The cool, dust-furred stone walls of Laia's new eastern outpost villa still smelled of stale ward incense when she dropped her bulging spatial satchel on the kitchen table and ran the day's merit tally in her head for the third time. Thirty-two thousand, one hundred and eighteen. Just under eighteen thousand left to go before the Box of Avarice was hers.
Steady daily hunting would get her there in another two weeks, at the pace she'd set that afternoon. Too slow. The eastern badlands were teeming with vescavor swarms—iridescent, acid-secreting abyssal wasps that clustered in hives tens of thousands strong, worth a single merit each on their own, but worth a fortune cleared out in bulk. The problem was catching them. They scattered at the first tremor of explosive force, burrowed through solid rock, took to the air faster than she could line up a shot. Small traps and scattered mines were useless against a swarm that moved like living smoke.
Her fingers brushed the dented bronze trinket at the bottom of her satchel, and she paused.
The Beacon of the Vescavor Queen. The forgotten novelty prize tossed in with the tournament winner's ceremonial rewards, written off by most as a useless trinket for hobbyist beast tamers. Carved from the petrified abdomen of a high-tier abyssal hive matriarch, it emitted a slow, steady stream of synthetic pheromones that drew every lesser insectoid abyssal creature within a three-mile radius straight to its source.
A slow, sharp smile spread across her face. Perfect.
She spread a tattered abyssal topographical map out across the table, her finger tracing the narrow, boxed-in gash of Blackpine Gorge three miles east of the outpost. Sheer, smooth basalt cliffs on both sides, too hard for vescavor larvae to burrow through. Dead end at the far wall. Only one narrow, winding entrance. She'd plant the beacon deep in the back. She'd line every foot of the gorge walls with every last explosive charge she owned, plus every jar of concentrated abyssal venom extract she could buy from the quartermaster before dawn. Lure the whole swarm in. Collapse the entrance. Blow the entire ravine sky-high.
It was cheap. It was efficient. It carried barely any risk, with her Abyss Resistance and the speed to outrun any stragglers. The payout would cover the rest of her merit goal twice over.
She rolled the map back up, and started stacking explosive charges into a neat pile by the door, the bronze beacon glowing with a faint, acrid green light on the table beside her.
Two villas down the row, Liora Voss sat on the edge of her plain iron-frame bed, staring at three meager abyssal carcasses laid out on her desk, and let out a long, shaky breath.
Six hours in the mist. Six hours of holding her ward shield up until her divine core ached, of picking off isolated first and second-tier spawn one by one, of running from a single third-tier shadow stalker before it could shatter her barrier. Seventy merits total. Barely enough to cover a week of garrison supply fees.
She'd spent months training. She'd memorized every textbook chapter on abyssal beast weak points and ward efficiency. She'd thought Laia's endless hauls were just boldness, just a willingness to venture deeper than more cautious recruits dared. She'd been wrong.
The creatures here were different. Their chitinous hides ate through standard divine magic. Their mandibles gnawed at her shield faster than any academy simulation had ever prepared her for. Half the time, she could barely land a solid hit before her essence reserves dipped dangerously low.
A cold, humbling realization settled in her chest. If Laia hadn't thinned out the entire western outer ring over her first month there, Liora would have wandered straight into a third-tier den her very first week and never made it back. She owed the quiet, sharp-tongued scholarship student her life, as absurd as it felt to admit.
She glanced at the glowing merit balance on her account slip, then at the crumpled note about the Far Shore waters' billion-merit price tag taped to her desk frame. A billion. It might as well have been a star she was supposed to pluck from the sky.
For the first time, she let herself really weigh Laia's advice. Grab Lyra. Run. Leave the clan, leave the True Name War, leave the crumbling legacy that was going to get both of them killed. Was pride really worth watching her sister's divinity tear itself apart? Was it worth dying out here in the purple mist for a house that had already written them both off?
She buried her face in her hands, and said nothing. The weight of it sat heavy in her chest, sharp and unanswerable.
At the far end of the villa row, Tobias Hale Liu was sprawled across his couch, surrounded by half a dozen open oak crates of top-tier divine artifacts, crumbs of honey shortbread stuck to the collar of his tunic.
His father had panicked the second he'd heard about the transfer to the eastern outpost, and overnighted half the family's personal armory to the garrison via priority divine courier. Warding amulets forged from star-iron. Soul-binding barrier shields that could absorb a full blow from a fifth-tier beast. A set of explosive javelins that could level a small canyon in a single throw. It was all ridiculously, unnecessarily overkill. He'd only signed up for the border detail to get away from endless inheritance lectures and stuffy noble banquets. He wasn't trying to be a war hero.
He popped another shortbread into his mouth, and picked up a glowing opal amulet, turning it over in his hand. Maybe he'd wear it tomorrow, just in case. No point in being reckless. But he wasn't going out of his way to hunt anything dangerous. The mess hall had a rotating dessert menu. The beds were surprisingly comfortable. He'd put in his required ten days a month, collect his minimum merits, and go home when his three months were up. That was the plan.
He reached into the nearest crate, pulled out a wrapped pack of imported candied dates, and tossed one into the air, catching it in his mouth. Life could be worse.
Back in her villa, Laia finished strapping the last of her explosive charges to her utility belt, and tucked the bronze beacon into the inner pocket of her coat. The first pale streaks of dawn were starting to bleed through the misty window panes.
Eighteen thousand merits. One hive. One big boom.
She'd be done before the month was out. She'd have the Box of Avarice, her steady passive crystal income, and she'd never have to lie awake at night worrying about realm maintenance bills or rent or tuition ever again.
She slung her rifle over her shoulder, slipped out the villa door, and headed for the eastern perimeter gate, her boots silent on the stone path.
The vescavor swarms had no idea what was coming for them.