A Waste of Time

Chapter 59: Rotating Masks

“Surrender.”

Grrrr...

Daemon’s frown twisted into a crooked grin as the Yeti bared its fangs in final defiance. “Then die!” The words left his mouth like a blade drawn from a sheath — clean, sharp, and without pity. He drove his Spear and Sword into the beast’s chest and belly at once. Hot blood spurted, steaming in the frigid air, soaking the thick white fur until it looked more crimson than snow.

The Yeti shuddered once — twice — then slumped forward with a ragged groan. Its Stone-Mace slipped from limp hands, crashing into the snow with a dull thunk. Daemon held its weight up for a heartbeat longer, then yanked his Weapons free and let the giant fall.

He rolled his shoulders, breath misting around his horns. “Hmmm... What’s that?” He crouched beside the corpse, pushing aside clumps of matted fur with bloodied fingers. Underneath the fur, pressed tight to its left shoulder, was something that glimmered dully beneath the mess.

He brushed away snow and blood. A piece of metal — shaped like a Gladiator’s Shoulder-Protector but small, definitely not forged for this oversized icicle of a monster.

[Winter Aegis : Intelligence +40 / Frost-Spells Damage +10% / Mana-Regeneration +5% / Frost-Resistance +5%]

Daemon whistled low. “Fancy gear for a walking carpet. No wonder you were cocky.” His claws made short work of the Yeti’s tangled leather straps. He pried the relic loose and fitted it over his own shoulder — the curved metal hugging his bulk as if the piece had been waiting for him alone. “Fits better on me anyway. You wore it like a fool.”

Satisfied, he slapped the corpse’s frozen side, watching the frost puff off its fur like dust from an old rug. Could gut you for some Pelts later, but let’s keep it classy. He heaved the heavy carcass up and slung it over his shoulder, ignoring the wet slosh of warm blood that trickled down his back and froze immediately by the cold.

He turned to the rubble the Stone-Golem had left behind. Kicking at the broken rocks and snow, he muttered, “Come on... Treasure? Precious Stones? Secret Weapon? Anything! Don’t hold out on me now...” But the only thing that answered him was a cold wind and a few loose pebbles rolling down the slope.

“Damn. Greedy.” He exhaled and cracked his neck. Fine. Enough with the scavenging. Time to get off this ice box.

He didn’t bother re-entering the collapsing cavern. Instead, Daemon picked the steep trail he’d seen winding away from the summit — a narrow ledge that circled wide around the Gargoyles’ nesting grounds. No point poking the winged roaches twice in a day.

Snow crunched beneath his feet. Ice crackled off his shoulders every few steps. The massive Yeti carcass was frozen solid, made it much easier to carry since having it bouncing against his back would've been a pain in the backside. Having it leaving a bloody trail behind him would’ve terrified any casual hunter unlucky enough to be climbing up this trail after him.

Hours passed as he trudged down the ridges, slipping between sheer rock walls and frozen pine copses. Now and then, a distant howl drifted through the wind, but no beast dared test him with the stench of fresh blood and the aura of a predator that emanated off him strong enough to wear a dead Yeti like a scarf.

Occasionally, a pair of glowing eyes flashed from the dark forest shadows — wolves, maybe a Dire-Lynx or two — but they vanished when Daemon snarled at them. Smart move. Go snack on squirrels instead.

By the time he reached the treeline, the blood that had frozen stiff on his arms began to thaw. His breath fogged around his face in thick coils. The edge of his campsite finally came into view — the crude wooden houses Grunt had been tinkering with for days.

Daemon chuckled. “Man... I’m glad this is over. Fuck all Gargoyles.” He stomped up the path, fallen leaves crushed under his feet as he crossed into the clearing.

Runa, hunched over a pile of materials and half-finished arrows near her primitive tent, yelped when the enormous fur-draped carcass landed at her feet with a whud. Blood spattered her feet. She stared wide-eyed at the dead Yeti’s slack jaw and crooked horn.

“Runa. I brought you something different today,” Daemon said, already peeling off toward the woods behind the camp. “Make me something warm outta that fur. I’m gonna soak.”

The Crafter’s jaw moved wordlessly as she prodded the corpse with the toe of her boot. By the time she turned to ask a question, her Lord Asura was gone, slipping into the trees where a faint trickle of steam rose — the Fountain.

He stored his Weapons in the Inventory once he reached the water’s edge, kicked off the ground and sank into the pool up to his neck. The cold his body accumulated during the journey resisted — then the natural heat deep in the spring’s heart rose to chase it away, curling around his bruises and cuts. Blood and grime floated away in lazy swirls as his skin and muscles healed to perfection.

About damn time. A Forge for my bones, he thought, sinking lower until only his eyes broke the water’s mirror.

Later, back at the tent Daemon’s steady breath echoed like a contented thunderclap through the tent. Thin arms hung limp over kneecaps as the cold breeze battered the thin layer of fabric thrown over his chest.

When his eyes flicked open again, the warm flicker of firelight painted dancing shadows on the walls. And there, in the glow, sat Jia — cross-legged in perfect lotus position. Her delicate fingers rested on her knees, her long hair cascading over her shoulders like a silken waterfall.

Her eyes snapped open the moment his did. “Your stomach’s been making a ruckus for a while now. I was starting to worry — you’ve been gone so long!” she chided sweetly, tilting her head. One gentle hand rose, brushing against his jaw. “Are you alright?”

For a moment, Daemon just stared at her. The way the firelight kissed her skin, the way her warm palm rested on his cheek — it struck him somewhere deep in his chest. Stop it. Stop it, you idiot. Get a grip. Let her have her fun, the timing isn't right for you to have yours.

He cleared his throat and nodded stiffly. Jia’s smile only widened when she felt the heat rise in his face. She lowered her hand slowly — savoring the small triumph of his flustered silence.

When Daemon ducked out of the tent with a muttered cough, she let out a soft giggle and rose gracefully to her feet. Look at you, she thought with a grin, the mighty Daemon — so taken by surprise and almost undone by a girl’s sudden touch.

She didn’t waste time. Within moments, she had the small camp stove roaring outside the tent, pots clattering. The smell of stewing meat and sizzling spices drifted through the chilly night, blending with pine and hints of moist grass.

Jia’s smile softened when she glanced at her young master Daemon. Big brother Ru and the others... They’d never believe how gentle he is when he’s like this.

She ladled a steaming bowl, plated some fruit, and poured a small clay cup of bitter tea. Daemon hunched over the table near the fire, tearing into the meat as if the fight with the Yeti hadn’t affected his appetite at all. When he finished, he leaned back against a log, gazing at the stars above — it felt like the first he’d seen of the sky in days, unfiltered by cave ceilings, falling stones, and collapsing stalactites.

Far from the flickering fire, the woods thickened into deep shadows and colder winds. Somewhere beyond, the land rose in jagged ridges — a pass between mountain chains.

This was no common hunting trail. This was the threshold of the Myriad-Beast Forest’s true heart — the untamed border of the Ten-Thousand Beast Mountain. Here, no wild deer or ordinary bear dared graze or roam. This was the dominion of Ferocious-Creatures and Magic-Beasts — living storms of fur, fang, and Elemental might.

Chirp!

A blue-feathered bird flitted down from the high watchtower on the lone fortress that squatted on the pass like a silent judge. Within its stone belly, only those sworn to the Sect of Ten-Thousand Beast Mountain moved freely. Any hunter who passed its gates kept their head low and tongue silent — for a Magic-Beast’s roar was mercy compared to a Sect Enforcer’s wrath.

The bird swooped beneath branches, dodged snow-heavy limbs, and slipped between moonlit trunks until the forest broke against a single, impossible mountain. Its slopes dwarfed every peak in the chain — a sleeping god of stone and ice.

Chirp! Chirp!

It settled on the branch of a gnarled old tree beside a small garden. Nestled in that garden was a lone house — higher than any village shack but humble compared to the mighty Sect halls that clung to the mountainside above.

Inside, a woman’s voice called lazily, “Alright. I’m coming, Little Song... What’s gotten you so anxious?”

She stepped out barefoot onto the dew-kissed grass, her black dress shimmering in the moonlight like spilled ink. Her hair fell past her hips in thick waves, dark as a midnight lake. Her eyes — sharp and clear as polished jade — softened at the sight of her feathered messenger.

The bird ruffled its wings, trilling insistently.

“Oh? The senile old fool actually bothered to write?” She cooed, plucking seeds from her Space Ring and scattering them into her palm. Little Song fluttered down eagerly, pecking up the treats with happy chirps while she untied the tiny scroll from its leg.

Her eyes scanned the neat characters — each line deepening the furrow in her brow. “Qi Ying got bullied by some mortal kid in Scattered-Woods Village? Almost had both hands crippled? What sort of brat beats up a Sect disciple? And his Cultivator bodyguards stood watching without moving a finger as the boy thrashed Qi Ying!” She paused, lips curling in suspicion. “And this mortal didn’t run or hide — he’s still sitting there like he’s daring us to come for him...”

She read further — a list of odd sightings and whispered rumors about the boy’s sudden strength. Fortuitous Encounter? Hidden Bloodline? Something smells rotten...

She exhaled, rolling the scroll tight enough that her knuckles whitened. Her gaze flicked up to the mountain’s shadowed heights. “Not my problem alone. This is way above an Outer-Elder’s pay grade. Time for the peacocks to earn their feathers.” She patted the bird’s head and whispered, “Little Song, take me up.”

With a graceful leap, she perched on its back. The bird spread its wings wide — and the garden vanished beneath a rush of wind and feathers.

Far away, the Blue-Luan Town’s tallest building gleamed in the lamplight — the branch of the Seven-Gold Pagoda Trade-House. At its peak floor, behind a polished mahogany desk, Ling Su sat frozen.

Protector Jian’s report drifted around her head like buzzing bees. The old man’s voice had been steady, but she’d seen the unease in his eyes when he described that boy’s shabby camp. The Tigress and Cub. The lack of any semblance of reinforced barricades. The few servants serving the twins. The natural actions of a mortal who’d slapped a Sect's dog bloody and is careless to even think about the consequences.

Ling Su’s manicured fingers tapped the inkstone. Finally she murmured, “Good work today. This news must reach the Main-Branch in Crouching-Tiger City tonight.”

Protector Jian vanished through the wall behind her like a ghost, robes brushing the doorframe.

Ling Su leaned back in her chair, staring at the dancing lanternlight on her ceiling. So that Ru fellow was telling the truth. More than the truth. A year alone in the woods — then he shows up with Cultivators at his heel and is still maintaining the lifestyle in the forest camp?

She rang a small bell. A flutter of wings answered her call — a sleek black Hawk landed on the ledge, talons scraping glass. She reached for a fresh scroll and the ink brush.

If you’ve drawn the Sect’s eyes, little king of the woods... I wonder what you’ll do next.

And Daemon — oblivious to the mess he’d stirred up — greeted the dawn with a monster’s stretch, a yawn loud enough to rattle the tent poles, and a lazy scratch to his backside. He stumbled toward the crude and primitive bathroom which wasn't upgraded to a shack in the woods yet, mumbling curses at the early sunlight.

Guess I’ll figure out what’s for breakfast once I find out what survived last night’s late snack, he thought, rubbing sleep from his eyes. And maybe, just maybe, no more bad luck in my Dice Roll for one damn day...

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