System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 2025 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 10
Half in and out of sleep for two days, Roy’s fever finally broke on the third morning and he woke. The old couple tending him let out a huge, trembling sigh; those nights had nearly broken them, especially after seeing One-Eyed Jack and Thompson crawl back home filthy and wounded. They had feared they might lose the boy too.
Susan sat at the edge of the straw mat, clutching his hand. Her face was puffy from sleeplessness, but her eyes were all tenderness.
“The graveyard business, Thompson told us everything. Grok and his boy were meant to go ... I believe they will be together in Melitele’s care,” she said, voice thick with prayer. “You did what you could, child. Stop thinking of that monster. Rest now and keep your strength. If you die on us, what will I and Old Mole do?”
Roy looked at his parents’ worried faces, at the lines time had carved into their skin, and a prick of shame climbed his throat.
He remembered, between half-conscious dreams, how they had taken turns sitting up with him, spooning him boiled gruel; he was sure those two nights they had barely slept. He could not blame them for their fear.
And yet he felt restless. The world had changed; the Northern War had not yet come, and already a graveyard abomination had surfaced, bringing a kind of sudden, lethal danger.
This rotten age, he thought. Catastrophes and unknown threats allowed no leisurely growth; he had to pursue strength, not wait for it to come.
He would not suffer that utter helplessness again.
“Father, what did the village decide?” he asked.
“Two days ago the mayor rode to Lower Posada himself to plead with the lord,” Old Mole said, voice hollow with doubt. Everyone in the room knew what that meant; the lord of Lower Posada was no benefactor. A few deaths in a remote hamlet were hardly worth his time. Soldiers only showed up when collecting taxes; when it came to monsters they would be the first to run. At best the village might get a perfunctory inquiry.
“They put a notice on the city bulletin and waited for a Witcher to take the contract. Could be a month or two, there’ll be news ... don’t worry yourself.”
Roy exhaled, but unease clung to him.
Two days in bed had rusted him. He wanted to walk, to check on Jack in the tavern, but Susan and Old Mole insisted he stay until noon before they let him go.
The village felt odd. People hurried by in ones and twos with worried faces; those who used to chat on the lane had vanished. Fields lay empty where farmers should have been. Most folks hid at home, peering through windows, afraid the graveyard thing might come into the village and snatch someone. Daily life had been put on pause.
Now and then a child’s cry or a couple fighting added a sour note to the unease.
The notice board by the square, old and full of cobwebs, had been cleaned. A new commission hung there in common script; Roy could not read most of it.
At the inn Jack sat alone behind the counter, staring into nothing. His wound was freshly bandaged in white, he smelled of strong herbs, and his eyes were bloodshot and hollow. Losing Pussig had aged him; his hair went white overnight and the one good eye lacked its old spark.
“You came, lad. Feeling better?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m all right.” Roy sat beside him and fell quiet. He did not know what to say. That night he had been a coward who ran.
“Have a drink with me,” Jack said, somber. He poured two measures, hard spirits that burned rather than sweetened. “My old mate’s gone. There’ll be no one left to drink dwarf brandy and play Gwent with me in Kagen.”
“To Pussig,” Roy said on impulse, then drained his cup. The hot spirit kindled something inside him, a decision forming like iron.
“One more, to Grok, and to that snot-nosed kid,” he added, taking a breath.
After he drank until his cheeks flamed, Jack told him what little they had learned. The village had asked the city garrison for help and been refused, as Roy had feared; unless raiders or a widespread monster outbreak occurred the troops stayed put. There was an old, terrible logic to it.
There was another thing Old Mole had not told him: Kagen had lost four people. Besides Grok and his son and Pussig, another villager had vanished in the past days, a reckless youth who had run toward the graveyard at dusk and never returned.
Ordinary folk encountered that thing and got torn to pieces.
Roy listened, opening his mouth to speak, then shutting it when he saw Jack’s exhausted look. He left the inn without saying everything he wanted. After all, as a gamer he knew the lore of monsters; in his mind’s catalog a shape began to form. He was fairly certain the creature in the graveyard was not a common ghoul but a thing known as a grave hag, a vampiric entity that used a long, darting tongue to pick clean bones. When corpses were exhausted, especially vicious specimens would hunt people, bury the living to rot, and dine on them later.
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