"Well, isn't this sweet?" Maddy said dryly. "If I didn't know better, I'd think I walked into a proper family dinner."
Klaus sighed. "What brings you here, Maddy?"
"Party meeting tomorrow afternoon. Same place," she replied. "Shane wants everyone present."
"Understood."
Her gaze drifted back to the woman and child. "You really planning to keep this up? Playing house with slaves? When are you throwing them away?"
The girl stiffened instantly, clutching her mother's sleeve. The woman lowered her head, shoulders tight.
Klaus didn't raise his voice. "Never thought about it, yet."
"I don't have problems with them, but…" Maddy sighed. "…they're slaves. No names. They have nothing. People already whisper about you. Eating with them like this? They'll think you're unhinged."
He tapped the table thoughtfully. "Maybe they're right."
Maddy frowned. "Then why—"
"Tomorrow," Klaus interrupted calmly, "I'll take them to the church and give them names."
She blinked. "…You're what?"
"They don't have names," he continued. "That seems inconvenient."
"You're really something," Maddy said slowly. "Most people thought of them as properties—use when needed, throw when they're no use."
"I still need someone to keep the house from collapsing," Klaus replied with a faint smile. "Throwing them out now would be inefficient."
Maddy stared at him. "You're insane."
"Possibly," Klaus agreed.
Petra peeked timidly from behind the entrance, "Are you done, Maddy?" Her voice was so small that even Maddy couldn't hear it.
Klaus noticed immediately. "You can come in, Petra. I don't bite either."
She squeaked and vanished back behind the doorway.
Maddy pinched the bridge of her nose. "Why is everyone around me like this?"
Klaus shrugged. "Maybe you're one of us."
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that comment."
As Maddy turned to leave, the girl peeked out from her mother's arms. "Big brother… you'll really give us names?"
"Yes," Klaus said. "So eat properly and sleep early. Tomorrow will be busy."
Her face lit up as if he'd promised her the world.
Klaus stood and headed for his room. Before entering, he said, "I'm going back to sleep. Don't wake me unless it's important."
The little girl who's busy eating looked at him, "You've just woken up, big brother. Why are you sleeping again?"
Klaus looked back at the girl, "For grown-ups like me, sleep is a luxury." He didn't wait for the girl's response and closed the door.
He crossed to the wooden wall beside his closet, fingers brushing an unremarkable wooden plank. No hinges. No seams. He pressed his palm against it and murmured, almost lazily, "Mindforger."
The plank dissolved without a sound, not breaking or splintering, but simply ceasing to be. Beneath it yawned a narrow, slanted passage cut into the earth, smooth and deliberate. No stairs. Just a long incline that swallowed light.
Klaus forged a torch with a thought. Fire bloomed in his hand, steady and obedient. He replaced the plank behind him, sealing the entrance, and began his descent.
The air grew colder the deeper he went. After several minutes, even the torch seemed to struggle against the dark. Then he heard it—a low, hollow howl of wind, distant but constant.
He fixed the torch into a torch holder within the wall.
Flame leapt.
One torch ignited another, then another, a chain reaction racing across the chamber. Light flooded the underground hall, revealing a space so vast that the house above would barely cover a quarter of it. The stone walls were clearly man-made, their rough cuts uneven and personal.
At the far end stood rows of metal sheets at staggered distances. Some were dented inward. Others were pierced clean through. A few had been replaced recently.
Klaus approached the central table and closed his eyes.
"Mindforger."
Three weapons appeared at once, settling onto the table with familiar weight: a revolver, a Swiss Luger pistol, and a Lee-Enfield rifle.
He picked up the revolver first, flipping the cylinder open. Three bullets remained.
"Still sloppy," he muttered.
He raised the gun and fired.
The nearest target rang sharply, the bullet punching dead center. Klaus adjusted his stance, breathing out slowly, and fired again. The second shot clipped the edge of the far plate, metal screaming in protest. The last round went wide, sparking uselessly against stone.
Klaus lowered the revolver, tongue clicking in annoyance. "Tch. Dexterity's still lagging behind perception."
With a thought, he summoned his status. The air before him shimmered, the familiar translucent screen unfolding in full—no shortcuts this time. He read it carefully, as if daring it to lie to him.
____________________________________________________________________________________________
Page 1 / 2
Name: Klaus de Verde
Race: Human
Age: 21
Class: Reaver
Level: 172
Party: House de Verde
Coalition: Pe'cha Subjugator's Alliance
Description:
The adopted son of House de Verde. A wanderer bound by promise, quietly dragged into a web of blood, contracts, and vengeance he never intended to touch.
Status:
Health: 35,000 / 35,000
Mana: 19,100 / 19,100
Stamina: 12,000 / 12,000
Attributes (Free Points: 61):
Strength: 329+
Agility: 535+
Endurance: 385+
Intelligence: 449+
Dexterity: 620+
Charisma: 270+
Coins:
Gold: 3,232
Silver: 4,798
Bronze: 32
Storage: >>
______________________________________________________________________________________________
Next Page >>
Klaus stared at the Dexterity line longer than the rest. Then he snorted softly.
"Six hundred twenty and I still miss the 250 feet plate," he said dryly.
Klaus hesitated for a breath, then tapped the + beside Dexterity. Ten points vanished into the stat with a faint chime.
"Let's see if that was worth the silver," he muttered.
The status screen vanished at a flick of his wrist. Klaus extended his hand, palm up. Six bullets formed between his fingers one by one, perfectly balanced, their metallic sheen catching the torchlight. He rolled his wrist, feeling their weight, then activated Trap Master.
The familiar sting followed—a feeling of losing without gaining anything.
Trap Master activated.
1 Silver deducted.
Again. And again.
By the sixth notification, Klaus was rubbing his temple. "Six bullets, six silver. At this rate, I should start charging the targets for emotional damage."
Still, he loaded the revolver with practiced ease—no wasted motion. No hesitation.
Two hundred feet—the second-farthest plate. He aligned the sights, steadied his breathing, and fired.
The shot rang through the chamber, sharp and clean. Dead center.
Klaus adjusted his stance and fired again. Same result. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
He pushed it further. Two hundred fifty feet. The farthest plate, scarred and warped from months of abuse. The first shot struck true. He fired three more times. All hits—slightly off-center, but consistent.
"Acceptable," he muttered. "Still room to improve."
He set the revolver down and tested the pistols next. Accurate, reliable—but when he lifted the Lee-Enfield, the difference was immediate. The rifle felt right. Each shot landed squarely in the center, no drift, no hesitation, as if the weapon itself agreed with him.
Klaus nodded once, satisfied.
He dismissed the targets and walked toward the far end of the chamber, boots echoing softly. The second tunnel stretched ahead, flatter and wider, the sound of wind growing louder with every step. Cool air brushed his face. Light spilled in at the end.
He emerged onto a sheer cliffside. Far above, the silhouette of Pe'cha's town wall cut across the sky. Below—an endless sea of forest, dark and alive.
Klaus stepped to the edge, coat fluttering, eyes sharp and unreadable.
"Time to hunt," he said—and jumped.