Yoric's headless body crashed to the ground with a heavy thud, the dull echo reverberating through the wayside shrine. Dust and warm blood mist rose together, mingling midair before settling like a filthy shroud—finally drawing a grim, reluctant curtain over the slaughter.
Inside the shrine, silence fell once more—deeper, heavier than before. Even the wind seemed too afraid to slip through the cracked roof, as though the very air had thickened with blood, dense and metallic, clogging every breath.
Among the remaining Five Ghosts of the Savage Reach, the Alluring Ghost—the woman Finn had slapped across the shrine—still lay curled on the floor. But now, she cautiously lifted her gaze and exchanged a look with the burly man crouched not far away. Terror flickered in both their eyes, but beneath it hid a sliver of desperate hope.
They had both noticed the same fleeting moment: Finn Adler had just finished killing Yoric "The Dire"—his breath hadn't yet steadied, his focus seemingly elsewhere.
The instinct to survive crushed every other thought. The two of them moved almost simultaneously, springing to their feet in a frantic scramble, clawing and stumbling toward the broken doorway. Pebbles scattered under their boots with frantic clacks, the sound sharp and frantic, like the drumbeat of their fading courage.
Finn didn't even turn around. Not once.
His left hand flicked backward, almost lazily, fingers brushing across the ground beside Yoric's corpse—and came up holding a fallen blade. The weapon was slick with blood, the hilt slippery in his grip. With a subtle twist of his wrist—nothing more—
Whoosh—!
The long knife shot from his hand like a silver arrow loosed from a bowstring, spinning as it tore through the air with a shrill, mournful whistle. Its target was neither of the two directly, but the narrow corner of the doorframe—where their escape paths would inevitably cross.
Thk!
The blade punched clean through the burly man's back, driving out through his chest in a burst of blood. Momentum carried his body forward—straight into the Alluring Ghost, impaling them both against the weathered wooden frame. Their limbs twitched a few times, then fell still. Blood streamed down the door, pooling darkly at their feet.
The clearing was complete.
Now, within the shrine, only Finn remained alive—along with two trembling figures huddled in the farthest corner: a pair of young sword-wielders, barely more than children. They shook uncontrollably, their shoulders jerking, too terrified even to breathe aloud.
Finn's eyes drifted toward them—calm, detached, as if looking at two stones by the wall. No killing intent, no emotion.
The girl, hair tied in a ponytail, broke first. She burst into sobs, tears cutting muddy lines down her ash-streaked face.
"D-don't be afraid, Junior Sister!"
Her senior brother clenched his jaw and pulled her behind him, straightening his narrow shoulders despite the tremor in his spine. His voice wavered with fear, but there was a spark of desperate resolve in it. "If… if you must kill someone, kill me! Please—please let her go! She's just an apprentice—she did nothing wrong!"
Finn looked at him, and for the first time, a faint ripple stirred behind his cold eyes. He remembered. When the battle first began, it was this same trembling youth who had shouted a warning—"Run!"—even as fear had nearly broken his voice.
It wasn't much. Hardly even a kindness worth noting. But Finn Adler had simple principles: repay kindness, repay vengeance. He eliminated threats without hesitation—but meaningless killing was wasteful.
"Go."
The single word left his lips flat and cold, yet in the dead stillness of the shrine, it struck like divine pardon.
The young man froze, eyes wide in disbelief, as though he'd misheard. His mouth opened soundlessly.
Finn's brow furrowed, a trace of impatience showing. He had no time to waste—there were spoils to collect.
That hint of irritation snapped the youth from his daze. Realization hit him like lightning. Joy surged up so violently it nearly broke him; he forgot to speak, forgot to bow. Grabbing his still-sobbing sister, he bolted for the doorway, tripping over corpses and rubble in his blind rush. Their retreating footsteps faded quickly into the dark, swallowed by the night beyond.
Once again, silence.
Only Finn remained.
He walked to the dying fire, sat down beside it, one knee bent, hand resting casually on his leg—as though the massacre moments ago had been nothing more than a trivial prelude to dinner. His heartbeat had already slowed, his aura cooling back to its usual icy calm.
Now came his favorite part.
Loot.
He rose and began his work with efficient precision—unbuckling pouches from belts, one after another, until a small pile of heavy coin bags clinked together on the floor. The sound—clatter, chime, chime—was soft but strangely satisfying.
In the innermost corner of the shrine, he uncovered three heavy wooden chests hidden by the Five Ghosts and the Ironclad Caravan Guard. Rusted copper locks still clung to them.
A single chop—crack!—and the locks shattered.
Inside, a flood of gold gleamed in the firelight—blinding, radiant. Mixed among the coins were scattered gems and bits of silver, all glittering like captured starlight.
A quick count later—two thousand four hundred gold coins. A small fortune, even by his standards.
At the bottom of the third chest, his fingers brushed against something stiff and leathery—an incomplete map. It was drawn on thick beast hide, still faintly smelling of blood. One corner was torn, edges jagged. The map's surface showed unfamiliar mountains and rivers, with a strange red mark drawn near one range—a symbol he didn't recognize.
He folded the map carefully and tucked it into his inner pocket. Then, without hesitation, he poured every last coin into the system within his mind.
[Gold successfully deposited. Current balance: 2400.] [You have obtained 24 primary lottery draws.]
Finn didn't rush. Instead, he selected twenty of the primary draws and triggered the synthesis function.
[Synthesis successful. You have obtained 2 intermediate lottery draws.]
The familiar ocean-blue wheel appeared in his mind, the pointer gleaming faintly at the top. But this time—something was different.
Finn's pupils contracted sharply.
At the very edge of the wheel, among the usual green and blue sectors, was a sliver of color he had never seen before—deep, majestic violet, like the night sky itself.
[Helper Character: Inquisitor Valerius Caedo (Violet)]
His heartbeat stuttered. Violet—!
He knew what it meant. A tier above all others, beyond green or blue. Power on another level entirely.
The name alone carried weight. Even just thinking it filled his mind with the image of a figure clad in heavy armor, exuding judgment and unyielding authority—an aura that crushed all defiance.
But with only two intermediate draws, the odds were nearly nonexistent.
Still, Finn's gaze hardened. He would raise his chances.
He chose to sacrifice one draw.
[Decompose one intermediate draw into ten primary draws?] "Yes." [Decomposition successful.]
Combining again—
[Synthesis successful. You have obtained 1 intermediate draw.]
The total remained two, yet something about the wheel felt heavier now—its glow deeper, more solemn. Each spin seemed to hum with greater power.
"Begin."
The blue wheel spun, faster and faster, colors blending—green, blue, violet—until light itself seemed to bend. Finn's eyes tracked the pointer as it slowed, sliding past green, past blue, inching closer to that rare violet wedge—
Closer… closer—!
The pointer's tip brushed its edge—
Then stopped.
One slot short.
A soft ding.
[Congratulations! You have obtained: The Sand-Wyrm's Sting (Blue)] [Quality: Fine. Type: Thrown Weapon. Effect: Armor Penetration, Poisoned. Description: A deadly dart crafted from the spine of a desert wyrm. The pale-blue bone can pierce heavy armor beneath Rank 3; the wyrm's residual toxins paralyze targets below Champion level within three seconds, lasting ten minutes.]
Finn exhaled slowly. A near miss—but a good prize nonetheless. Practical, deadly, and silent.
He still had one more chance.
"Again."
The wheel spun once more, light swirling faster than thought—then stopped abruptly in a field of soft green.
[Congratulations! You have obtained: Yangyuan Gong (Green)] [Quality: Common. Type: Aura Cultivation Technique. Description: A balanced and steady method of Aura cultivation. While not powerful offensively, it nurtures internal channels and slightly aids breakthrough stability.]
"Extract."
Warmth flooded his body instantly—gentle, persistent, flowing like molten gold through his limbs. Every minor wound from the battle healed in seconds; even the faint ache in his temples faded away. The current coursed through his Aura channels, smoothing rough edges, eroding barriers.
Crack.
The bottleneck shattered.
Mortal Rank 7.
Strength swelled inside him—dense, controlled, refined. His Aura surged higher than ever before.
He opened his eyes slowly, a faint glimmer of satisfaction flickering there. He hadn't drawn the violet Inquisitor Valerius Caedo, but he had broken through—and gained a weapon capable of slaying foes above his tier.
That was more than enough.
Finn glanced once at the remaining few draws, then at the pale-blue shimmer of The Sand-Wyrm's Sting in his palm. His lips curved faintly.
Tonight's harvest had far exceeded expectations.