Chương 17: Chapter 14 - The Patient Hunter

"Don't die in there, cameraman," Dendron muttered, still watching the space where the door had swallowed the reconnaissance team whole.

"I'm not done being curious yet." He'd told himself this whole thing was about opportunity. Information. A door that might lead somewhere useful, and an avatar cheap enough to risk finding out. That was the plan, clean and reasonable, the kind of plan a protagonist was supposed to make. But watching an entire army throw its own people at an unknown door just to see what happened, he found himself circling back to a different door.

One that didn't exist, that he had no evidence ever would exist, that he had no business hoping for at all. If a door like this could open onto another world entirely, then what was stopping one from opening onto his old one? Nothing. Nothing was stopping it. That was the problem. He didn't know enough to rule it out, and not knowing was somehow worse than knowing it was impossible.

"Curiosity," he told himself. He did not believe himself. Somewhere past that door, Torou was walking into a castle that smelled like old blood and worse things. If something happened to him there, Dendron would lose more than an avatar. He'd lose his only pair of eyes on the one place that might, eventually, someday, tell him whether doors like this could ever go both ways. He hadn't asked to care this much about a question he couldn't even prove was worth asking. But he did....

The Black Ape Tribe gathered beneath the ancient trees, moonlight filtering down through the dense canopy overhead. Unlike the Orc Tribe, there was no shouting here, no celebration, no restless pacing. They waited. Every warrior stood in silence, eyes fixed on the distant door to the spiritual realm. Saro sat at the center of the gathering, expression calm.

"The phenomenon has begun. The door will open soon." His voice carried easily through the quiet.

"The Orc Tribe have already sent their reconnaissance team in." A young warrior frowned.

"Elder Saro, shouldn't we go in now too?" Several eyes turned toward him.

"The Orc Tribe gets the advantage if they explore first," he pressed.

"Resources, locations, opportunities, they could find all of it before we even set foot inside." Saro studied him for a moment.

"Then answer me this. What happens if they run into something dangerous?" The young warrior hesitated.

"They deal with it."

"Correct." Saro leaned forward slightly.

"And if they survive?"

"They report what they found."

"Exactly." A silence settled over the group as the rest of them began to catch up.

"We're not handing them the advantage," Saro said.

"We're letting them burn off the uncertainty for us." He glanced toward the distant door.

"The first step into an unknown world always belongs to whoever's willing to take on the biggest risk." A middle-aged warrior crossed his arms.

"But Elder, letting another tribe move first also gives them time to gather whatever's worth having." Saro's smile was faint.

"And if what they find turns out valuable enough, what do you think they'll do with it?"

"Protect it," the warrior answered immediately.

"Yes." His smile widened.

"Which means they'll show us exactly what they value." The gathering went quiet. Resources. Territory. Enemies. Every choice made inside that realm would leak information, information that could end up worth more than the resources themselves. A young warrior lowered his head.

"I understand now." This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Saro looked around at his tribe.

"The Orc Tribe is strong because they crush whatever's in their way." His voice cooled slightly.

"The Lizardmen are dangerous because they don't leave room for mistakes." His eyes narrowed.

"But the Black Ape Tribe survives because we don't make unnecessary ones in the first place." The warriors stayed quiet, but something shifted in their expressions. Pride, though not the kind that came from believing themselves unbeatable. The kind that came from understanding the game better than almost everyone else playing it. Another warrior finally spoke.

"So when do we go in?" Saro stood.

"When the Orc Tribe comes back."

"And if they don't?" His expression didn't change.

"Then we learn from their deaths." The air grew heavier. No one said anything. Everyone understood exactly what those words meant. Courage alone had never been enough inside a spiritual realm. Plenty of brave warriors had died there without finding anything worth the cost. Saro turned back toward the distant door.

"Prepare yourselves." The tribe began moving, no panic in it, no hesitation. They'd waited while everyone else rushed ahead. Now they'd move only when the moment was right. A hunter didn't chase every opportunity that crossed his path. A hunter waited for the one that mattered, and by the time the prey noticed, it was already too late.

Most of the warriors dispersed, but Seri stayed behind, watching the tribe return to its usual rhythms—sharpening blades, checking packs, and murmuring last-minute reassurances to one another. He had already counted them. Forty-four warriors were preparing to cross after the Orc tribe cleared the way. He recounted anyway, as he always did before anything important, because a number spoken aloud was a number he could be held accountable to later.

Saro noticed him standing apart and came to join him without being asked.

"You've already worked out how many we'll lose," Saro replied. It was not a question.

"It's only an estimate; our losses will be determined by what's actually in there." Seri remained focused on the warriors.

"I'll know the exact number by the time we get back."

"How meticulous, as always."

"A habit." Seri finally turned to face him.

"Pear thinks in glory. You think in advantage. I think in what it costs to get either one. Somebody has to keep the ledger." Saro made no response, which was a form of agreement in and of itself. Seri returned to watching his tribe, quietly wondering how many of the forty-four he'd need to remember by name before the day was over.... The orc reconnaissance team stepped into the spiritual realm and found an old castle waiting for them, swallowed in darkness.

Broken windows stared out like hollow eyes, tall walls vanishing into a thick fog. Despite the castle's obvious age, the stone looked strangely dark, speckled with red stains that seemed far too fresh to belong to a ruin this old. Dead trees ringed the fortress, twisted branches scraping against the walls like skeletal fingers. An oppressive silence pressed down over everything, thick enough that every heartbeat sounded far too loud. Even the wind refused to linger there. A shiver ran through the whole team.

"Captain..." Dory turned to the one who had just spoken, seeing that the young orc was looking at the castle.

"What is it?"

"Do you think that it feels wrong?" Dory did not respond immediately, as he kept looking at the castle for a few seconds longer.

"Yes." This simple answer made some of the warriors exchange uncomfortable looks.

"Then why are we going there?" Dory did not turn away from the castle.

"Because understanding that something feels wrong does not mean understanding why." He tightened his grip on his weapon.

"We don't fight feelings." He stopped.

"We fight causes."

"And what if the cause is too big for us?" Dory looked at him squarely.

"Then we leave." The young orc looked surprised.

"Just like that?"

"Like that." Dory turned around.

"Survival is not about proving yourself to be stronger than everything else." The castle sat far off in the distance, and yet the weight radiating from it felt close enough to touch. Hidden behind the dead trees, a horned monster crouched low, waiting to strike.

"Captain, I'm hearing movement all around us. A lot of it," reported the orc with the sound attribute. Within moments, the beasts nearby began converging on their position, drawn in by the scent of intruders.

"Captain, it's a pack of demonic wolves!" one of the younger orcs shouted.

"Shit. This is exactly the problem with these doors. Either it's crawling with traps, or it's somebody's territory." Dory steadied himself.

"Brace up. We kill them fast, before their main pack shows." His body shifted, skin turning to metal as he raised his blades and blitzed straight into the pack. One clean strike took a wolf's head clean off, and he stayed at the front of the charge, pulling the rest of his team's morale up with him. The fight broke open fast, blades finding flesh, arrows finding throats, ice spikes finding whatever was left standing. The wolves thinned out steadily.

Then one of them surged forward, bigger than the rest, its body a deep, molten red, leaving a trail of magma with every step. It closed the distance fast, bit clean through one orc's body, and sprayed magma across two more faces in the same motion. Flesh melted away, bone showing through where skin used to be. Dory reacted instantly, charging the magma wolf and driving his sword deep into its side.

The blade began to warp under the heat, its edge dulling with every exchange, before the metal attribute reasserted itself and restored its shape. He pulled the sword free and struck again, aiming for the head. The wolf reacted in time. Clang! Claw met blade in a shower of sparks, the sword losing a little more of its edge with every exchange. Then a metal rod burst from his free hand, growing fast as it drove straight into the wolf's throat. Squelch. The rod punched clean through.

The wolf clung to life a moment longer, blood pouring from the wound, bleeding out fast even as it lunged for one final attack. Dory sidestepped and hurled the rod like a spear instead, burying it deep. The light went out of the wolf's eyes almost instantly. He looked over the battlefield. Every wolf lay dead, though victory hadn't come free. A few of his own were gone too.

"Clean up. We're finding somewhere outside this pack's territory before we go any further." His voice carried across what remained of the group.... Deep within the ancient castle, a figure sat on a velvet throne beneath a black crystal chandelier, swirling a glass of blood-red wine with quiet, unhurried amusement. Centuries hadn't touched him. His skin held the pale sheen of moonlight, while every stitch of his clothing carried the weight of some long-vanished era.

His entire bearing possessed a grace that no longer seemed to exist anywhere else. His crimson eyes were sharp enough to feel, as if they could see through any lie, any secret, any soul unfortunate enough to wander into his domain. He stayed as still as something carved from the dark itself. Then, slowly, he smiled, a grin that promised something old, patient, and utterly without mercy.