What the hell was he thinking about?

Right, the stuff. Why had no one written about that aspect of it? His class specialisation may have been rare but people had still written about it. Other shadows might have kept it a secret to maintain an advantage over the other classes, but he doubted it. While the advantage was obvious, from what he read and the few adventurers that would talk with him, both agreed that barring some special title, even dedicated wizards would only get their first short-ranged spell between level five and ten. The spells that one could get past level thirty were the only ones that could come close to the range that he could reach. And even then, they had to rely on line of sight.

But [SUMMON SHADOW STUFF] was a starting skill. Something that you would use as often as possible during the first few levels, at least until you got something better. The likely-hood of hiding it was next to impossible.

Did the neighbouring nobles have something to do with it? he thought. His mood taking a nose dive as he was reminded of the night's events. Or had the city counsel hidden it from the nobles? The word assassination flickered across his mind. the whole thing felt political. Which was why he immediately tried to scrub it from his brain. Politics was too dangerous for him to mess with and too stupid for him to understand.

Back to more important things. The money, there was also the money. With a bounty of one copper per rat, he had earned a total of three-hundred and thirty-seven copper. A month's worth of hard work for half a month's cost of living. The cost of a decent living, mind you. The outer slums may have been an option for some, but they were not an option for him. The occasional alley sleepover didn't count; he would often explain to the old man that that was just urban camping. No, he had to do better. He promised himself that he would do better.

The following days he would rack his brain for anything that would help him kill more rats. To the point that each night he would awaken from his dreams with a scream thinking he would be crawling with the filthy things. A matter that Ms Kolsin had to address with him personally, much to his embarrassment. Finally, tired of being tired all the time, he tried something he had read about in a comic book. Or did he see it in a movie? Whatever, it wasn’t important.

A fog was descending on his mind as he could feel himself getting tired. That tight, heavy feeling surrounding his eyes, growing intense enough to threaten him with a migraine. He squeezed them shut and gave himself a little shake to wake up. Her Majesty, in turn, gave him a squeeze to remind him not to disturb her.

What was he doing now? Right, the new plan.

The local scrap dealer had a large supply of busted metal barrels that the alchemists of the city would often need to store certain liquids, some of which were quite temperamental. Yes, he knew that description would normally only be applied to people, but this was magic we're talking about. The barrel that he had borrowed, as in borrowed not stolen, he wasn't a thief, had had its bottom eaten out by something. Not a liquid, something with claws, or teeth, or something. After that day, whether he was above or below ground, Goodie made a point of avoiding the alchemist's section of the city.

After a long and noisy roll through the sewers, he placed the barrel as close to the rat highways as he would dare to go, and then he left. The stress and strain having exhausted him mentally, if not physically. And people who do things half asleep make mistakes. You don't make mistakes down below. well, you could…once.

The next morning, he came back with a plank of wood and a slab of meat. The idea being that the rats would travel up the plank to get to the meat that lay within the barrel, the sides of which were as smooth as glass and nearly as thick as his finger. To be honest, the barrels were essentially just a large pipe that had been capped on both ends.

No offence to the fine, fine craftsman of this city! He had tried to think as loudly as possible as he looked around for anyone that might have been listening.

"Fucking magic!"

The last thing he needed right now was to piss of the crafter’s union.

Once he calmed down, he returned to his train of thought.

As he had gotten everything set up, he freaked when he received what would later turn out to be [TRAP MAKING] lv.1, and ran for his life. Thankfully he had summoned his, at the time, useless minion to act as a lookout before he had started working. What he saw through her eyes, not even an hour later, still kept him up at nights.

At first, they came in ones and twos. Then tens. Then hundreds.

A hoard of diseased vermin had swarmed the area. Over a thousand rats as far he could tell. Their numbers had caused the plank to fall, but the barrel had already been overflowing with the squeaking monstrosities by then. He remembered thinking that his nightmares up till then had been nothing but the random imaginings of an ignorant child.

Goodie then remembered squeezing his hands as he focused on the barrel as if that would make what he was about to do any easier. He summoned a gas, something to push all the oxygen out of the small, enclosed-space of the barrel. He originally wanted to use water, but having seen that rats could swim, he wasn't sure that would have been the best choice. It was also a slow and cruel way to kill something, which didn't sit right with him.

This was also slow…and cruel, but it was done. A few minutes later the first notifications started appearing. He continued summoning the gas until they had stopped.

The negative energy of the deaths was…not a lot…but noticeable. How it found him from so far away was mystery. One that deeply disturbed him as it indicated some form of awareness, but that concern was overshadowed by the benefits that he had just reaped.

He had done a month’s work in a day.

And there was also a bag of copper waiting down there to be collected. Though it would be days before he would even think about retrieving their bodies. And yes, he had even levelled-up.

The same disappointing selection of feats but he would have chosen to sacrifice them even if they were something special. ‘That’ [SACRIFICE] hadn't given him an option for free attributes. Of little surprise, as that would have been too convenient. Something his life would never be. What was a surprise though, was when he made his choice, he selected an option to heal himself, and nothing happened? He brought up his character sheet and looked at the skills section in the hopes that he had gained a healing spell. No such luck.

He eventually found it under a new [BONUS] section with an X1 next to it. So, a one-time use healing spell. He should have saved it, but the temptation to use it on his knee was too great. It was a bit of a kick in the nads when, as a golden ether began to envelop him, he discovered that he couldn't focus it. The spell attempted to heal his entire body, and while it did affect his knee, the relief it provided was more along the lines of having taken a pain-killer than actual reconstruction. Though his skin, on the other hand, had never been clearer.

Knowing that his plan had not only worked, but worked well, Goodie spent the next month dedicating his time to the endless pattern of reconstructing his barrel trap, dropping some meat in, killing some rats, and then getting the money. Until earning his first silver. A tidy little sum, half of which had to be donated to the few dedicated beggars around town to counter his growing negative energies. The rest was spent acquiring two more barrels from the scrap dealer and paying for the one he had first borrowed.

And so, in his endless pursuit of more, the cycle continued. It got to a point that he was earning roughly ten levels and a silver a day. These gains being limited by the income of negative energy and the time it took to transport the corpses to the bounty office.

His efforts, for obvious reasons, didn't go unnoticed. Several people, mostly locals, had tried to muscle in on his territory. Usually backing off once he set Her Majesty after them. but there's always an arsehole.

An arsehole and his cronies to be more precise. A group of brown-haired, brown-eyed forgettables, their leader being the exception as his hair tinted more towards black. He didn't know who they were or what they said to him as even after months of living in this world he had little command of their language beyond some basic words. But he recognised threats when he heard them.

He could have just had Her Majesty Bite them, leaving them passed out drunk. But he recognised the type that was leading this crew. A lifetime of being targeted had honed his skill at spotting them. An egotistical narcissist. The type that wouldn't stop if there were no real repercussions. The type that would just keep coming and coming until everything was ruined. The followers would scarper without him, but with him present, they would band together with almost fanatical loyalty. At least when it came to doing something stupid. He didn’t want to, but he had to deal with them permanently.

Unfortunately for him and them, he had few options at hand. He had to kill them. The look in the leader’s eyes suggested that he may have been having similar thoughts.

He ran, something he wouldn't have been able to do properly a few months prior. But a couple of sacrifices had led to more than a few healing spells which had brought his knee back to… well, not good as new, but an acceptable level of usability. They followed.

And as they approached the deep dark of the sewers under the city centre, he commanded Her Majesty to strike. They went down in moments, not to her venom but the [DRUNK] status effect that she would inflict upon anyone she bit. He moved away as fast as he could while remaining silent. The sound of swishing water approaching from behind.

It was murder by proxy.

If he had the balls, he could have just incapacitated them earlier and then slit the arsehole’s throat. The crew, none of them being the type for leadership, would have then scattered, and even if they didn’t, they would have left him alone. Or maybe they would have followed him. A small part of his ego roared at the notion of being the big man. pathetic.

No. More than likely they would have run to the law with tears in their eyes and tales of the mean old monster down below. The city did have reliable magics to detect lies, not that that would help, as nobody cared about the truth unless it aligned with their opinion. And the opinion of the locals was that the adventurers, or the foreigners as some would put it, were out to get them, and a new round of political bullshit would grip the city for a few weeks. It would happen every month. And no matter what the adventurers did, the council would still come down heavily on anyone involved. He didn't need that shit.

The echoes of cracking bone and ripping of flesh followed him as the zombie did what Goodie could not. Not his happiest day.