The twentieth signature was still there in the morning. Etzel had checked twice: the first time because he wanted to know whether it had disappeared overnight, and the second because he had disliked the answer.
Nineteen dungeon signatures converged toward an unregistered point in the wilderness. The twentieth pushed energy back—not much, but continuously.
Etzel stared at the map while eating breakfast. His communicator vibrated:
Maerin: Convergence region has been sealed.
Etzel stopped chewing, then typed:
Etzel: Good.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, and returned:
Maerin: That was surprisingly reasonable.
Etzel frowned:
Etzel: I can be reasonable.
Sivenne entered the conversation:
Sivenne: Evidence?
Etzel lowered the communicator. Across from him, DK was drinking water. “They've closed the central region.”
“Good.”
Etzel pointed at him. “You too?”
DK lowered the cup. “You agree with the decision.”
“Yes.”
“Then there is no problem.”
“The problem is everyone acting surprised.”
DK considered that. “Understandable.”
Etzel stared at him, then opened his status. One line held his attention: [Level: 8].
He looked at it for several seconds. DK noticed: “What?”
“Two.”
“No.”
Etzel looked up. “I haven't proposed anything.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
“That is discriminatory.”
DK continued drinking. Etzel returned to the display. Two Levels. Level Ten—the next regular Limited Necromancer reward. He still remembered the first chest: three choices, sixty seconds, one decision, and DK.
Etzel dismissed the interface. He could hunt weaker creatures—a lot of them, safe targets, predictable routes, low risk. But he already knew the problem: the System rewarded meaningful progression far more efficiently than mindless slaughter. Ten easy kills were not necessarily better than one fight that forced him to improve.
Etzel stood. DK watched him. “No.”
“I still haven't said anything.”
“You stood with intent.”
“I hate that you know me.”
The target took them most of the morning to locate. Etzel had found the report through one of the public hunting boards: several sightings, no confirmed kill, a creature moving through rocky woodland west of the city—fast, cautious, difficult to ambush. One Hunter had described it as something that dodges before you attack.
That had been enough.
The tracks led between low stone ridges and clusters of dry trees. Etzel crouched beside one: four feet, long stride, deep foreclaw impressions.
DK studied the surrounding ground. “Recent.”
“How recent?”
DK looked toward him. Etzel sighed. “Right. You aren't a clock.”
They continued. Twenty minutes later, DK stopped. Etzel saw nothing, and then the brush ahead moved.
A dark shape stepped between two rocks: low body, four powerful legs, short black-gray fur. Its head was narrow, but the strangest feature ran along both sides of its skull—thin folded membranes stretching from behind the jaw toward the neck. They pulsed once.
The creature froze. A System identification appeared:
SURVEY RECORD: SPECIMEN IDENTIFIED
Target
Hushback Stalker
Estimated Level
10
Rank
E