Chapter 967: First Kill
Furthermore, the satisfying clarity of a kill notification… He missed this greatly. Grinding martial arts in Zhenwu was one thing. Defeating cultivators and even slaying a god was beyond awesome, a journey he would never forget, no doubt about it. But this? This just hit different. The chaos of this world, the wild unpredictability of Thallorind… this was his true hunting ground.
And for the first time since returning, it finally felt fully real.
At the same time, Feng stood frozen, hands clutched to her chest, eyes full with disbelief and unfiltered joy. Her fingers trembled as she pointed at her summoned ooze.
A glowing message shone before her mind’s eyes:
[Kill Assist Confirmed!]
[Arrund (Lv. 42) has been slain.]
[Contribution: 26%.]
[Reward: 4,568 XP.]
“Wow…” Her voice trembled somewhere between a squeal and a whisper. Her heart thundered in her chest, thumping like a war drum.
Her eyes shone like twin stars, cheeks flushing as adrenaline fought with giddy disbelief. She’d never gotten a kill notification before. Not since being brought into this world.
Quinlan chuckled. “Good.” His blade flicked sideways, spraying a thin line of blood into the grass. “Feels different from Zhenwu, doesn’t it?”
“I love it!!” Feng half-giggled, half-panted. “Holy crap. Holy crap…”
A sharp sigh interrupted the moment.
“Ughhh…” Kitsara crossed her arms, glaring daggers at the dead man’s body. Her tails bristled.
Next to her, Blossom pouted hard enough to puff her cheeks. “Blossom failed to silently kill her target while Master, who isn’t an assassin, didn’t…” Her ears flattened as she felt very inadequate with herself all of a sudden.
Quinlan glanced over his shoulder and responded with a sigh of his own. “Stop being drama queens. Feng helped. I didn’t solo him.”
Both fox and dog paused… exchanged glances… then let out reluctant, synchronized sounds of acceptance.
Quinlan’s smirk returned. “Good. Because the hunt’s not over yet.” His gaze locked forward, elemental winds swirling tighter around his body. “We’ve only just begun.”
Without another word, the group pressed on. Shadows devoured them as they moved, silent predators circling ever closer to the fortress.
*BOOOM!*
A thunderous sound split the air, then another. Then three in rapid succession. The distinct crackle of fire mana combusting against reinforced barriers, the shriek of spells colliding, and the unmistakable roar of something collapsing in the far distance could be heard.
Blossom’s ears perked instantly. “Blossom’s ears tell her that Serika and Selene are working together!”
Quinlan nodded. “Good. Let’s not waste their effort.”
His saber slipped free of its sheath with a whisper of steel.
“Blossom, take the lead.”
“Yes, Master.” Blossom’s voice dropped to that clipped, professional tone she reserved for real work. Tail straight, ears up, she dashed forward. Her senses strained outward, mapping the rhythms of the patrolling guards, detecting shifts in mana signatures, finding every blind spot before it was even a thought in someone’s head.
The fortress emerged between the gaps of old pines and blackthorn. Massive. Imposing. Stone walls reinforced with plates and garrison towers with artifact launchers meant to decimate.
But none of that mattered. Not really.
Because death didn’t come through the front gate tonight.
Quinlan’s saber lifted toward the sky. His elemental eyes gleamed. “Time for diversion number two.”
—
Inside the Fortress.
At the heart of the compound, high above the prison cells and mana-sealed vaults, stood the command tower. Glass windows overlooked the sprawling yard below, dotted with barracks, guard posts, and mana suppression arrays.
A pair of polished boots clicked rhythmically against marble floors.
Lady Sareth Greenvale, Master Warden of the Greenvale estate’s deep prison, high-ranking enforcer of the Duke’s will, and one of the top combatants in the entire family with her 68 levels, stood.
Her figure was tall, statuesque, armored in an elegant blend of green silk and steel-reinforced plating. A long, crescent-bladed halberd rested against the wall behind her. Her hair was forest green, braided into tight cords, and her emerald eyes shone with the cold calculation of someone utterly without mercy.
*Bang!*
The door burst open.
“Lady Sareth!” Her assistant rushed in. “Hostile activity in the outer perimeter by an unknown number of intruders!”
Sareth’s brow lifted. “Now? Why now?”
A brief pause came. Then she shook her head, calm. Unbothered. “No matter. If it’s enemies, then my duty is clear.”
Her hands slid into the grooves of her gauntlets, locking the rune plates into place with a loud click. Sareth turned to the rack behind her and grasped the long halberd, its blade gleaming with vicious enchantments.
“Ready my retinue. Double the ward coverage on the inner vaults. Lock the vault keys. And send word to the Duke.”
She flicked her weapon onto her shoulder as her lips curled upwards ever so slightly. “Let’s deal with them.”
But then…
*Bang!* Another door slammed open.
A second messenger, pale as snow, practically skidded into the room. “M-My Lady! There’s… there’s an army!”
Sareth’s emerald eyes narrowed. “What army?”
“T-They’re… blue… an army of… lionkin! Massive, armored, marching straight toward the southern bastion!”
Sareth blinked. Once. Twice. Her weapon lowered. “… What?”
The words made no sense. Beastkin? Blue-skinned ones at that? Here? How? Why?
But instinct screamed that this was not a coincidence.
—
Quinlan’s saber thudded with the energy of its mighty blue flames. Around him, Kitsara, Feng, and Blossom stood guard.
“[March of the Damned].”
The spell circle that bloomed into existence beneath his feet was monstrous. The air itself bent under the pressure.
A soundless pulse echoed out, a deep, low thump in the soul.
All at once, a hundred figures blinked into existence in perfect ranks. Not from the ground. Not from some pit or portal. But directly from the void within the Soul Reaper. Their forms unraveled from threads of soulstuff and condensed into solid shapes, lionkin warriors, each clad in spectral renditions of their former armor.
Empty eyes glowed with cold, blue fire. Muscles rippled beneath ethereal skin as their clawed hands gripped sabers, halberds, or heavy axes forged entirely of spiritual essence.
There was no sound save for the whisper of wind and the sizzle of soulfire. No growling. No breathing. No emotion.
Just obedience.
A hundred elite lionkin soldiers, each between level 40 and 45, materialized in clean, orderly rows. Perfect formation. Perfect posture. Like puppets with no strings, awaiting the will of their master.
“March.”
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