By the time they reached the patrol zone, Calamon still wasn't speaking to anyone.
The others only knew fragments of the story. According to rumor, Dona was the daughter of a wealthy merchant. During Calamon's fourth-tier spirit ascension ritual, she'd gifted him a missing Solar Crystal, helping him pass his graduation trial and become a certified fighter. That was how they met—and how Calamon fell, hard and fast, into a one-sided love story.
Then, just when he'd started planning a life together, she'd kicked him straight out of paradise.
Sparse as the information was, it clearly didn't match Administrator Elix in the slightest.
Rod tried probing sideways, asking whether any of them had met the outer-district second-sector administrator. All three said no. Only Calamon muttered something about a bearded guy, but when pressed, claimed he "couldn't really remember."
Strange. Too strange.
Rod decided to wait until after patrol to corner Calamon alone. Maybe once the sting wore off, the man would talk.
For now, the mission came first—kill monsters, harvest souls.
The four began their route, same as the night before. Their pace was textbook: not too fast, not too slow. According to Raeslin, this was the "optimal patrol rhythm"—a full loop every thirty minutes, brisk at the start and end, easing up in the middle. Statistically, it yielded the best rescue rates.
Luck was good tonight. They'd barely started when they stumbled on three waves of gray-class monsters—at least two hundred total.
Rod fired ten rounds, netting fifty-one Dust-like Souls. Raeslin whistled."Damn, rich boy."
Aeg piped up, licking honey off his thumb. "That's a waste. Those ash creepers burn out as fast as they spawn. Using consumables on them's not worth it."
Rod had already noticed. Gray-class monsters were feeble things; just like Old One-Eye Mohr had said in class, their soul waves were flat lines, dull and faint. Hardly any spiritual flare.
True silver, on the other hand, was precious.
Any material that resonated with spirit energy was a "spiritual medium," the lifeblood of civilization. True silver above thirty percent purity was restricted—illegal to trade freely. Each bullet held less than a tenth of a gram, yet cost seven silver sox. Blasting that at dust mites was highway robbery.
But as a rookie, Rod had no better option.
He'd started the night with fifty-five rounds. Ten shots later, forty-five remained. And tonight… things were different. The monsters were thicker, almost swarming. Just as the scar-faced chief had warned—the Dim Moon Night.
The long night stretched ahead. At this rate, forty-five bullets wouldn't cut it. And if he kept "firing off" like this every night, he'd go broke before long—even if he sold himself to Casha as a meat slave, it wouldn't cover the cost.
After paying off debts and buying ammo, he had only three hundred silver sox left. One wrong splurge and the thousand he'd borrowed from Casha would vanish.
Rod thought for a moment, then thumbed the slider on the Raven's stock upward.
Click.
The weapon's runes flared. "Raven" switched into Heavy Mode.
Charging time rose from three to six seconds, spirit drain from forty to one-fifty, but each round's true-silver resonance doubled in force—and, crucially, it saved bullets.
A little trick Big Sister Mina had taught him.
The Raven had more functions than Lauren ever bothered to mention—apparently assuming Rod would never need them.
The second he flipped that switch, all three teammates turned, eyebrows climbing.
"Rod, you can handle heavy fire mode?"
Raeslin stared. "Your spirit output's high enough? I tried that at Level One—three volleys and I was flat on my back."
Rod blinked. "Uh… I fired, what, a few dozen shots yesterday? Even if the load's four times heavier, I can do seven or eight easy."
Calamon chuckled weakly. "Right. Forgot you're a first-year rookie."
Aeg leaned forward, serious for once. "Spirit energy's not a water tank. Our souls aren't filled with it. Using it's more like squeezing water out of a sponge—ever seen a sponge? They make 'em in Lake-Thousand Town. Even soaked, you can only squeeze out a little each time."
Raeslin added with a grin, "Old Mohr's simpler version: spirit energy's just stamina. Use it steady and you last. Push too hard, too fast—you burn out."
"Our so-called spirit totals are ballpark numbers anyway," he went on. "They fluctuate like crazy. Don't take them too seriously."
It made sense. Rod nodded, though part of him didn't quite get it. He'd fired ten heavy rounds in training without feeling drained at all—Mina had even complimented his endurance. He'd assumed she was just being nice.
Maybe I really am gifted, he thought.
Curious, he asked, "So what's the real way to gauge someone's spirit strength?"
Raeslin said, "Mainly your Spirit Level—then your peak output rating. But there are too many variables; those numbers are only rough guides."
Aeg laughed. "Like Old One-Eye says—spirit power, squeeze hard enough, there's always a drop left."
The three burst out laughing again.
Rod grinned, too—but behind the smile, something clicked. He was finally starting to understand the dance between soul and spirit energy.
"Didn't think I'd learn more out here than in class," he murmured, and quickly repeated Mohr's lecture from that morning, hoping to draw out more.
And sure enough, the instinct to play teacher was universal. Nothing wakes up a tired student like the chance to lecture someone else.
Especially Calamon—who was still desperate to repair his image after last night's humiliation. He launched into a detailed monologue.
"Old Mohr oversimplified. He's underestimating you," Calamon said loftily.
"The monsters have tiers in addition to levels. You can't judge strength just by soul waves. You need to factor in spirit rank, type, and abilities before you can size one up properly."
Then he dived into tactics—how to assess threats, plan countermeasures, assign positions, and coordinate strikes.
Aeg, meanwhile, sat cross-legged on the carriage bench, licking honey off a spoon and throwing in the occasional "Yeah!" or "Exactly!"
Up front, Raeslin was already knee-deep in battle—fending off a pack of shadow-hounds with shield and blade, turning his back toward the densest swarm while his front stayed sealed tight.
"You done chatting back there?" he yelled, slashing through another lunging shape. "Because the monsters sure as hell aren't waiting!"