CHAPTER 21: MONSTER HUNTING

The Iron Wing hall still reeked of smoke, blood, and urine.

The torches had been rekindled recently, but the soot on the walls remained, streaking the stones like the charred fingers of a fire that should never have happened there.

The center of the room—once a space for meetings, contract exchanges, and theatrical punishments—was covered in wood splinters, glass shards, and hurried footprints over vomit and a viscous liquid nobody wanted to identify.

There were too many flies for such a short time.

Ser Modell remained seated on his makeshift throne, but his posture was no longer that of a decadent royalty—it was of a broken man trying to emulate power.

His right hand was wrapped in improvised bandages, stained with dried blood, tied with excessive force to feign stability.

The smell of medicine mixed with perfume was suffocating. The black silk ribbon in his hair was loose, falling down the side of his neck.

The gray eyes, once arrogant, now had a wet and unstable gleam, like muddy puddles about to overflow.

He hadn’t spoken for minutes. Just breathed deeply and slowly, trying to maintain composure while his henchmen stood around, restless. Some pretended to rearrange weapons in the corner. Others played cards without speaking.

The atmosphere was thick, oppressive, and no one had the courage to be the first to break it. The problem was that everyone already knew: there was no more respect there. Only the residual fear of what Modell had been.

Finally, he moved. A dry crack echoed as he struck the command staff on the floor—a legacy of another leader dead, who knows by whom.

"Listen," he said, the melodious voice trying to maintain the same theatrical charm as always but failing with every syllable. There was something forced, shaky, even ridiculous.

"The worm who shamed us here tonight..."

He stood up with a grunt, the good hand resting on the throne. The bandaged one hung suspended, like a useless piece. The hall looked at him without enthusiasm.

"Eren Vale," he growled, with more saliva than real fury.

"That... damned. That..."

He lost the words. The words didn’t come as before.

Modell then pulled from one of the wall tops a piece of splintered wood with a crumpled paper stuck on with spit and wax. In the poorly drawn illustration, a face with generic features, empty eyes, and a cynical smile.

With a dramatic gesture, he stuck the poster on the nearest torch holder.

The edges burned a little before sticking.

And he said aloud:

"Reward of 500 gold coins for his head."

A low murmur spread through the hall. Someone whistled, incredulous. Another laughed, muffled.

Modell did not react. He just pointed to the poster as if revealing the solution to a political crisis.

"Look for the name. He will be known, from now on, as..."

He turned his body slowly, eyes wide, voice rising in dramatic tone.

"The Cursed Tamer."

The silence that followed was... uncomfortable.

Not imposing. Nor threatening.

Just... strange.

Like an actor forgetting his lines in the middle of the play.

From the back of the room, one of the men—Lorik, the one who lived to make jokes and pick fights with drunkards—coughed discreetly and murmured:

"What a shitty name..."

Someone laughed. Discreetly, but it was enough. The tension snapped. What was supposed to be a decree turned into a crooked comedy scene.

Modell widened his eyes.

"WHO WAS IT?!"

But no one answered.

He was losing his grip. And everyone knew it.

The bandaged hand trembled. The other clutched the staff as if it were an emotional crutch.

"That... that damned tamer... destroyed my hall. Humiliated my guild. Attacked me. Broke me!"

The henchmen exchanged glances. They had all seen it. Modell being crushed like a rag doll. The hand burst. The high-pitched scream that echoed louder than any command he had ever given.

Eren Vale hadn’t just escaped. He had torn Ser Modell’s theater of power in half.

Modell tried to reconstruct the narrative.

"I want him hunted. Found. Alive or dead. It doesn’t matter. Whoever brings proof of his death receives gold. Protection. A place in the Iron Wing."

One of the men, leaning against a pillar, murmured:

"Protection like yours?"

Another hid his laughter with his fist.

Modell stood still. His eyes glazed over nothing. For a moment, it seemed he would fall.

"Do you think this is funny...?"

The voice came out thin, pathetic.

"Do you think this... will have no consequences?"

The answer was a warm, uncomfortable silence. The kind of silence given to someone who has already lost their moral standing and hasn’t realized it yet.

Modell gritted his teeth.

"Leave. All of you. Go. Hunt. He’s out there, in some alley, stinking of defeat."

No one moved.

"NOW!"

Now they began to disperse. Not because they were afraid. But because they were already tired of pretending.

As the room slowly emptied, Modell stood in front of the charred poster, staring at the generic face with desperate eyes.

He whispered to himself:

"The Cursed Tamer... You’ll see what a curse is."

But even he didn’t believe it.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Barovik wasn’t a city known for its discipline, but it only took four words spoken aloud—"five hundred gold coins"—to turn its fauna of criminals, vagrants, and mercenaries into a frantic swarm of desperate hunters.

In a few hours, the streets were filled with armed men who would never dare invade a dungeon but now marched with purpose, barking orders, kicking doors, and pointing knives at anything remotely suspicious.

Poorly printed posters with the words "WANTED: THE CURSED TAMER" were stuck with spit on tavern doors, rotting posts, fences, and even on pig’s backsides.

But it wasn’t just Eren Vale who became a target.

Those who heard the story—or increasingly exaggerated versions of it—knew that the so-called "Cursed Tamer" had two loyal monsters with him.

A beast with thick fur and golden eyes, and a viscous creature, a supposedly tamed slime, capable of mimicking a female form.

These descriptions, though vague, were enough to spark the interest of those unafraid of hunting monsters, and soon the alleys and roads around Barovik began to be scoured as well.

Someone noticed footprints off the common trail.

Another saw slimy marks on stones in the forest.

Within minutes, two groups of hunters were convinced they had a lead. And they followed it.

Kaela, for her part, was aware of this. Every step on the uneven path tightened her nerves further.

She heard things. Too many noises for such a silent forest. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end whenever the wind changed.

There was a scent of man in the air, though distant. They were not soldiers. They were predators — like her. But disorganized. Humans usually had a problem with scent. They didn’t know how to hide it.

And that condemned them. But monsters... monsters also left traces. And she, even unwillingly, left deep footprints in the mud.

Nyssa was right behind, slipping with every step, the plops weaker than usual. She trembled visibly, and her consistency wavered. Sometimes more liquid, sometimes too gelatinous. She was slowly falling apart, not from physical damage, but from exhaustion.

"I-I... Kaela... I’m... " The slime dragged herself between two roots, trying not to fall. "...I’m getting too... too soft..."

Kaela turned her face with contained irritation.

"You are soft. That’s the problem."

But there was no anger in her voice. It was just the effort to maintain focus.

"I just wanted... to sleep..." Nyssa moaned. "I know the master told us to come here... but... what if he doesn’t come?"

Kaela stopped. She remained still for a few seconds, just breathing. The muscles in her shoulder moved slowly, and she turned her head just enough to look over her claw.

"He will."

"How do you know...?" Nyssa whispered, pressed against a mossy stone.

"Because he didn’t sell us."

Kaela’s voice came out firm, as if it were a mathematical truth.

"He could have. But he didn’t."

Nyssa made an uncertain noise, like a tearful plop, her liquid eyes looking down.

"But he said he would..."

Kaela turned her body completely now, facing the slime.

"You saw his eyes. The voice. The way he held that man. He broke the hand of one of the most dangerous humans in town. Just so we could escape."

"I thought..."

Nyssa hesitated, then murmured,

"...I thought he was going to... sell me. Leave me."

Silence.

Kaela lowered her tone a bit. Her expression was still severe, but there was something in her gaze. Not pity. But recognition.

"So did I. For a moment. When he looked at us... without emotion... I thought: ’That’s it. It’s over. He’s tired of us.’"

Nyssa shrank.

"But he wasn’t tired."

Kaela nodded.

"No. He was... pretending. Making a plan. As always. He always has a plan."

The wind blew through the trees, bringing the rustle of leaves. The sky above was already darkening. The weak sun struggled to hold on to the gray clouds.

Nyssa slid a bit closer.

"We’re just... just monsters. He could trade us for a hundred coins. And he wouldn’t think twice, if he were another tamer."

"But he didn’t trade us. He got hurt to save us."

"I... I think I’m more in love with him now..."

Nyssa said, her voice low, almost childlike.

Kaela didn’t respond immediately. Then, she snorted.

The two were silent for a few seconds, as if realizing the same thought.

Kaela sat on a moss-covered rock but didn’t relax her shoulders.

Her feline body was still alert, as if even during the pause it calculated possible attack and defense routes.

She looked at the gray sky, which was beginning to descend like a heavy lid over the forest.

"He trusted us. That’s more than most tamers would do."

Nyssa, slowly melting against a thick root, nodded gently.

"We just need to get to Archenval... He’ll be there. He promised."

"And his promises..." Kaela slightly narrowed her eyes, as if holding back emotion, "...he keeps. Even when they seem impossible."

The slime made a comforting sound, her eyes glowing slightly.

"When we see him again, I want to say that... that I never doubted."

Kaela looked at her for a second, then turned her face, stifling a small smile with her tail.

But then she froze.

Her snout lifted into the air.

Nostrils flared. Short breaths.

"Wait."

Nyssa shrank, worried.

"W-what...?"

Kaela rose slowly from the rock, her entire body in a low position, the muscles in her legs ready to spring. Her golden eyes darted, narrowing.

"Smell of leather... iron... old sweat. It’s not an animal."

The forest’s silence grew thicker.

"There’s someone... here."

The two remained motionless. Nyssa melded with the ground instinctively, her body’s color turning opaque. Kaela slowly turned toward the scent, every hair on her body standing on end.

She couldn’t see. But she knew.

Behind a thick tree, tangled in vines, someone was watching them. Standing still. Calculating. The breathing was too slow to be an animal.

And too heavy to be casual.

The wind shifted direction. The scent grew stronger.

Kaela didn’t growl. But her eyes said everything: they were being hunted.

And they were no longer alone.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The alleys of Barovik were quieter than usual — and that said a lot. The smoke from the guild was still visible in the sky, a gray trail hanging over the crooked rooftops like an accusation.

Eren Vale moved among shadows, his steps measured, his body hunched. His clothes were torn at the shoulders, burned on the left flank. An old cut on his forearm still burned, covered by a bandage soaked in cheap wine. The smell was strong: blood, soot, and burnt oil.

He wasn’t running. Not limping. Walking. Slow, steady. Invisible to the right eyes.

Stopped in front of a tent of faded purple cloth. Three gold coins exchanged for a thick tunic, a worn-out blanket, a wide-brimmed hat that hid his face. The vendor asked no questions. Not in that tone.

Two alleys ahead, a guard with a thin beard and red eyes stopped him.

"Papers?"

Eren reached into his coat. When he pulled it out, it wasn’t paper — it was gold. A single coin, pressed against his palm, like a silent seal.

The guard looked. Then looked around. Then vanished.

Corruption: functional. Useful local variable.

The back of the city smelled of rotten fish, wet coal, and slow death. It was there that the carts were loaded — not with noble goods, but with trash, market scraps, spoiled meat.

Eren slipped between crates until he found the right cart. Thick fabric covering the load. One of the drivers slept in the front seat, snoring with his mouth open.

He squeezed himself between barrels and boxes, folding his body like a wounded animal.

[Status: Critical Fatigue]

[Body Odor: Strong – Rotten Fish + Sulfur]

[Infection Risk: Moderate]

The cart began to move shortly after.

Passed through the gates.

Passed by the guards.

Passed the wall.

No one looked inside.

Eren remained still the entire time, breathing through his mouth.

When the smell became unbearable, he simply thought:

Worse would be to die.