Chapter 8: The Birth of a Dud

It was unexpected.

Just hearing about it, this wolf was no ordinary beast.

Come to think of it, this one was much smaller than the other ash-gray wolves.

Just the right size for Arthur to ride.

He'd assumed at first glance it was a young ash-gray wolf pup.

Yet despite that, its running speed and keen battle sense had left Arthur in awe more than once.

Now that they were synchronized, he could feel what it was thinking—what it wanted from him.

The ash-gray wolf was in high spirits right now.

Because it had finally met its master.

Even its thoughts flowed into Arthur.

Unable to find a suitable partner, it had spent a long time alone.

Normally, Barta tribesmen and ash-gray wolves bonded within about three months of birth.

But they wouldn't entrust such a precious creature to just anyone.

Though it bore the grandiose title of 'prince', this ash-gray wolf had been ostracized from the pack.

It had no master, and the intimidating aura it exuded kept the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠other ash-gray wolves at bay.

The creature approached him, then lowered its head.

"You want pets?"

Arthur chuckled and stroked its soft fur.

Krr! Krr!

Its cry was unique.

He could feel how thrilled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it was.

And the wolf could sense that Arthur himself liked it a great deal.

"Fenrus. From now on, that's your name."

After a moment's thought, Arthur decided.

Fenrus.

A wolf from the myths of the Asgard Continent.

The legend Arthur knew began with a wolf rescued by a young boy in a small village, growing up alongside him.

While being healed by the boy and living with his family, hundreds of orcs raided the village.

Fenrus fought valiantly alone to protect the boy and his parents, slaying dozens of orcs single-handedly and driving the rest away.

Valiant.

It fought desperately to protect.

A name given in the hope it would fight for him.

Without hesitation, Arthur checked Fenrus's status window.

(Fenrus)

Summon

Unlike monsters marked by stars, summons and territorial soldier units obtained after starting territory wars are graded from E to D, C, B, A, S, SS.

Fenrus being D-grade as an ash-gray wolf prince might seem low.

But remember, Fenrus was still a young pup that hadn't fully grown. Plus, its potential was exceptionally high.

Potential 77.

Arthur's own potential was 108—even as a master and lord on the Asgard Continent, that was his martial prowess level.

Elite knights had potential slightly lower than an average ash-gray wolf.

Summons grew, too.

With this potential, Fenrus would grow noticeably stronger over time.

Krr!

Now Fenrus was rolling onto its back, begging for belly rubs with playful affection.

The alert rang out.

Arthur paused his hand mid-pet.

Fenrus looked disappointed, but it could sense Arthur's rising excitement.

The Creator Lord's absurd, cheat-like abilities!

He was about to gain them.

He opened his status window to check.

(Arthur)

Job: Creator Lord

Skills in possession: Command (2), Scan (1), Memory of Art (?), Creation Painting (1), Accelerated Drawing (1)

Artifact Skills: Stealth, Armor Break

Four new skills had appeared.

Memory of Art, Creation Painting, Accelerated Drawing, and Death Painting.

Arthur checked the details.

The first skill that caught his eye was Memory of Art.

'The most memorable thing today...'

Memorable.

The answer came quickly.

It was the moment he'd led the Barta tribe to victory, saving all the soldiers from certain death.

Arthur checked the Basic Drawing Set in his inventory.

It was truly basic—no special abilities.

His hand felt awkward gripping the brush.

'I have dexterity now, but...'

He'd gained +20 Dexterity.

But stats weren't absolute.

They just helped him learn faster and improve steadily.

"Um, Arthur..."

"One moment."

Arthur ignored Aleo beside him and sat down to draw.

Hundreds of Barta tribesmen and ogres.

Capturing them all wasn't easy.

Arthur drew in quick dabs, like stamping dots.

Drawing was one area where he was hopelessly bad.

Sweat poured as he focused there on the spot.

So absorbed, the soldiers, knights, and prisoners didn't dare interrupt.

They just sat around chattering excitedly about Arthur's feats that day—how his hilltop appearance would be etched in their memories forever.

Three hours later, the piece was complete!

Arthur lifted the parchment with both hands.

"Done..."

He was lost in self-admiration.

How often had he drawn in his life?

This was pretty good, he thought.

But Aleo, the prisoners, and soldiers peering over his shoulder were horrified.

'Is... is that a drawing...? Looks like he dipped his hand in paint and slapped the parchment.'

'Even Mulseon back home could do better...'

Mulseon was a soldier's pet dog.

That's how talentless Arthur was at art.

"What do you think? Not bad for a first try, right?"

"Uh, it's... fine..."

"The sky and earth blend so harmoniously in those divots. Haha...!"

Arthur grinned sheepishly.

Reaching for the parchment, he activated Memory of Art.

A blue light poured from his hand, sweeping over the drawing.

The crude dot-stamps sharpened into clearer forms.

Definitely better than before.

"...A dud?"

A grading system for artwork.

But a dud?

How was this a dud? He squinted.

"Hm..."

Fine. A dud it was.

Better to own it.

After a pause, Arthur said,

"Lord of Reversal."

"...!"

Arthur's eyes widened.

Just viewing the painting granted +2 Strength for an hour?

He'd never dreamed of such a buff.

And crucially, it was just by looking.

Plus, he could pull it from the gallery anytime to show others.

Targeted buffs whenever needed!

No wonder Memory of Art was S-grade—the highest known.

Its level was '?' too.

Meaning it depended on him.

'Even rewards...'

A dud, yet it boosted stats.

Incredible.

'If my drawing improves, better rewards await?'

Obviously.

He was a total beginner.

Once he learned properly, rewards would skyrocket.

The other skills: Creation Painting was S-grade too.

And Death Painting was SS!

An unknown grade.

'Truly a royal class.'

He considered testing Death Painting, but 30 minutes had passed since their deaths.

They couldn't stay forever anyway.

Then—

Aleo, who'd been waiting patiently, stepped forward with the prisoners, faces grim and resolute.

"Thank you for your help today."

At Arthur's greeting, Aleo dropped to one knee.

The others followed.

Arthur blinked in confusion.

These veiled figures.

Aleo, at the forefront, spoke.

"My lord, please help us."

"...?"

The Asgard Continent wasn't just about the Monarch Game.

It hid diverse histories, sometimes linking to scenario quests.

Aleo and the prisoners were survivors of the Blood Slaughter Corps, which terrorized the continent 300 years ago.

The Blood Slaughter Corps.

Trained harshly from birth.

Compared to the Ironblood Legion Arthur knew, their training was leagues beyond—mere child's play.

Raised as weapons solely to kill.

Victory machines for the battlefield.

That was the Blood Slaughter Corps: 3,000 soldiers and 200 knights.

Few in number, but their victories were legendary.

Like wiping out 50,000 imperial troops with just 3,200 in the Alento Empire ambush.

And countless more.

They lived only to kill, reveling in death.

Until disaster struck.

The ancient mage Lukhed appeared.

He cursed them mid-blood frenzy.

All turned to statues.

Aleo and the others too.

One day, only they awoke—from statues to 'prisoners' tossed among wolves.

They waited endlessly for rescue.

A few came once or twice.

But that was it.

The system warned: Reveal your identities, and you and your comrades stay statues forever.

Silent, they watched rescuers leave for their territories.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Freed, hunted down, then re-imprisoned among wolves.

They realized: Dying to wolves was agony. They'd never known true joy.

Killing wasn't enough.

They yearned for families.

True happiness.

Black beer after hard days.

Why crave that now?

Why were they the Blood Slaughter Corps?!

Time dragged on.

Then a young boy led his squad to save thirty prisoners.

Instead of leaving, he asked for their help.

With those words, Aleo and the prisoners heard the alert.

Help the boy.