Harvesting the Cursed Wool pelts was the primary objective here, the potential reward far exceeding the pitiful System Coins or the value of the spirit fragments. But skinning ten large, magically toxic sheep required time, specialized tools (long-handled knives, protective gloves he didn't possess), and extreme care to avoid contact with the psychoactive fleece. One wrong move, one tear in the hypothetical gloves, and he could find himself joining the sheep in a state of blissful, drooling insanity. That was a task for later, requiring careful planning and perhaps delegation – maybe Jasmin's butchering skills could be adapted, with proper precautions?
For now, securing the kill site and planning extraction was the priority. He needed to get back, report the successful contract fulfillment (at least partially, regarding the neutralization), and arrange for a discreet retrieval team. Maybe Ken could handle—
A flicker of movement at the edge of his peripheral vision broke his train of thought. Instincts honed over three lifetimes screamed threat. He didn't turn his head immediately, instead subtly shifting his weight, his hand drifting casually towards the hilt of his hunting knife, his Void sense extending outwards like invisible antennae.
Three figures. Emerging from the tall, whispering grass on the far side of the depression, moving with a predatory caution that quickly morphed into swaggering confidence as they took in the scene. Rough leather clothing, stained and worn. Crude weapons – a woodsman's axe gleaming dully, two mismatched short swords scarred from use. Faces hard, eyes narrowed, scanning the dead sheep, Lloyd, and the formidable-looking wolf beside him.
Scavengers, Lloyd identified them instantly. The hyenas of the adventuring world, drawn by the scent of blood and opportunity, preying on lone hunters weakened after a difficult kill. He felt a familiar wave of weariness wash over him. Seriously? Haven't I dealt with enough idiots for one day?
He remembered Ken Park's earlier whisper: Four individuals… Intent unclear… Low-level. Ken had neutralized those four. Had these three been lagging further behind? Or were they unconnected, simply drawn by the sounds of the brief, violent struggle? Or… were they the second wave? Sent by someone else after the first group failed to report back? Someone orchestrating this from the shadows?
Who are you working for? The question echoed in his mind as they approached, spreading out slightly, their body language shifting from cautious assessment to blatant intimidation. Is this just random opportunism, or are you Rubel's cleanup crew? Or someone else entirely?
Fang tensed beside him, a low, guttural growl rumbling deep in his chest, the fur along his spine bristling slightly. The subdued lightning aura flickered back to life, faint blue sparks dancing momentarily around his paws. Even fatigued, his protective instincts were absolute.
"Easy, Fang," Lloyd murmured, resting a reassuring hand on the wolf's powerful shoulder, feeling the tightly coiled muscles beneath the fur. "Stand by. Let's hear their sales pitch first."
The three men stopped about twenty paces away, forming a loose, threatening arc. The one in the center, clearly the leader, was a burly specimen with a tangled brown beard stained with something unpleasant, small piggy eyes glittering with avarice, and a cruel smirk plastered across his face. He hefted his axe casually, the movement meant to intimidate.
"Well now," the leader called out, his voice rough and grating, carrying easily across the quiet depression. "Lookie here, lads. Seems the young lordling's been busy makin' a mess." He spat onto the grass, a deliberate show of disrespect. "Bit much for one fancy pup to handle all this mutton, eh?" He leered, his gaze flicking between the dead sheep and Fang.
Lloyd kept his expression neutral, projecting calm he didn't entirely feel. The fatigue was real, Fang needed rest, and engaging in another fight, even against these low-level thugs, would drain their reserves further. But showing weakness was inviting attack.
"Just finished," Lloyd replied coolly, his voice steady. "Tidying up the local pest problem. Unless you gentlemen have official Guild business related to these carcasses?" He deliberately invoked the Guild, testing their reaction.
The leader barked a harsh laugh, echoed nervously by his two companions. "Guild business? Nah. We operate under a different charter, lad." He gestured broadly with his axe, encompassing the dead sheep. "The charter of 'Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers'. Especially when the 'loser' looks about ready to keel over."
One of the sidekicks, a lanky man with a scarred face and nervous eyes, gripped his short sword tighter. "Yeah! Law o' the Hills! Lone kill belongs to whoever's strongest enough to hold it!"
"And right now," the third man, shorter but stockier, added with a gap-toothed grin, "that looks like us."
Predictable, Lloyd thought, analyzing their postures, their cheap weapons, the mix of greed and low cunning in their eyes. Standard scavenger script. Relying on intimidation and perceived weakness.