"God, that night was exhausting."
What? You think I didn't contribute? You think I just sat there? Bastards. You're all bastards, every single one of you. You have no idea what it takes to survive a night like that while surrounded by incompetence.
When the sun finally began to bleed over the horizon, the campsite was a graveyard of stinking wolf carcasses. The copper tang of blood hung heavy in the frozen air, yet, remarkably, those dead wolves still smelled better than Darren ever did back in the day.
I'm no expert on human emotions—mostly because I find them pathetic—but even I could tell the mood was beyond strained. How could it be anything else? The "Fellowship of Bastards" was falling apart at the seams. Zada had his arm torn clean off, leaving him a whimpering mess. Zota's left eye was a ruined, bloody crater after a wolf's claw found its mark. Mola, that S-rank crybaby, was sobbing over a few scratches on her arms, and Lydia looked like a ghost, her mana completely drained from a night of constant healing.
I caught Lydia staring at me several times. I wondered if she'd seen the Murderer's Mark beneath my bandages while she was mending my leg. If she did, I've already decided her fate: she's not leaving this mountain alive.
And then there's Felo. That absolute piece of filth spent the entire night hiding behind a rock. Do you know what the bastard said when the fighting stopped? He pointed a trembling finger at me and screamed that it was all my fault. My fault! I felt a surge of mordlust so strong I nearly reached out to rip his spine through his throat right there.
The camp devolved into a circus of misery. Mola started screaming that she was going to kill us all—a brilliant move, considering we were in the middle of predator territory. Zada kept using his missing arm as an excuse to avoid any work, and Zota, ever the "hero," tried to play the peacemaker.
Lydia just kept staring. I know I'm good-looking, but this was getting ridiculous. What? You think a "cockroach" like me can't be handsome? You bastards have no idea what real beauty looks like.
In my mind, I had already executed them all: Felo would be beheaded, Lydia stoned, Zada hanged, Mola drawn and quartered, and Zota—the biggest prick of them all—I would skin him alive, break his limbs, and then finally take his head.
But I needed this quest. I needed that gold.
So, I did what I do best: I manipulated them. I "de-escalated" the situation by feeding their egos. I told Mola she was the strongest among us and we needed her focus. I told Zada he could either make himself useful or we'd leave him for the wolves. I threatened Felo with a look that promised him he'd never see the summit if he didn't shut up. I lied to Lydia, telling her I had everything under control, all while perfectly mapping out her murder in my head. Zota, seeing the group settle, just nodded in agreement.
As we continued the climb, the silence was even worse than the screaming. We were all exhausted, moving like corpses. Then, Lydia—the nosy brat—had the audacity to ask if I had a family. She asked if I took this suicide mission to support them.
I felt a vein throb in my temple. My family? They're either rotting in the dirt or they abandoned me to the crows long ago. But I gave her the story she wanted. I told her I had siblings, that we were poor, and I wanted to pay for their schooling. I don't know if she bought the "tragic provider" act, but it doesn't matter. She'll be dead within forty-eight hours anyway.
When she tried to dig deeper, asking about my childhood, I turned to her with eyes like cold obsidian. "Curious people don't live long, Lydia," I hissed. She finally shut her mouth.
I thought I'd finally found some peace. I was wrong. Infuriatingly wrong.
The Dragon was hunting.
We were still on the lower slopes when I saw it. I had hoped the beast wouldn't notice a few ants crawling up its mountain. But Felo, the coward, decided to try and flee backward when he caught a glimpse of the scale-covered shadow. The idiot stepped on a dry branch. In the silence of the frost, it sounded like a glass breaking in a cathedral.
Dragons are sensitive to sound. The bastard heard us instantly.
He was massive—at least twenty meters of pure, scaled death. I don't want to know what that thing ate as a hatchling to get that big. His scales were a sickly, deep violet, and his eyes... they were a piercing, mocking turquoise. The aura radiating off him was so suffocating that it made Cassian, in his full "Hero" glory, look like a toddler playing with a wooden sword.
Before I could even process the threat, the beast unleashed a Cryokinesis Breath. It was a concentrated beam of absolute zero, far stronger than anything I could ever hope to manifest. I barely threw myself out of the way, but the lazy bastard Zada wasn't so fast. The beam erased him where he stood.
Lydia began to wail in terror. Mola's fear turned into a useless, trembling rage. Zota stood frozen in shock, and Felo scrambled to find a hole to crawl into.
Me? I could barely hide the grin twitching at the corners of my mouth.
Zada was dead. Finally. And better yet, I had found the "perfect killer" to blame for Lydia's upcoming demise. I could pin everything on the Dragon and then kill the beast myself. I just had to survive this encounter first.
The Dragon lunged, aiming its next strike directly at Lydia. It would have been the perfect moment to let her die, but my plan required her to survive a little longer. I needed her as a witness.
With a roar of frustration, I did the unthinkable. I threw the Sword of Qelo.
The divine blade streaked through the air like a black bolt of lightning, burying itself deep into the Dragon's turquoise eye. The beast shrieked, a sound that threatened to shatter my eardrums, and thrashed in blind agony.
"Run!" I screamed.
While the monster was disoriented, we scrambled into the rocky crevices, fleeing for our lives. But as we reached safety, the reality hit me. I had left my God-Sword—my only true weapon—buried in that bastard's skull.
For the first time in two months, I'm going to have to rely entirely on my Lies. This is going to be incredibly painful.
As we huddled in the shadows, Zota tried to "buddy up" to me, thanking me for the save. It made me want to vomit. Mola started screaming at me again, blaming me for losing the sword, but to my absolute surprise, Lydia reached out and slapped her across the face. Felo just came crawling back out of the shadows, silent for once.
The Dragon is wounded. My sword is gone. My "comrades" are breaking.
The real hunt begins now.