The Imperial Hunter - Chapter 132: Scent of Rebellion (12)
Dalingshan Forest Park sprawled across the southwestern edge of Dongguan City like a vast green scar. In the old days, its stunning vistas and ancient temples would have drawn crowds of hikers, but these days, with the well-preserved greenery treated as a green demon realm, only hunters empowered by mana or revolutionaries seeking hideouts bothered to venture in.
The awakened trees rooted everywhere disrupted senses attuned to mana fields, while beasts with open circuits prowled the shadows. A harsh proving ground for the gifted; a deathtrap for ordinary folk.
In such an environment, no one would spot me crafting puppets. Any stray outsiders could be killed off and blamed on wild animals.
I'd approached the mountain base on foot to avoid provoking potential enemies, enduring the mounting headache as I activated my enhanced sense of smell and focused on the odors drifting through the highlands.
The first hit was a ferocious stench—like the smell of wind before and after rain, or rain-soaked earth, condensed a thousandfold. Even the finest fragrance turns foul when too intense.
Next came thick, viscous exhaust from various sources, mingled with the scents and excretions of countless mountain beasts.
Pressing my temples, I thought, 'So this is a slice of the world as animals perceive it...'
Animals with keen noses lived in a sensory dimension utterly alien to humans. Take a field mouse catching the wind from a ridge: in that instant, it could sense every creature present or recently there in the mountains. Indirect awareness, sure, but superhuman by human standards.
That was what I felt now. Pinpointing exact directions and distances was tricky, but the information range outstripped even the vision from my Golden Age's Eye—especially in mana-field-choked terrain like this.
Sifting through the web of olfactory data, I finally isolated the body odor I'd detected in the hotel suite. And not just that—several similar traces.
I couldn't tell if they were still on the mountain or had already abandoned the base, but finding the right trail was victory enough.
A light tension tightened my chest. I pressed on silently into pathless woods.
Animals scattered in panic at our presence. This karst mountain was riddled with erosion-carved limestone caves, some bearing traces of past human habitation amid the large and small openings.
Scanning every reachable depth with my sight, I climbed until I spotted decayed silk and antique metalwork piled in a collapsed cave mouth buried under landslide debris. I couldn't help a wry chuckle.
Insurance stashed by local gentry fleeing war? Or relics from the Red Flag Pirates, infamous along the Zhu River in the Jiaqing Emperor's reign? Either way, an unexpected windfall. No treasure hunter could rival me in ability—but that's precisely why I shouldn't rely on scavenging.
Following the thickening scent trail led to yet another cave. Far more minion traces inside than the seven I'd sensed at the hotel. The puppeteer must have come and gone often, though distinguishing his scent proved impossible.
My steps halted. Kyung-tae whispered, "This the place?"
"Yeah. But it's empty."
That single word deflated Kyung-tae and the men behind him, who'd been coiled like springs. Some even sighed.
Kyung-tae sounded disappointed. "One step behind again. I thought we'd finally see if it's a real Round Table Master or just some punk..."
Too soon to give up. A heavy reek of death wafted from the pitch-black entrance—not metaphorical, but the distinct odor living things emit around death.
Even unawakened humans with sensitive noses could detect it. And after overseeing funerals for all sorts over the years, I knew it intimately.
'Artisan pride, huh.'
Puppet crafting used fresh, healthy victims processed immediately—no reason for death's stench to build. Yet this cave reeked of mass mortality, deaths scattered densely across timelines, too many for mere low yield.
Only one conclusion: subpar puppets got scrapped. Like a master potter smashing flawed wares without mercy.
Arrogant craftsmen held unyielding standards for their creations. So the locals stationed here would be steeped in that varied death-scent—inescapable even after valley baths and deodorizers.
That made them catchable. If luck held.
They couldn't evac by air. No nearby runways, and the airspace was under wartime surveillance. Even I waited until Gao Xusen seized real power before flying freely.
Sorting my thoughts, I ordered, "Call the chopper. We're heading to the nearest pier."
Kyung-tae radioed coordinates; within five minutes, the flight arrived. A tea plantation sloped nearby on the hillside—no hassle finding a landing zone. Low trees a meter tall? Crush 'em under the heavy bird.
Aboard the command chopper, I clutched my head and sighed wearily.
"You okay, boss?" Kyung-tae's voice laced with concern.
"...Fine."
A lame reply after the pause. Even resetting my nose left a hangover-like throb. Brain pushed to its limits. Exhausted already, I'd overtaxed human cognition with inhuman senses too long.
Sensory overload. I didn't fully buy the puppeteer's corpse-play as art, but brains were circuits too, after all.
Rest was brief. At the pier, I reactivated smell-enhanced search.
'Not here...'
The dock air held death's tinge, but faint—residual wafted from distant city winds. No match for the cave's aged rot.
Too early for despair. Plenty more piers.
Too many, really. I doggedly patrolled the long embankment south, probing every visible dock.
Spotted a maritime anti-smuggling brigade outpost—empty buildings, no guard boats moored. Hopes for minor aid dashed.
How long did we wander? Widening riverside near the estuary, a breeze slinking through rusted containers snagged my steps.
Amid headache-induced fog, sharp anticipation welled.
"Where's this?"
Kyung-tae checked. "Humon Private Pier."
Humon? Familiar... Ah, Humen. Site of Lin Zexu's opium bonfire dumped at sea. Sparked the Opium War—Brits furious over lost drug profits.
Coincidental irony for the trail to end here. No way they chose it deliberately. All Guangzhou was Opium War turf; any spot held some echo.
That was the British Empire's sin—inescapable.
Probing containers, I picked up a half-smoked cigarette butt from tall weeds, sniffed the filter, and confirmed.
Death's mellow reek, plus a mouth odor rare among Chinese. Grimacing, I tossed it and ordered, "Contact Becklux. Track every vessel leaving this pier seaward after midnight. One'll show suspicious moves."
How many private craft depart a small company pier at such ungodly hours—or too-early dawns? Especially amid citywide frenzy.
Suyeon pressuring officials wouldn't take long.
Senses normalized, I leaned on a container to catch breath. Hunger gnawed, but no appetite. Better to clear my head quietly than force calories—faster combat recovery.
Eyes shut, lids burned. Throb eased slightly when Becklux replied.
Suyeon relayed; Kyung-tae repeated: "GPS 22.180326, 113.911128. 150,000-ton cruiser anchored off Hong Kong. Docked with a small vessel from this pier 27 minutes ago. Hong Kong registry, Diamond Crown—inspection logs note use as sea bunker for tycoons. No red flags in prior checks. Sister ship Platinum Crown anchored nearby. Coordinates updating to command."
"Handful of tycoons," huh. 'Passengers probably puppets by now.'
Well-maintained puppets sans cancer cells could last months. Months? With effort, years or decades.
Propped like ornaments, Round Table minions posing as aides leveraging corpse-clout—coast guard wouldn't dare deep inspections. Rubber-stamp Q&A, "all clear."
If true—and likely—blaming lax checks was pointless. This was China. Who'd kick the guanxi hornet's nest?
Invaders' wisdom in hiding under elite shadows.
Now was the moment. Enemy at sea—I could strike solo, near-traceless.
Key: power from the Trembling Giant. Water dominion magic.
Excitement heated my veins; deep breath leaked a quiver. Pulse spiked, headache reset, but mind sharpened like never before.
Good I skipped stimulants. No good getting hooked in critical moments—recall the unnatural high and aggression against the knight commander.
Battle-will steeled, I boarded the command chopper once more. Etched like a mantra: prey and hunter's bond was never one-sided.