The Beast Tamer Arrives
After joining the mountain search squad.
Quite some time has passed since then, but the investigation drags on.
I never imagined it would take this long.
The Kaine Mountain Range was infested with far more demon worshippers and twisted experiments than anyone anticipated.
Because of that, we're locked in combat nearly every damn day.
"Here you are."
"Whoa, thanks."
Which is why only Gareth's thriving.
I've been hauling him materials nonstop.
How much have I brought him by now?
These days, even a bulging coin pouch barely registers.
"You holding up alright?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You show up covered in wounds every time."
"It heals quick."
I pulled my collar up to hide the deep gash across my collarbone as I said it.
A lizard-masked bastard ambushed me from the trees—his blade bit deep before I shook him off.
Nothing major, though. A healer's touch, and it'd be gone in no time.
But the deeper we push, the freakier these demon worshippers get.
The squad's lost more than half its men, so last time, Lock and I got folded into the first platoon.
Now we're stuck scouting the high peaks—way above my pay grade.
Anyway.
"I'll be off, then."
"Yeah, I owe you big time."
As always, I pocketed the coin pouch and stepped out of Gareth's Smithy.
"Hoo."
Then I hit the fancy confectionery, loaded up on sweets, and headed back to the mansion.
"Oh, Master Lane, you're back?"
"Yeah. Here, share these."
"Wow!"
A few test runs proved these pastries work wonders.
I handed them out to the beaming maids, then made for the infirmary.
Knock knock.
"You in?"
...Yes, come in.
A half-hearted reply drifted from inside after I rapped on the door.
"Want some sweets?"
"Show me the wound first."
Sharp as ever.
Then again, I've been staggering in here beat to hell too often lately.
High-altitude recon's a meat grinder—cuts and bruises are inevitable.
Especially with my style: tank the hits, close the gap, end it.
"Here."
"Gasp."
The healer recoiled when I bared the injury.
"What's wrong?"
"That's practically a vital spot!"
Smack!
She swatted my back. Overkill, if you ask me.
If it'd been a true vital hit, my instincts would've dodged cleaner.
Besides...
"This keeps me fine."
I tapped the necklace at my throat.
The one-use artifact Lorentz gave me—blocks a fatal blow. Still pristine.
Honestly, I'm starting to wonder if it's busted.
Didn't trigger when my gut got skewered. Or an arrow lodged in my back.
Not even when that dagger plunged toward my collarbone moments ago.
"Ugh, not dying doesn't mean it doesn't hurt..."
"I'm used to it. No big deal."
Lorentz wouldn't palm off a fake, so I'll take it as proof I'm just that slippery.
"Come in any worse, and I won't treat you...!"
"Can't have that. Here, sweets—cool off."
"No! I won't...!"
In the end, she patched me up fine, grumbling all the while as she devoured the treats.
Afterward.
I left the infirmary and headed to the doghouse in the garden.
Keng...!
A real dog waited there now.
Whitey, grown to about lapdog size.
"Miss me?"
It'd been a full day since my last mansion visit—the long op kept me away—but Whitey greeted me with pure joy.
Rubbing its head furiously against me despite its small frame. No wonder the maids dote on it.
"You packing some pudge, huh?"
I scooped Whitey up.
So damn fluffy now.
Less wolf, more Pomeranian.
"It's the fur that's plumped up, sir."
I was dead serious about putting Whitey on a diet when a familiar voice cut in from across the garden.
"Ah, Rowell."
"How went the investigation, sir?"
"Same as always."
I set Whitey down briefly to answer.
But...
Chomp.
The second my feet hit the ground, it latched onto my pant leg—begging to be picked up again.
"Those teeth have come in nicely."
It couldn't even bite properly before. Seeing this growth hits different.
"We're hiring that tamer I mentioned."
"Ah, the wolf expert from up north?"
"Yes. It's chewing up everything in the garden."
"Teething phase, huh."
This pup—tearing into whatever catches its eye.
In a Boyd family estate, even the garden ornaments cost a fortune.
Am I gonna foot the bill later? That Gareth payout might vanish in a flash.
"More importantly, Lane."
"Yes, sir?"
"You can wrap up the investigation now."
"Oh, really?"
"Lorentz says they've gathered enough intel."
Hm. Fair enough.
We've roamed plenty by now.
I've memorized half the damn trails.
Still...
"I'll do a few more runs."
"Any reason?"
"Feels like we're almost done."
I hadn't mentioned it to Gareth, but yeah—this gig's nearing its end.
We've cleared the fringes. Only big sites left.
Sweep the demon worshippers' main nests, and this endless mountain lockdown's over.
"Take care."
"Don't worry."
I gestured to my gear as I spoke.
"Look how kitted out I am now."
No more just a buff coat and Gareth's sword.
Quest rewards and battlefield loot have me armored solid.
Vest under the coat, throwing daggers at my belt as backup.
Even got squad-issue mountain gear since joining officially.
And above all...
"Tumbling through those fights leveled me up plenty."
It's risky work, sure—but the live combat's the best training imaginable.
Daily scraps? Skills sharpen on their own.
"True enough... Once it's done, the royals will reward you for your contributions."
"Looking forward to it."
Not my original plan, but I've bookended this op from start to finish.
Should net some solid merit. Fat payout incoming.
And since the Boyds sponsored me, no one's skimping on the prize.
"Anyway, two days' rest—gonna crash hard."
I crawled into the doghouse as I said it.
Perfect downtime before the finale. Stretch out, recharge.
"The tamer arrives tomorrow, conveniently."
"That quick?"
Rowell dropped that as he watched me settle in.
The tamer? Already?
"I summoned her last week. Right on schedule."
Ah, pre-called. Makes sense.
Faster the better, honestly.
"Whitey's in for it now."
I eyed the pup trailing me into the doghouse.
Teacher's coming—playtime's over.
"A most promising talent."
"Promising, not renowned?"
The Boyds could snag a 30-year vet, no sweat.
Promising means green. Can she handle it?
"The Boyds favor young blood. Fresh energy has its merits."
"Huh, now that you mention..."
Deron and Caiden. Even my trainer Eric— all young bucks.
The maids look youthful for their resumes, too.
"What about you, Rowell?"
One glaring exception jacks up the mansion's age average.
I prodded at that.
Then...
"Out with you. Seems your training's slipped."
"Hey, I'm injured! No spars today."
Rowell hauled me out by the scruff; I twisted away, burrowing deeper.
No way I'm taking the bait.
"Should've hired a tamer sooner. Letting a big dog grow wild like this."
"Whoever raised it botched the job."
"Tempted to raze this doghouse."
"...You're joking, right?"
Anyway.
I lounged the day away.
Next morning.
"Hello! I'm the new tamer, Sienna!"
True to Rowell's word, the wolf specialist arrived at the mansion.
"Ah, hello."
"Where's the pup I'm training? That one?"
"Uh, well..."
Is this really who Rowell hired?
I blinked at her getup.
Two-tone black-and-green hair, flashy as hell.
Piercings glinting in her ears, outfit nothing like the rugged northerner I'd pictured.
And most of all...
"Train this one first."
"Eek? He's the wolf?"
Rowell's jest drew a yelp—lightweight reaction.
Where's the "promising" in that? She'd fold to a wolf's dominance glare.
"...A, a beastkin?"
"No... Let me introduce Whitey."
"Cute name!"
Rowell wouldn't fetch a dud, though.
I led the new tamer to the doghouse.