Laying sprawled on the rock, Max ughed as the thought dawned on him that a bug technically hurt him more than the sin monster.

  He looked to the side. Something moved in the deeper part of the cave. A bunch of smaller versions of the big sin thing started appearing. In a fsh, he got up and grabbed his sharp friend. The chunky lizards didn't attack as one but rather in an indecisive manner of pure chaos, fear, and instinct.

  After memorizing their shapes and sizes Max closed his eyes. With multiple opponents, vision can be a distracting sort of weakness. They were loud, so loud. Their swarming steps were ripples on the mirror-like surface. In the deepest nooks of his mind, despite the refined coiled bckness covering his eyes, he saw them, he saw them without seeing. Max's body became a whirlpool of movement, his arms twisted like snakes and his legs swirled with the timely precision of the best chronos, no movement was wasted. Not a single one. Gracefully, Max dispatched them all.

  It seemed cruel but the Wraith's offspring often destroy the environment they are in. Nothing contains them. They have no natural competitors and would simply spread to dominate everything. Like humans did.

  Breathing a little more heavily than he'd liked, the syer moved back toward the Wraith's corpse.

  True, the beast was not one of the mightiest of Wraiths there are but it was a fine kill nonetheless. There was a rge vomit-inducing pile of excrement, bigger than him in volume, near the beginning of the Wraith's tail. The air of the cave quickly became overwhelmed with the foulness of it. Max, registering none of it, continued on with the next task. The blood of the cubs was barely noticeable on the dark purple-tinted bde of his broadsword as it now pierced the dead creature's gut.

  Now for the messy part of taking out the hopefully plump crystal and cleaning it. His mount—a six-legged boar the size of a yak that could probably pull half a mountain across half of Equiya—and a sturdy cart are both away in a safe spot. With plenty of stifled sunshine for the boar, of course. Besides the presumably heavy crystal, Max pns on taking the Wraith's head on his trip back to Vantium, too. The schors there could never get enough samples for study. He almost shrugged at the thought. There wasn't really much to study, though. You hunt and kill a Wraith or it does that to you. Simple.

  The cart had several barrels of salt and wood for smoke. There were some herbs there also, to help preserve the head, deter the flies, and slow down the rotting. Obviously, he could never smell the rot but no one liked flies and wild animals would sense the decaying flesh, somewhat slowing his journey back home. Also, Max didn't wish to endanger the rge boar and the cart might get damaged—there is a whole list of potential logistical problems best avoided. Little effort now goes a long way ter.

  Part of him still yearned for a dramatic fight but he was alone in the wild and honor in this case was a thing reserved for his much mightier kindred or for friendly celebratory fights in the arena. Nature doesn't care about such silly notions; it's kill or be killed. During the past few decades, there were hunters—crackpots just like him—which he taught: to track, to stealth, to be patient. Those that listened survived, and scarce few others that didn't are dust, forever lost to the world. Max released a deep sigh. His sword was making mushy-sshy noises as he cut through the skin, tendons, bone, and tissue, searching for his prize.

  Performers in Vantium's many theaters would sometimes tell stories of humans and those often had dramatic fights. The hero struggles and then wins. But again, nature doesn't really care about stories or silly notions such as honor. Unlike most things in the city, life in nature is beautifully and yet brutally simple and practical. Nonetheless, that small irrational part of him was aching for a fair fight that never was. Sure there is a small chance of losing an arm or leg or a head but with a trusted hepatizon broadsword in hand, almost nothing could match him. One lucky stab and I think I'm Theia, he chastised his own arrogance.

  How many bowels do you have? The broadsword was good for killing but apparently not so much so for eviscerating. Max was now half-covered with the creature's blood and some really vile-looking viscid substance he wanted to convince himself was blood.

  After rummaging through the red vital fluid and viscera for quite some time, Max found a rge yellow crystal within the beast. Even embedded with gore and entrails, the Amber was magnificent-looking. Unlike most of those being mined. Maker will be pleased. Well...Maker will never admit this and will probably-absolutely scold Max for being foolish.

  After some finishing cuts, he grabbed the several-anvils-heavy precious honey-yellow crystal with both hands and lifted it with an obstreperous splish sound. Max carried his loot a few steps before deciding it was better to just roll it almost like one would a barrel. So he did just that, moving the crystal a little to the side of Wraith's mutited body. Max then crouched—pcing a right hand onto the roughly egg-shaped, blood-stained, and jagged Amber.

  Despite not being charged the crystal possessed a muted soft glow deep within. The light inside was something ethereal and smoke-like in shape, seemingly coiling with a mesmerizing swirling dance of gossamer threads. For a few blessed moments, Max let the living light inside enthrall his red eyes.

  He stood up, his breathing now almost completely normalized, and looked at the mess around him, at the Wraith's neck, then at the distant entrance, now exit. I should've left the cart much closer.