand fold worse. Dried blood carpeted the cave, and three pairs of lifeless eyes asked why. Stomach fluids splashed onto the back of Sorath’s tongue as he looked at the one headless body, shortsword pointing. He invoked glumly, “Extrierra.”

Colorless mana rippled in the air. A black hole opened on Cardon’s chest. Although his soul had long departed from this world, his soul inventory was anchored to his body, ripe for looting. Sorath hadn’t thought he would ever make use of this technique. Times were changing.

In went his twitching gloved fingers.

Out came cloth rags, grass rope, a spare low-quality copper dirk, a jar of high-quality salt, ten jars of normal-quality salted smoked bear meat, and… nothing else. Sorath pouched the salt and meat, then violated the hunter’s body, and similar items came out plus a hundred of those featherless arrows that only Rangers could use, all low or abysmal quality. A thousand of these weren’t worth one gold.

Next up was the Blademaster. His expression in death was one of childlike terror. He too only had salt and bear meat. His bastard sword was low-quality, rusty steel at 19/100 durability—worth around two gold but not the inventory space.

Finally, it was the confident Brawler’s turn. Sorath lazily mouthed the incantation, finding salt, meat, two vials of cloudy ruby-red liquid (low-quality health potions), and not to forget an ogreskin pouch soaked in blood under his ass—good as new after a night’s soak in soapy warm water, which wasn’t worth the effort given its 22/100 durability. But ogreskin was sort of rare, so Sorath pouched the pouch.

Overall, the loot was disappointing for his first human kills, hardly any better than Water Elementals.

He did still have that Emerald Loot Gem. He held it to the sun and fed a drop of mana. With a flash and pleasant ring, its weight increased from a peanut’s to a large watermelon’s. An Iron Ingot sat on his palm. Crafting it into soft or hard steel would make for efficient Blacksmith experience, very sellable for thirty to forty gold, even up to fifty at the capital. He saved it for a mass-crafting session, and then left these corpses to the beasts.

The journey back to Greenwood was uneventful and chillier by the step, approaching six hours of constant running, Backstabbing, and sipping from his second apple syrup flask. At the twenty league mark, he slipped on ice and had to invoke Telekinesis to reverse a fall. He stopped at the blood-stained bridge, heaved breaths that stung his throat and didn’t stink.

The man’s head was gone. Devoured by beasts.

Muscles twisted in Sorath’s neck as he noticed something black.

At his vision’s edge, a black figure lingered between boulders under an oak’s shadow. Its cloak was tattered and oversized with a hood shrouding its face in darkness. It stood well within Telepathy’s range, but only a tiny emotionless mana wisp danced under the cloak… because it was merely a cloak held upright by a levitation enchantment.

A Prank?

Crouching behind a tree, Sorath waited for possible ambushers to loose an arrow for the longest minutes of his life. He shuffled into range. Telenka. His grip broke the enchantment, the cloak rushing to his hand. The fabric was slimy and reeked of decaying flesh. Most definitely a prank, but he stuffed it into an air-tight bag, then continued onward.

He stopped before the trench by a puddle. His reflection was gaunt and bloody. Crimson splatters mixed well with silver eyes; it looked fierce, like war paint. The civilized folk weren’t going to enjoy this. He washed his face and turned his cloak inside-out.

Farmers and Town Guards scrambled to harvest crops and paid no attention to the killer dashing by. Frenzied emotions were icy tornadoes among the cattle. Over feeding troughs circled a flock of hungry crows, and an Arcane Mage shot purple sparks. Sorath strangled three to death. She didn’t say thanks or even notice.

The east gate’s magic let him pass, Guards eying him suspiciously. Down the main unnamed road, a foul haze from chimney smoke hung over the town center. Out-of-flour signs swung on bakery door knobs. A hundred people queued at Ceril’s Butchery. A small child was crying over a scraped knee. Rats were running amuck in back alleys, one struggling in a snake’s bite. Combined fear from all directions was a suffocating pressure, deafening.

Life as usual during this time of year, maybe slightly worse this year.

Outside the Royal Guard’s Office, many adults and few teenagers protested with homemade signs about this morning’s tribute increase. Among them, a woman caught Sorath’s attention. Her eyes widened. Mana drained into her feet, as though she knew what he had done last night. Her mouth opened, then stuttered closed before she moved out of the way for him.

A Town Guard at the door asked, “Do you have a scheduled meeting?”

“I’m here about the King’s bounties,” Sorath discreetly said.

Weariness stirred his mana. “Alright, go in. You might have to wait a while.” He held open the door.

No one was at the front desk. Strengthening enchantments reinforced this building’s inner frame and hindered Telepathy’s reach, although not more than double-layered enchanted insulation stuffing. Emotions were blurry. Adjacent rooms were empty. Someone was directly overheard… with two others. They conversed in restrained tension.

Sorath sat on a velvet chair. Minutes passed by the dozen while he read a cooking recipe tome. Cooking by hand was one of his favorite pastimes.

An hour came and went.

Eventually, metal armor clinked down the stairs, a whole steel suit, head to toe. Mana leaked through gaps and joints, a bright multifaceted friendly mana. “Sorath?” Isen Lothar blurted.

At least he didn’t say the other name, Sorath thought sourly.

Out of all the people in Greenwood, golden boy Isen, believe it or not, was one of the kinder souls around, trustworthy and patient, sort of like Madrog except more of a scurrying rat and a million years younger. Ungodly natural talent hadn’t turned Isen’s ego into decaying excrement despite his and his family’s lust for gold.

Come to think of it, Isen was not so trustworthy. He would kill his closest friends for riches.

“Sorath?” Isen repeated in a more formal tone. “Since the guards let you through, I assume you have good reason to be here. Would you like speak over a cup of tea?”

“No, thanks.” Sorath smirked. “This’ll be quick. I’m here for a bounty.”

“A—“ Isen choked and thought, A bounty?

“Yes, a bounty.”

“You? A bounty hunter?” he chuckled. “You wouldn’t last two days alone out in the wilderness. I wouldn’t last two days alone. I admit your psionic talents have… some usefulness, but the wilderness is more dangerous than you can imagine. You’d die to a dire mountain lion before you’d—”

“I didn’t say I’m here for the job,” Sorath mumbled in his coldest voice. “I’m here to turn in a bounty.”

All emotion vanished from Isen’s face. He was careful to not think spoken thoughts, but a few unintelligible vowels got through. “Oh. I hear you. Well…” He inhaled and scratched his chin. Then amusement lifted his face—disbelief. Mocking disbelief. “It’s not in my authority to issue bounty awards. Would you like me to take you to someone who does?”

“Yes. Do it now, please.”

“Very well.” He gestured down the corridor. “Back entrance, please.”

Sorath walked with an impatient gait. This was going to make his day.

* * *

Inside the west tower of Greenwood Keep, a head thumped onto granite tiles. Thickened blood matted chestnut hair and masked Cardon’s boyish face. His glasses were too tight even in death, one lens still intact. The smell wasn’t too offending for Sorath’s irritable nose.

Disgust and shock broiled Isen’s mana. “You weren’t joking,” he whispered, “you’re actually the new bounty hunter.”

“Yes,” Sorath said smugly.

“Why?”

“I like putting severed heads in my soul, you know?”

“No.” His mana tugged him away from Sorath.

Husky, dry laughter scraped up Lord Dominic Hyera’s throat. His face was intimidating at rest with the appearance of a lion, a face fit for one of King’s generals; however, the bubble enchantment gave him a swollen jester’s nose. He looked down on Isen, being half a head taller and a full head taller than Sorath. “You’re going to see far worse by the end of your first month with us, Lothar. Get used to it. Or you’re useless here. Understand?”

Isen’s posture stiffened. “Yes, my lord. I will do better.”

Hyera grunted. “Now, who have you captured, Adanell?”

“Cardon Theron. From List A.”

Mana squeezed Isen’s internal organs.

But Hyera growled, “List A! You’re wasting our time with shrimps like these? Lothar, you didn’t ask whose head he brought?”

“My apologies, sir. I didn’t think he was serious. I wanted you to discipline him for fibbing—”

“Get out. You’re on reception duty for the rest of the week.”

“Yes, sir.” Isen marched away.

Sorath said firmly, “You owe me twelve and a half thousand gold. Sir.”

Hyera walked to his desk, beckoned with a broad hand gloved in black dragonhide. Onyx scales on the back gleamed under crystal light. The hide flexed and clung to his hand as though it were his own second layer of skin. “You’ll get your payment. First, we need to speak.”

Sorath sat on a wooden chair with an uncomfortable upward slant. “Is this about me lying to the Town Guard yesterday—”

“Don’t pretend to be stupid. You know you should’ve come to me instead of that cursed Office, especially you, Psionic Hexblade. The question, naturally, is why didn’t you?”

Sorath didn’t want to place the blame on Madrog. “You’re very busy, my lord. I didn’t wish to disturb you with possibly trivial matters.”

With grunt, Hyera said, “I’m only going to say this once—the security of this faction is not trivial. Do you understand me?”

“I do. Sir.”

“Good. Now, What were you thinking, chasing after List A?”

“It was the only lead I had.”

“What lead? Don’t skip specifics.”

“I found a head belonging to a fat man from Freya’s gang. I followed arrows to—”

“Where was the head?”

“Under a bridge two leagues east.”

“The body?”

“I didn’t find one, and on my way back, the head was also gone, probably eaten. I also found a levitating cloak.” Sorath grabbed it from from his pouch, unbagging it. “I think it was a prank by some Farmer kids. Can you check the logs?”

Hyera didn’t need to check. “You were the only faction member who crossed the eastern town boundary in the past three days. As for that cloak, it was one of Freya’s doing,” he said assuredly.

“Probably.” Unease swept Sorath’s skin.

Hyera gruffed, “You said you followed arrows. Where to?”

“The man looked like he was chased by Rangers for a couple thousand strides. I followed the arrows for twenty leagues south-east. Cardon was with three Freya members. I killed them. Do I get payment for their group bounty?”

“Do you have the heads?”

“No.”

Uneven nostrils flared in the bubble. “I will take your word for it this time. Three thousand gold total will be added to your account—the minimum for Freya members.”

“But Cardon was worth twelve thousand?” Sorath asked, frowning.

“I don’t make the bounties.”

“Who does?”

“King Desiric does. Every single one.”

Simple math scribbled in Sorath’s head. “There has to be thousands of people on List A across the kingdom.”

“Nine thousand and seventy-four currently. Well, seventy-three.”

“He has the time for that?”

Hyera’s distorted mouth curled. Amusement swished mana in his stomach. “If you have the time to go twenty leagues on that lead, then the King can do whatever he wants with his time, don’t you agree?”

Sorath held in a shrug. “What do you suggest?”

“You should have come to me instead of that damned Office.” He opened a drawer with excessive force. He shoved across a paper. A map. “Location one is Freya’s main base. Two is her mining operation. Three and four are her farms. Five, six, seven, and eight are her scouting outposts, small in size. Loc—”

Sorath’s knee bumped into the desk. “You know exactly where they are?”

“Did you not hear me?”

“Why aren’t you sending raid parties?”

“Unlike you,” he sternly began, “my first and primary duty is to protect the innocent citizens of this great faction. They’ll demand for my head if I sign off on such an order! What do you think will happen at such a raid? People would die! Good, hard-working people who have families to care for, children to raise. And have you thought about marching whole parties through fifty leagues of forests and hills? To you, it may be a walk through Corel Park, but everyone else can’t see for a hundred strides behind their heads in total darkness! For being telepathic, you are damned short-sighted. You have a lot of growing to do, Psionic Hexblade.”

A couple of those points were debatable, but Sorath remained quiet.

Hyera grunted. “As I was saying. Location nine is an open-world dungeon scouted three weeks ago. We don’t know its tier, and it may have been cleared. Locations ten, eleven, and twelve are Veric Taul’s scouting outposts. Taul and Freya are not on good terms. They have been fighting over a High-Quality Salt Mine at location thirteen for years.”

Sorath’s left eyebrow jutted upward. “Salt? Why Salt?”

“High-Quality Salt is as valuable as Gold out there in the wilderness. Not only is it easy food preservation and used in many potions, but without it, your body will wither away within weeks. You should know this. Your file said you were an above-average student.”

“I don’t believe that last bit was taught,” Sorath slowly said, squinting at a broken mousetrap on the desk. “And you can find normal-quality salt almost anywhere.”

Hyera took a breath. “Back to your mission. Your primary target is Freya herself. Be warned; she has a set of legendary equipment. But if you take her out, the gang is finished. I don’t expect you to be able to do it, so your secondary target is her farming operation and food stores. Understand?”

Sorath nodded, staring at the map. “What’s the payment for the secondary target?”

“Negotiable.”

“Can you give me an estimate?”

“Five figures, higher end.”

For the glory, it was a fair pay. “And what about this unnumbered location?”

“That’s where Guard Captain Jonan Madrog’s son was captured on a scouting mission last month, certainly dead by now. Two others were captured. One died.”

Sorath coughed. It was like a dagger through the gut. “He didn’t tell me. I didn’t know he had a son.”

Squiggly eyebrows rose. “Why would he? You’re not his family.”

No, I’m not, but no wonder he didn’t want me to go. The bandit problem is worse than anything they tell the public. It’s like whole factions out there.

Hyera continued: “The other unnumbered location is a general marker of where we lost an entire party of five. If you want to take the risk, please do scout the area. You have access to the Royal Guard food stalls. You may take only what you need and no more.”

Sorath automatically asked, “What about equipment? Got any spare dragonhide?”

“Plenty.” Hyera opened a bottom drawer. “I have a selection of high-quality red, blue, black—” His fist banged on the desk. “No, we don’t have spare dragonhide! If we did, our Rangers and Blademasters would be wearing it. We are in fact short on equipment supplies. That armor you saw on Lothar was our last set.”

Sorath chuckled, pouched the map, and stood. “Thank you, Lord Hyera. I’ll be back with Freya’s head… soon.”

“One last thing. Bag that shrimp’s head and give it to Lothar.”

A wicked grin made Sorath’s cracked lips bleed.