Chapter 29: Spoils

Sigurd remained where he was for several seconds, his sword hanging loosely from his right hand as he stared at the enormous corpse of the Silvervein Direwolf.

The Demonic Beast’s severed head had landed several yards from its body, its silver eyes still open while blood soaked into the broken earth beneath it.

Around them, the valley looked nothing like the place Osric had brought him to less than half an hour ago.

Entire stretches of forest had disappeared, the river had been forced into new channels by fissures running through its banks, overlapping craters covered the basin, and one side of the mountain bore an enormous wound from the Direwolf’s silver beam.

Dust still drifted through the air, accompanied by the occasional rumble of loose stone falling from the damaged cliffs. Sigurd took all of it in before finally releasing the breath he had unconsciously been holding.

His shoulders relaxed, and a small smile slowly appeared at the corner of his lips.

He had won.

There was satisfaction in that realization that killing Ferocious Beasts hadn’t given him in a long time. Three years ago, the Armored Bloodfang had pushed him to his limits because he was inexperienced in fighting the creatures of Eden.

Today had been different. The Silvervein Direwolf was genuinely stronger than the opponents Osric normally placed before him and possessed enough power to kill him if he made the wrong decision, yet Sigurd hadn’t survived through luck.

He had studied it, adapted to it, accumulated injuries across its body, manipulated its reactions, and finally created the opening that ended the fight. There were still mistakes he could identify while replaying the battle in his head, particularly the tail strike that had sent him through several trees, but that only made the victory more satisfying.

Sigurd had little interest in battles that merely confirmed how strong he already was. The useful ones were those that showed him exactly where he remained lacking.

Sigurd rolled his left shoulder and immediately regretted it when pain traveled across his ribs.

He looked down at his torn clothes, the blood staining his arms, and the bruises already darkening beneath his skin before muttering, "That’s going to hurt tomorrow."

The physical pain wasn’t what concerned him. Sylvia would notice every injury before he managed to walk halfway through the estate. Three years had taught him that attempting to hide wounds from his mother was an exercise in futility.

She possessed an almost supernatural ability to detect injuries beneath clothing, after which Osric would receive another furious lecture about what constituted reasonable training for a child. Osric would listen respectfully, promise to exercise greater caution, and then take Sigurd somewhere even worse the following week.

The thought brought another faint smile to his face before Sigurd turned his attention toward the corpse. Even in death, the Silvervein Direwolf remained imposing.

He walked toward its abdomen, crouched beside the blood-soaked fur, and placed one hand against its body. Unlike a Ferocious Beast, there was something tangible within the creature that continued radiating Vis after death.

Sigurd could sense the concentrated knot of energy buried inside without needing the System to identify it. The sensation reminded him immediately of the two Demonic Cores Osric had given him three years ago, although whatever rested inside this creature was considerably weaker.

Sigurd drew his sword and inserted the blade beneath the ribs. Several controlled cuts opened the abdomen, allowing him to push aside layers of hide and muscle before reaching inside with his free hand.

Warm blood coated his arm almost to the elbow as his fingers moved carefully through the creature until they touched something hard. Sigurd closed his hand around it and pulled, withdrawing a small crystalline object from the dead beast.

The Demonic Core was roughly the size of a walnut, irregularly shaped and covered in dark blue veins. Faint silver light pulsed within its crystalline body, carrying the remaining essence accumulated by the Silvervein Direwolf after its evolution from a Ferocious Beast into a true Demonic Beast.

Sigurd cleaned the blood from its surface against an undamaged section of fur before raising it between two fingers and examining it beneath the daylight.

A Common Rank Demonic Core.

By the standards of House Zierghardt, it was practically trash. The Silvervein Direwolf had only recently crossed the boundary between Ferocious and Demonic Beast, and its Core reflected that.

Zierghardt’s resource halls contained Demonic Cores of considerably greater quality, and Sigurd’s position as the Tenth Son meant he could obtain resources far superior to the little crystal sitting in his palm. If cultivation value were the only thing that mattered, devouring it wouldn’t make much difference compared to the resources already available to him.

But Sigurd had no intention of devouring this one.

The first two Demonic Cores he had absorbed three years ago had been gifts from Osric, extracted from creatures whose battle Sigurd could only stand aside and watch.

This was different. Nobody had weakened the Silvervein Direwolf for him. Osric hadn’t intervened once. Sigurd had fought it using his own cultivation, swordsmanship, experience, and Severing Line, and the corpse lying before him was the result.

This was the first Demonic Beast he had genuinely killed.

That alone gave the otherwise unimpressive Core value.

Sigurd turned the crystal between his fingers for another moment before saying quietly, "You’re probably the worst Demonic Core I’ll ever bother keeping, but I suppose being the first counts for something."

A trace of amusement touched his expression as he opened the System Inventory and stored the Core inside. Perhaps years from now, when Common Rank Demonic Beasts no longer warranted drawing his sword, he would look at that crystal and remember the first time he had crossed this particular threshold.

The moment the Core disappeared, another presence appeared directly in front of him.

Sigurd’s right hand moved toward his sword by instinct before stopping halfway.

Osric stood barely three feet away. Looking down at him with a faint smile playing on his lips.