Punk found a small hotel to stay in, but his presence immediately affected its business.
The moment the guests saw a mage checking in, they all chose to leave. The hotel owner, forcing a stiff smile, reluctantly welcomed him. For ordinary people, the presence of an unfamiliar, powerful professional was instinctively unsettling—an oppressive aura radiated from a higher-level soul, stirring primal fear.
Punk, however, was indifferent to their reactions. He entered his room without concern.
Inside, the walls were peeling, the bed was greasy, and his sharp hearing picked up the squeaks of rats scurrying in the dark corners.
He shrugged.
"Other transmigrators are out there saving or destroying the world, yet here I am, being miserly to this extent?"
He sighed. Frugality wasn't a choice but a necessity. This mission from the Practitioners' Union offered no monetary reward—only the qualification to purchase apprentice-level knowledge.
He still recalled the old mage's words:
"Knowledge is priceless, but if you seek it, find an organization that shares it generously—like the Mage's Union."
The old mage wasn't wrong. Organizations like the Santarin Society not only imposed strict entry requirements but also made knowledge exchange just as difficult as the Mage's Union's costly transactions.
Punk understood why professionals sought mentors—not only for guidance but because obtaining cultivation knowledge alone was slow, arduous, and expensive.
Once his cultivation stabilized, he would need to consider finding a mentor. Even with the long lifespan granted by his ancient elf bloodline, wasting time on endless missions was both inefficient and dangerous.
But for now, in this moment of "economic crisis," completing the Wood of the Dead mission took priority.
Punk pushed those thoughts aside.
He decided to get some food. Tomorrow, he would embark on the mission, and it was uncertain when he'd next have a proper meal. He might as well enjoy one now.
"Deep down, I'm a bit of a foodie too."
With that, he stepped out of the hotel.
Under the glow of countless lanterns, the streets of Konola City were vibrant with nightlife.
In a small square, a handsome bard recounted tales of war from a distant kingdom, captivating an audience of children and young adults. Street vendors roasted unknown meats over open flames, sending billowing smoke into the air. The aroma of spices and sizzling fat filled the streets.
Nobles in ornate carriages sped past, indifferent to the goods their wheels knocked over.
Punk stopped at a barbecue stall.
The shop owner, a friendly middle-aged man, handed him a skewer with a grin.
"Try this!"
Punk didn't hesitate. After casting a discreet Lesser Toxicity Detection spell and confirming it was safe, he took a bite.
The golden-crisp exterior cracked under his teeth, releasing rich juices that rolled over his tongue. The thick sauce was deep and complex, enhancing the meat's natural flavors.
Satisfied, he purchased a bundle of skewers wrapped in kraft paper.
Even through the thick wrapping, the fragrance was strong enough to make nearby stray dogs drool.
"Forget the mission for tonight. Let's enjoy the food first."
The skewers were gone by the time morning came, but the mission still loomed ahead.
Although Punk had some divination spells, their effectiveness was limited at his apprentice level. The Undead Forest was not just an ordinary location—it held magical properties and could even be shielded against detection.
"Hopefully, I'll get lucky. Otherwise, I might end up wandering the wasteland indefinitely."
With the first rays of the larger sun, Chikasa, cresting the horizon, Punk stood before the city gates.
He checked his only magical items—a robe and staff—then picked up the bag of dry rations he had bought from the innkeeper.
With that, he set off toward the wasteland.
Time passed quickly in the search.
By the time Punk stopped, the sun had set, and the night sky was dominated by three moons—one large and two small—each glowing in different hues.
(Faeron has three moons: the dark-blue Gall, the whirling Tor, and the artificial moon known as the Eye of Dorothy.)
Now far from Konola, Punk stood beneath a twisted, dead tree, frowning as he analyzed the results of yet another detection spell. The moonlight cast long, eerie shadows around him.
So far, all his attempts to divine roads, directions, or the Wood of the Dead had produced frustratingly vague results—messages like "Path deviation,""Something is moving," or "Fruit trees to the south are barren."
But this time, he received something different:
"Someone can use the Whirling Moon—Tor's return."
Punk touched his chin in thought.
"Tor's return should refer to its rise. But what does 'someone can use it' mean? Does this person have a connection to the Undead Forest? Or can they help me?"
After considering his options, Punk decided to follow the prophetic clue.
The divination spell hadn't detected any immediate danger, and if he continued wandering aimlessly, he could waste days—if not weeks—in the Aigma Wasteland.
Casting Night Vision on himself, he looked up.
The sky was overcast, hiding most of the moons. Only the mysterious Eye of Dorothy remained fully visible, while Tor and Gall's light barely seeped through the thick clouds.
"Looks like it's going to rain."
Adjusting his hood to conceal most of his face, Punk began heading north—the direction where Tor was set to rise.
The wasteland was silent, save for the rustling of wind. The dampness of night clung to the young grass, wetting his boots.
After two hours of walking, a distant light caught his attention.
Even with his Night Vision, the glow stood out starkly against the darkness.
Tightening the energy flow in his Lesser Mage Armor, he approached.
There, in a small clearing, sat a young girl by a quiet bonfire.
She was dressed in a white robe, a golden emblem of a rising sun carved onto her chest. On her lap rested a neatly placed book—The Teachings of the Dawn.
Eyes closed, hands clasped together, she muttered soft prayers.
"Praise be to the Eternal Dawn."
"I pray for glorious salvation."
The flickering firelight illuminated her face, making her look holy, gentle, and kind.
And at the same time…
Disgusting.
At least, that was how Punk saw it.
This girl was a devout priestess—a follower of Lothanda, the Lord of Dawn.