As the tiny black speck in the distant sky grew larger, everyone finally saw Eberhard descending from above on a griffon.
Only then did their taut nerves ease, as if their backbone had returned.
The camp couldn’t withstand a second ordeal; if the venom wyvern circled back for another breath attack, everyone but a few Black-Iron–rank adventurers would likely perish.
After landing, Eberhard briefly declared the camp crisis over and ordered everyone to pack up at once and prepare to return to Grayrock.
That announcement let everyone breathe easier.
All anyone could think about now was getting back to town.
Days of the Winter Hunt had already piled up plenty of fatigue; after the wyvern’s sudden strike, the pent-up negative emotions all burst out at once.
Even Gauss, who had only returned later, could clearly feel the nearly congealed unease hanging in the air.
Eberhard went back to the central tent; the heavy flap fell, shutting out prying eyes.
Only then did a deep gravity and banked anger show on his face.
His pursuit of the venom wyvern had achieved nothing.
That adult wyvern’s challenge rating was as high as 10.
For certain reasons he’d been able to drive it off, but getting any further result was unrealistic.
He even had the nagging sense that the emerald-scaled wyvern hadn’t been driven away so much as it calmly withdrew after completing a set task, unwilling to tangle with him.
Given the camp’s condition after the attack, he’d had to break off the chase after a short distance and hurry back.
His fist thumped the table.
The Winter Hunt had been on the verge of a tidy finish; the targets from above had been cleared and the return was in sight.
Who would have thought something would go wrong at the last moment.
With casualties on this scale, as branch guildmaster he couldn’t dodge responsibility.
It wouldn’t cripple the branch, but this year’s performance review would definitely take a hit.
More troubling still were the slain camp followers—townsfolk with families. The thought of the complex compensation work ahead and facing the pain in the survivors’ eyes made his head pound.
“Guildmaster Eberhard, may I come in?”
A subordinate’s voice came from outside. Eberhard drew a long breath; in an instant he smoothed away all outward emotion and his handsome features returned to their usual placid calm.
A man in mage’s robes lifted the flap and stepped in.
“Do we have the casualty report?” Eberhard asked at once, voice steady.
“Yes. Adventurers killed outright by the wyvern’s toxic burst bombs: twenty-two. Ordinary camp followers: thirty-four. Subsequent corrosive miasma caused seven more deaths; thirty were injured. The wounded have been treated and are presently stable.” New ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄhapters are published on NoveI~Fire.net
Total dead: sixty-three. Injured: thirty.
Eberhard repeated the cold numbers in his mind.
Most of the deaths came from that first, unanticipated “toxin burst.” Those viscous, deadly globes of acid—once they splashed over low-level professionals or ordinary people—left almost no chance of survival.
Hence the grim ratio: far more dead than wounded.
Eberhard fell silent for a long moment, his crimson eyes narrowing.
The timing of the wyvern’s strike was itself suspicious.
Why the very last day, when most people had relaxed a little—and why did its dive on the camp come precisely during the brief window he was away, from a direction opposite his position?
Even though he received the distress signal, there was ample time for such a swift creature to make one full pass.
Timing that perfect… it was as if the wyvern knew the camp’s situation like the back of its claw.
Was there a spy in camp passing messages? Or was some higher-order scrying or divination at work?
His mind raced, but he shelved the questions for now.
There was no time to investigate; the priority was to return to town and report this anomaly up the chain.
Staying put and making a fuss was unsafe—and would only further shake already unsettled morale.
After a short rest, the temporary camp was swiftly dismantled. Wagons laden with stores and wounded formed a long column and, in silence, rolled back along their rutted track toward Grayrock.
This time Eberhard wore full plate, sword in hand, circling low overhead on his griffon to keep watch.
The other Black-Iron adventurers also took their posts, nerves taut against a second strike.
Fortunately, the convoy reached the city gates without incident.
Gauss sat in the jolting wagon without lifting the curtain once.
Only when the wagon rolled safely into the city did he exhale.
Because the Winter Hunt party had returned in haste, there was no grand welcome like at their departure.
Only curious looks from bystanders followed the dust-caked, battle-scarred caravan.
The acid-pitted panels of the wagons, the weary, heavy—even grief-shadowed—faces made the more sensitive townsfolk feel a prickle of dread.
“Is the Winter Hunt over?”
“From the looks of it… not well.”
“Why no advance notice? And those holes—what did that?”
Low murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Eberhard brought the griffon down in the town square.
He noted the inquiring, worried gazes and sighed inwardly, face unreadable.
But he had no time to dwell. Swinging down from the griffon, he strode toward the Adventurers’ Guild branch.
He had to get the intel reported—Grayrock would need a new plan for next year.
Gauss and Alia hopped off their wagon, boot soles finally on solid, safe ground.
The city’s bustle washed over them like warm surf: hawkers crying their wares; children with wicker baskets piping out offers of bread; merchants haggling; housewives in thick clothes counting coppers and whispering their sums—ordinary, lively human life, rushing up to meet them.
After a week of on-edge fighting in the wilds, returning to human society always brought a hard-to-name relief and comfort.
At least within these walls, they could let their nerves ease and give body and mind a brief rest.
It was afternoon; they didn’t linger in the streets.
They headed for the lane where their lodgings were.
Passing the inn, Gauss stepped into the common room to say hello to Sophia.
At the fork he and Alia parted ways, and he headed home.
After a week empty, a thin film of dust lay over the furniture.
Gauss used a simple cantrip to clean the bed, then lay down.
Right now he just wanted a safe, solid sleep. Everything else could wait until he woke.