[Objective: Obtain Ten (10) intact pelts with wool unaffected by scavenger damage or improper handling.]
[Reward: Master Alchemist Grimaldi offers Three (3) Vials of Purified Quicksilver per pelt OR Equivalent Value in Rare Herbs.]
[Hazard Level: Moderate-High (Environmental Hazards, Beast's Curse Aura, Requires Precise Incapacitation)]
The Whispering Hill Wild Sheep. Lloyd remembered the cautionary tales whispered among novice adventurers in his first life. Creatures that looked deceptively like ordinary, albeit large and shaggy, sheep. But their wool… their thick, greasy wool pulsed with a low-level psychic miasma. Touch it directly, get entangled in shed clumps, even breathe too deeply near a panicked flock, and the curse would seep in. Victims became ensnared in vivid, increasingly terrifying waking nightmares, slowly losing their grip on reality, descending into a gentle, smiling madness from which there was rarely a return. Their vacant eyes and placid smiles were said to be deeply unsettling.
They were relatively easy prey in theory. They weren't physically aggressive unless cornered, relying entirely on their passive curse aura. As long as you maintained distance, avoided the wool, and possessed a Spirit strong enough to project power from range, you could take them down. A powerful archer with specialized arrows, a mage with concussive force spells, or a Spirit user whose companion had potent ranged attacks could handle them.
Nineteen-year-old Lloyd, in his first life, wouldn't have dreamed of attempting it. His own Void abilities back then were rudimentary, barely controllable 'Iron Body' tricks. And his Spirit companion? A scruffy, underfed wolf-thing utterly incapable of projecting power, let alone potent ranged attacks. He would have been curse-fodder within minutes.
Now, Lloyd thought, a grim smile touching his lips as he turned onto a less crowded street leading towards the city's western gate, it's a different story entirely. He had Fang, brimming with lightning potential and the newly acquired Thousand Chirp Strike. And he had his own secret weapon – the true Ferrum power, the whisper-thin threads of burning steel, perfect for precise, ranged takedowns without ever getting close enough to sniff the cursed fleece. This wasn't just a hunt for profit; it was a perfect field test for his combined capabilities.
As he walked, the noise of the city gradually fading, replaced by the quieter sounds of residential streets, he felt it – the subtle shift in the background hum of awareness. Eyes watching. Not the overt, jealous stares of the Guild Hall, but something more deliberate, more focused. Hidden. Following.
He didn't slow his pace, didn't look over his shoulder. He simply continued walking, projecting calm indifference.
A voice, so quiet it was barely more than a rustle of leaves against his ear, sounded from the unseen shadows beside him. Ken Park. Master of stealth.
"Young Lord. Four individuals. Maintaining distance. Attempting concealment. Standard street toughs, likely Guild affiliation."
Lloyd kept walking. "Followers from the Hall? Sent to observe? Or interfere?"
"Intent unclear," Ken's disembodied voice murmured. "Possibly opportunists seeking leverage or hoping for failure. Low-level."
"Let them follow," Lloyd replied quietly, his voice firm. "Maintain shadow protocol. Observe them as they observe me." He paused, adding the crucial instruction. "If, and only if, they make a direct, hostile move to physically interfere or attack… eliminate the threat.... No I said wrongly, if they come direct at me let me face them. But eliminate them if they attack me from behind. Swiftly. Silently. Remain unseen throughout."
"Understood, Young Lord," the whisper replied, carrying absolute certainty. "Threat neutralization parameters acknowledged."
Then, silence. The feeling of being watched by Ken shifted, becoming even more diffuse, more deeply hidden. But the other watchers, the clumsy opportunists trailing him… Lloyd could still feel their less subtle presence lagging behind. Fools. Let them watch. Let them follow him out of the city, into the rolling grasslands that led towards the Whispering Hills. They were irrelevant. Gnats buzzing around a dragon.
Two hours later, the city was a distant smudge on the horizon. Lloyd stood on a low rise overlooking a vast, undulating expanse of tall, whispering grass that gave the region its name. The wind sighed through the stalks, creating eerie, shifting patterns and carrying faint, unsettling sounds. The air here felt different – thinner, charged with a strange, low-level psychic static that prickled at the edges of his awareness. This was Wild Sheep territory.