System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 134
The scorching sun poured down over the marsh.
Water vapor rose, mist curling thickly, and within it vague blue-green shapes streaked past.
A pack of Drowners, running wild.
Sparse scales grew across their slick skin. Thin webs stretched between fingers and toes at the ends of their limbs,
like duck feet made for cutting through water.
Their ears were sharp and oversized. Their eyes were a dead, cataract white, pupils all but absent. Beneath small, flattened noses gaped blood-soaked maws, packed tight with rows of fine, serrated teeth.
“Gurgle ... gurgle...”
One Drowner weaving through the fog, arms flailing as it ran, suddenly stopped and craned its head about in confusion.
It twitched its nose like a hunting hound. The strange scent pulled its gaze to the right, where a figure stepped out, a longsword in hand.
Food. Flesh.
In the next instant, the Drowner shrieked with excitement, like a cat catching the stink of fish, baring its fangs as it lunged at the target.
“Whish.”
A brilliant arc cut through the air, like a thunderclap under a clear sky. The charging Drowner halted abruptly. A thin crimson line bloomed across its thick, short neck.
With a heavy splash, the headless body collapsed into the shallow marsh. The cut at its neck was smooth and even, scorched black as if by invisible flame, only a little blood seeping out.
“Grrrk...”
Five more Drowners burst from the distant fog, sensing the disturbance, claws bared as they rushed in.
The “Drowner Killer” raised his longsword before him. His left hand reached into empty air, and a compact, ash-gray hand crossbow appeared in his grip.
Fire. Fire. Fire...
The string thrummed, bolts slicing through the air.
In a blink, Roy loosed three shots. Two curved slightly mid-flight. Three charging Drowners jerked to a halt, blood bursting from foreheads and eye sockets, dropping cleanly, dead on the spot.
The remaining two were already upon him, jaws split wide, serrated teeth clogged with gore and filth, blasting foul, hot breath into his face.
He remained calm. Only when the stench ruffled the loose hair at his brow did the hand crossbow vanish. He blinked. Veins bulged as the fingers of his left hand traced a blue, upright triangular Sign in the air, then thrust forward hard.
Aard.
“Boom.” A thunderous roar tore through the fog.
A violent gust erupted from the Sign.
One Drowner was flung aside.
“Intimidate.”
Red light flashed in the Witcher’s eyes. The last Drowner instantly lost control of its body, stumbling straight into the oncoming blade.
Gwyhyr slid effortlessly up through its jaw and into the brain.
“Squch...”
He drew the sword. Beads of blood slid down the gleaming steel. The blade swept through the air and settled back into the plow guard.
Pivoting on his left foot, the Witcher spun and slashed. A head the size of a bucket flew into the air.
In less than twenty seconds, all six Drowners lay dead.
“Drowner slain. EXP +20 ×6. Witcher LV5 (1020/2500).”
The “Drowner Killer” let out a breath, kicked a mangled corpse aside, wiped the blood from his face, then drew a sharp short blade and crouched to harvest his spoils.
Skulls cracked open to extract Drowner brains. Organs were separated. Webbed digits and ears were cut away.
The stench, the thick blood, the sticky chunks of flesh did not change his expression in the slightest.
It was as flat as doing routine work.
...
After some time, the young Witcher finished processing the materials, swept through half the marsh once more, found no further trace of Drowners, washed the grime from his leather armor and skin with marsh water, tidied himself briefly, then left with a blood-soaked linen sack in hand.
Outside the marsh, another man waited, taller, broad-shouldered, bald, arms crossed. He too carried a bloodied sack.
“Well, kid, how was the haul?”
“Twelve ears...” He shook the sack at the bald man, regret plain on his still youthful face. “Six Drowners. Hardly satisfying.”
The bald man grinned, white teeth flashing, lifting his own sack. “Fourteen on my side. You lose. Tonight’s meal is on you again.”
“Damn it, lucky bastard.” The young Witcher looked thoroughly annoyed, spreading his hands helplessly. “At this rate I’m going to end up a cook.”
“Quit whining. This is training your survival skills.” Letho gave him a reminder, eyes flicking over the boy. “And don’t try any tricks this time. No skimming my cut.”
“A little trust, maybe? I’m your personally appointed chief financial officer.” Roy spoke with earnest conviction, counting on his fingers. “I’m budgeting carefully, saving ahead...”
“If we want to establish a Viper School branch in the North, we need money first. Land purchase, renovations, materials, all of it. Add it up and without at least ten thousand Crowns to start, it’s not realistic. We have to plan early.”
“Stop. Enough. You handle the accounts.” For once, the hard man Letho showed irritation. Numbers made his head swell and ache. “Half the pay goes into savings later, but leave me enough for drink.”
...
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