Kevin raised an eyebrow. "You didn't take them all."
"Of course not," Menchi scoffed, carefully securing her bulging, mesh harvest bag. "Gourmet Hunter rule one: never strip a source bare. Leave enough for the creature to use and for the ecosystem to sustain itself. Those last few are either under-ripe or damaged. They'll either be eaten by the turtle itself or decompose and feed the fungus for the next fruiting cycle." She patted her bag with satisfaction. "This is plenty for my experiments. Quality over quantity."
Buhara, who had gathered the less-damaged berries from his own incapacitated turtle into a large leaf, nodded in agreement. "A harvest taken with respect ensures a future harvest. It is the same principle Begel taught, though applied to a different resource."
Kevin absorbed the lesson, another piece of the Hunter's ethical code clicking into place. It wasn't just about rules; it was about sustainable practice, a long-term view that separated a true Hunter from a mere taker.
A low, pained groan rumbled from the turtle Buhara had slammed. It was beginning to stir, its legs paddling weakly at the air.
"Time to go," Menchi said, not with urgency, but with finality. "They're tougher than they look. They'll be fine once we're gone and the shock wears off."
Kevin cast one last En pulse, confirming no other large creatures were approaching in response to the commotion. The coast was clear. As they retreated from the misty clearing, leaving the groggy Ichigo-Gamera behind, he felt the peculiar weight of the strawberries in his own small sample pouch. They were more than just fruit; they were a token of a successful, ethical hunt, and a potential key to a new potion property—perhaps something to enhance vitality or sweetness of effect.
"So," Menchi said as they trekked back towards firmer ground, her mood visibly brighter. "You got your weird mushroom yet, Mr. Pharmacist?"
"Not yet," Kevin admitted. "The Luna-Moss Cap is supposed to fruit in the deepest, darkest sinkholes, only under direct glow of its namesake moss. This was a worthwhile detour, though." He glanced at her bag. "Would you be willing to trade a single, pristine berry? For analysis. I have a tincture of concentrated Golden Honey that might interest you in return—excellent for glazes and balancing acidic flavors."
Menchi's eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in serious culinary consideration. "Golden Honey… from the hives of the Migratory Sapphire Bee? That is a rare base. Deal. One strawberry for one vial."
The transaction was made with the solemnity of a ritual, there on the muddy path. As Kevin carefully placed the perfect strawberry into a stasis vial and handed over a small amber bottle to Menchi, he felt a surge of satisfaction. This was the network in action. This was the economy of specialties he had envisioned. The Hunter Exam would grant him the license, but moments like this—the exchange of rare goods and specialized knowledge between practitioners—were the true currency of this world. And he was now, unmistakably, a participant.
The trio retreated to the edge of the fog bank, the grisly tableau now a blurred, ominous shape in the mist behind them. The cheerful atmosphere from the strawberry harvest had evaporated, replaced by a heavy, watchful silence.
Kevin kept his En active at a steady four-meter radius, a vigilant sphere of awareness in the damp air. Menchi had her knives out again, not with the earlier playful aggression, but held in a low, defensive guard. Buhara stood like a bastion, his gentle eyes now sharp as he scanned the surrounding gloom, his nostrils flaring as he sampled the air for any new scent of threat or decay.
"That wasn't a predator's kill," Kevin said quietly, his voice cutting through the swamp's drone. "Predators eat. They don't… shred. This was extermination. Or sport."
Menchi shuddered, a full-body flinch that had nothing to do with the cold. "Something that sees humans as toys. Or intruders to be wiped out with extreme prejudice."
"The uniforms," Buhara rumbled. "They were not simple poachers or lost hikers. They were equipped. Armed. An organized group. And they were overcome completely."
The implications hung in the air, heavier than the fog. Something in the Lost Meller Wetland had just violently rejected a significant human incursion. And they were standing in its backyard.
The distant growl of an approaching engine was a profoundly welcome sound. Soon, Begel's jeep emerged from the path, followed by a second vehicle carrying two other reserve guards, their faces grim. Begel stepped out, his usual calm replaced by a steely professional focus. He took in the scene with a single, sweeping glance that missed no detail, his jaw tightening.
"Kevin. Report." His voice was clipped, all business.
Kevin relayed the facts concisely: their detour, Buhara catching the scent, the discovery, the state of the bodies, the absence of any immediate threat within his En's range. He handed over his phone with the photos.
Begel scrolled through the images, his expression growing darker with each one. "Mercenaries," he identified, pointing at a scrap of insignia on a torn sleeve in one photo. "Low-grade, but professional. And these," he zoomed in on one of the special uniforms, "are from a private bioprospecting firm. The kind that skirts international laws on wildlife exploitation." He let out a short, harsh breath. "They must have been after something big. Something worth this kind of risk."
He looked from the slaughter site to the dense, waiting wetland. "And they found something else instead. Or it found them." He turned to his guards, issuing rapid orders for containment, evidence collection, and an immediate alert to the Hunter Association's crisis board.
As the others set to work, Begel pulled Kevin, Menchi, and Buhara aside, his voice low. "Your expedition is over. This wetland is now a confirmed Hostile Bio-Hazard Zone. I'm invoking reserve authority to escort you back to the lodge, and then I strongly recommend you vacate the premises entirely until the Association conducts a sweep and neutralizes the threat."
Menchi opened her mouth, likely to protest about unfinished ingredient lists, but one look at Begel's face—a mask of deep concern and unwavering authority—silenced her. Even she understood the shift in stakes.
Buhara placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. "We have our samples. It is time to go."
Kevin nodded, his mind already racing ahead. The Hunter Exam was approaching, a controlled environment with known rules. This… this was the other side of the Hunter's world: raw, uncharted, and brutally unforgiving. He had his strawberry, his mushroom still unfound, and now a stark, bloody reminder. Power for its own sake was meaningless. The real test was knowing when to hunt, when to study, and when to strategically, wisely, withdraw. Today's lesson was in withdrawal. He committed the scent of blood and the feeling of latent, unseen menace to memory. It was a material of a different sort, one that no potion could ever replicate, and one he knew he must learn to recognize.
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