Chapter Forty: Turmoil on the Path (Part Two)

Carlos was indifferent to Charles’s hasty decision to take Malt away from Saltwell Town; after all, if it were him, he wouldn’t have stood by either.

But was bringing a delicate young girl out into the wild truly the right choice?

A commotion at the doorway snapped Carlos from his reverie, and everyone hurried toward the entrance of the tavern.

Soon, Carlos stepped outside and saw Charles and Malt sheltered within a seven-member bounty hunter squad, protected by five tall, robust figures at the center of the group.

Malt, dressed today in a long skirt of teal unlike her usual attire, had her light freckles concealed beneath a layer of powder, transforming her from the frail, girl-next-door into someone with refined and striking features. Coupled with her petite frame, she appeared particularly graceful.

The leader of the hunter squad was an old man nearing fifty, whose face seemed untouched by the passage of time. His hair was as dark as the shadows before dawn, and he wore a long, patchwork black cloak, suggesting he had weathered countless ages.

Blocking their path were two men, evidently in a master-servant relationship.

One was tall and powerful, with golden hair and a scarred face that showed no fear, his eyes sharp as blades.

The other was a nobleman with an air of distinction, white flowing hair, an elegant beard, and broad shoulders. Beneath his thick brows, his handsome, slender face was marked by piercing blue eyes, cold and predatory like a hawk’s gaze.

“Damn it!” the leader of the hunter squad, the old man who had brought Charles into the team, suddenly exclaimed.

He had stood frozen for half a moment, eyes fixed on the two men before him, his Adam’s apple moving occasionally in subtle, nervous motions.

The old man felt a dangerous aura emanating from the blond stranger—far stronger than any beast he had ever encountered in the wild.

In contrast, the two blocking their way remained calm.

The blond, scar-faced man spoke: “Since we’ve met, why not come in for a drink, Rod?”

The old man glanced at his squad, then at the blond speaker, hesitated, and finally sighed in defeat: “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Kink. Our squad caught nothing in the first half of the year; we simply can’t pay the head fee. Since we’ve run into you, I hope Young Master Laurent will put in a word with the guild and grant us a little more time.”

The nobleman, addressed as Laurent, tapped his arm lightly with his index finger and laughed. “It’s fine. Old Rod is a veteran of our Star Chart Hunters Guild. A little grace with the head fee is only natural.”

Rod responded with ingratiating gratitude: “Rod is grateful for your kindness, Young Master Laurent. Please forgive me; I’ll take the squad up to the Rodney Mountains to try our luck. Perhaps in a few days, I can present you with a fine beast skin in Cyprus.”

“Don’t rush… Your people just took the tavern girl I had my eye on. Hand over the boy and the girl first.”

Rod forced a smile at the demand: “Mr. Kink, it’s all a misunderstanding. There’s no tavern girl here. These two are newcomers to my hunter squad, and we’re just about to set out.”

“Nonsense! Have you ever seen a female hunter in a dress? Shall I strike your name off the Star Chart Hunters Guild?”

Rod was momentarily at a loss for words, and both sides sank into a brief silence.

Rod stood awkwardly, unwilling to offend these two powerful guild figures, yet reluctant to give up Charles, whom he admired.

Pierre, the trapper of the squad—a man in his thirties with a black beard—whispered in Rod’s ear: “Why not let Charles and the girl stay in town for now? We can come back for them later.”

Rod turned to Pierre and replied, “I promised to bring Charles into the squad. Besides, he just angered the girl’s mother—and Mr. Laurent. Leaving them here would only put his life at risk.”

The bearded man could only mutter in resignation, “Then just hand over the girl…”

Rod glared at him, firmly rejecting the idea. “No!”

The blond, scarred man across from them seemed to lose patience, crossing his arms and raising his voice: “Rod, hand them over now, or you know what will happen.”

Carlos watched the pair coldly, but did not rush to intervene, maintaining a calm demeanor.

He glanced at Grant beside him and asked in confusion, “Uncle, do bounty hunters need to register with a guild?”

“Young master, you don’t know: bounty hunter guilds are not like formal guilds for black mages or alchemists. The Empire doesn’t recognize them; they’re essentially private associations.”

Carlos nodded, then asked, “So why would these people join organizations that require them to pay head fees?”

Grant narrowed his eyes and replied with some resignation, “Because these bounty hunter guilds have resources and equipment, and they track the movements of beast hordes. Hunters without a guild wander the wilds aimlessly, searching for prey.”

Carlos agreed; wandering the wilds in search of mutated beasts was grueling, even for someone as skilled as his brother, Dericht—a test of life and death.

Group hunts with clear targets, by contrast, were far easier.

“So the beast horde in the Rodney Mountains draws so many bounty hunters because the guilds are pushing things behind the scenes! How much do hunters have to pay in head fees after joining?”

Grant’s face darkened as he shook his head slowly: “The exact amount… varies by guild. But there’s a consensus: once you join a private guild, you must pay the head fee every year until you die.”

“What?”

Carlos was stunned. “Why…?”

Grant sighed, “To survive. Private guilds offer the poor who want to become bounty hunters weapons and equipment—a chance to live. Naturally, they want greater profit from them.”

Sidis and Koman, who had been listening nearby, exchanged looks of shock and disbelief.

It was tantamount to signing away their lives.

The three peers, now more keenly aware of the world’s harshness, also felt a pang of worry for Charles and Malt’s future.

Carlos watched as Charles and Malt clung together like innocent prisoners awaiting judgment, helpless and lost.

With an icy resolve he had never felt before, he looked up at the two guild men from Cyprus and murmured, “Uncle Grant, have the Night Watch escort Reina away and take her to the manor.”

Whatever Charles intended, as Malt’s friend, Carlos felt compelled to prevent a tragedy born of reckless impulse.

Grant looked at Carlos in surprise, suddenly sensing a powerful aura about him—the scent of a sorcerer or some underground force.

He sniffed the air intently, as if inhaling the fragrance of a rose, and then, with a mix of delight and fear, whispered, “Heavens! Young master, when did you awaken that dreadful legacy?”

He then quietly advised Carlos in a voice only he could hear: “I’ll see to it right away. But please, do not use that power openly before you secure the protection of the Winter Moon.”

Carlos was surprised Grant knew the secret of the Summer Moon, but he didn’t dwell on it, merely nodded grimly.

Soon, Grant drew the Night Watcher near and whispered instructions.