The ground warned me, or maybe I just listened too well.

  The Aetherhorn’s charge arrived. At the last moment, I stepped to the side, and the bulk thundered past me. The soil shook, but I stayed upright. Maybe it was Earthbound Reflex, or maybe it was just actual reflexes from years of stealing bread for Sir Roland.

  The ox overshot its mark. Its momentum carried it forward, leaving a shallow trench where it had intended to make me into dust.

  I spun and slashed at the hind leg.

  The damage didn’t matter! The plan mattered!

  The ox bellowed in outrage rather than pain, pawing the ground and twisting its massive body to correct its stance. Hearing its fuming cry, I couldn’t help but slash at its other hind leg for good measure.

  Another slash, same ridiculous posture, same angle, same effect. From an outsider’s perspective, it must’ve looked absurd. From mine, it was perfect.

  Oh yeah. Take that. I’m unstoppable—

  Its massive hindquarters swung in a backkick.

  The backkick reminded me that enthusiasm was not a strategy. I landed on my feet, chest heaving, but Enduring Will made me see clearly now. It was time to learn its dance.

  I circled, keeping just beyond its reach, letting my DEX guide me with quick sidesteps, light hops, tiny pivots—enough to stay mobile and bait a response. Each time it shifted to follow me, I noted the angles, the distance, the twitch of its muscles before it moved. Its patterns weren’t chaotic, but deliberate and terrifyingly consistent.

  Every opportunity for a slash came like a question: “Is this safe? Can I reach it before it reacts?”

  It had worked so far. The creature was down to 17 AP. But I needed to be efficient. My stamina had gone down to 61%. I was covering a lot of ground now, but I could only do so for another thirty seconds before it plummeted to below 50%.

  Another approach, another quick slash at its rear leg, then a sidestep to keep out of its front hooves.

  Just under 60%, and I could feel the burn in my legs.

  After that, the fight blurred into pattern and punishment.

  Circle. Bait. Slash. Retreat.

  Its breathing grew ragged. Not from pain, but from expenditure. Mass that large needed AP just to exist.

  Finally—

  The Aetherhorn sagged as the aether threading through its body lost coherence. I stopped circling.

  My lungs screamed. I could feel the tremor in my grip as I shifted my stance and planted my feet.

  Static surged along the blade.

  The ox tried to lift its head. Too slow.

  I struck at the base of the skull, right where horn met bone, driving the blade down with everything I had.

  “Behold, foul creature! The EXTREMELY HOLY SLASH OF KNIGHTLY JUSTICE!”

  The ox didn’t die.

  That was the first problem. The second was that I was right there.

  Its breathing turned into a wet, furious snort, hooves grinding into the soil as it dragged itself forward.

  It was mad now.

  Charging without grace, without efficiency, without AP—but still charging. I just remembered that Territorial Trample didn’t require good stamina. Just enough hatred to go in a straight line.

  Then I remembered something else: my aura.

  “Halt,” I said. “Now.”

  Thunder cracked overhead, lightning spiderwebbing through the clouds above. The ground vibrated beneath my boots.

  “You shall know pain,” I finished.

  Its hooves dug furrows into the earth as its charge collapsed into a halt.

  Yes. Yes. I’ve got you now, foolish creature. Now stay still so I can—

  The ox didn’t. It panicked.

  Oh no. I was TOO intimidating.

  Without warning, the Aetherhorn turned and bolted straight away.

  “NO. CEASE RUNNING IMMEDIATELY. YOU WILL HALT. OR YOU WILL DIE,” I screamed after it.

  It did not just activate Territorial Trample just to run away.

  I needed it dead! I wouldn’t get EXP nor meat if it got away.

  “SILVERMANE!” I growled. “COME TO MY AID.”

  Ceralis said. But Silvermane galloped over anyway. She thundered in from my left at a lazy canter, still chewing thoughtfully on a mouthful of grass. Her ears were pinned flat in personal annoyance.

  She shot me a look. It very clearly said: You interrupted my lunch.

  There was no time to apologize.

  The Aetherhorn was already tearing up the ground ahead, panic driving it faster than reason ever had, its bulk crashing through brush and stone as Territorial Trample burned itself out in service of escape. Then it took damage from my enchantment’s effect.

  Silvermane snorted, finally swallowed, and broke into a full gallop without waiting for permission.

  The chase was on.

  At least, I thought it was on.

  I hadn’t seen it coming.

  One moment the Aetherhorn was barreling through the trees. The next moment, a storm of stone and unstoppable force tore onto the path.

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  Durand.

  The pebble-skinned gnome?thing Anabeth had built for reasons of cheerful overengineering, sprinted in full?tilt. Before I could even react, the little gravel-child rammed into the Aetherhorn’s rear with a single, perfectly aimed headbutt.

  The ground shook. The ox rolled violently to the side, slamming into brush.

  What.

  Minus fifty-eight? From that tiny thing?

  And why... why in the blazing Saints was Durand here?

  Anabeth. Of course. She was supposed to be gathering herbs. Gathering herbs, she had said.

  I gaped at the aftermath. The ox lay dazed, steam rising from its fur, while Durand planted its stubby feet and made a pleased grinding noise.

  What had Anabeth been doing?

  Doesn’t matter. Kill the ox now, before it gets its feet back under it.

  I lunged for the exposed throat while the ox was still stunned and helpless, because questions were a luxury and this was a closing window.

  The fight was remarkably easy once the ox had decided to lie down. I just commanded Silvermane to trample it, and the hooves would come down like punctuation marks, knocking the breath and momentum back out of the Aetherhorn just as it tried to gather itself. Every time the ox tried to rise, Silvermane corrected the attempt with bored efficiency. She didn’t even look particularly invested.

  Only then did the system finally deign to inform me what she was doing.

  Ah. I’d apparently been too low level to see her skillset before.

  I circled, measured distance, waited for the thrashing to slow.

  The ox finally found its feet. This was the chance to test out Silvermane’s signature move; a skill I reckoned was registered in Ceralis.

  That would do.

  “Silvermane. Kick.”

  She turned her head, then her shoulders, then—very deliberately—rotated her entire body until she was facing the ox with her hindquarters. She gave one preparatory and entirely unnecessary shake of her rear, then both hooves came back in a single motion.

  The kick landed with a concussive thoom.

  By the Saints! That’s the bloody work, girl! She didn’t even need lightning.

  Silvermane snorted, entirely satisfied, and went back to looking for better grass.

  The Aetherhorn collapsed with a painful roar. This wasn’t a fight anymore. I slid down from the saddle, adjusted my grip, and aimed for the angle that mattered. My kill.

  Sir Roland had fought great oxen. Monsters out of legend and winter songs—things with horns like siege engines and hides that turned blades aside. He had survived them, and came back with stories that always started the same way: I was terrified, but I stood my ground.

  This wasn’t a great ox. But the stance was right. The angle was right. I was following his footsteps.

  Just a light slash, Henry. Get it down to exactly zero. That sweet, sweet round number. This is your moment.

  I could feel non-existent tears of joy streaming down my cheeks as I sang, “By the blessed light of Saint Merin, let it be known across all kingdoms, from the sunlit spires of Valerion to the shadowed halls of Drethmoor, that Sir Henry Hildebraud of Mostenstein, scion of the venerable Knighthood, has faced the abyss and struck true! No foul beast, no—”

  Durand hit the ox like divine editorial intervention.

  The pebble-skinned gnome-thing came screaming in from my right and bulldozed straight through the Aetherhorn’s ribcage. The ox left the ground.

  Not metaphorically.

  It flew.

  Several meters, end over end, trailing dirt, blood, and what dignity it had left, before landing in the grass with a sound like a collapsing barn.

  There was a very brief, very final wheeze.

  Then silence.

  I stared.

  NO! MY KILL! MY FIRST OX! MY ZERO HP! NO!

  I thundered, “YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS, STONE ABOMINATION. I SWEAR BY SAINT MERIN AND ALL WHO STAND WITNESS, I WILL GRIND YOUR KIND INTO DUST SO FINE IT WILL BE MISTAKEN FOR ROAD SAND. YOUR LINE SHALL END BENEATH MY BOOTS. I WILL CRUSH YOU SO THOROUGHLY THAT GEOLOGISTS WILL ARGUE FOR CENTURIES WHETHER YOU EVER EXISTED.”

  Lightning struck and thunder rolled behind me, tearing open the sky in seams of white fire as if the firmament had decided my tantrum was legally binding.

  Durand waddled away, the same way it’d come from.

  The ambulatory pile of enthusiasm and gravel that had stolen my kill, ignored my divine wrath, and waddled off like it had just helped with the gardening. And it’d gotten more experience out of it than I did.

  “This,” I said with deadly calm, “is not over.”

  Anabeth had built that thing. Which meant this was, by extension, her fault. I would find her. I would ask very reasonable questions. About damage attribution. About kill credit. About why her rock child thought it was acceptable to steal a man’s first ox and walk away richer for it.

  There would be answers.

  There would be accountability.

  I turned, already rehearsing the opening line of that conversation, then I saw another ox from across the field. Across the field, not thirty paces away, another Aetherhorn grazed lazily among the rocks. Bigger. Healthier. Entirely unaware that it had just been promoted to emotional restitution.

  I stared at it.

  It stared back.

  My grip tightened on the sword.

  Never mind. Anabeth could wait.

  This ox would be mine to kill.

  Oxen were weak-willed creatures. After some trial-and-error, I’d learned that Silent Authority alone was enough to render them frozen, Intimidation Aura would risk startling them, and Thunderous Edict would 100% get them to take flight. With some well-timed Silent Authority, I managed to slay six more Aetherhorn before my infamy spread across the herd, and soon no oxen were left in the local vicinity.

  With careful timing and minimal theatrics, Silent Authority let me control the engagement perfectly.

  Still, I wasn’t foolish enough to do all the work myself.

  After the second ox, my stamina dipped below a threshold I didn’t like. After the third, my arms began to burn in that familiar, traitorous way that suggested future mistakes. So I let Silvermane do what she did best—trample, kick, harass, and reposition—while I conserved energy and delivered the final, proper strikes.

  By the time the herd learned better and fled the area entirely, six more Aetherhorn lay dead in the grass.

  I finally checked the numbers.

  Each Aetherhorn was worth 64 EXP.

  Six kills meant 384 EXP total.

  Contribution breakdown followed immediately.

  It appeared that all the terror I’d unleashed upon the local bovine population counted as Aura Farming, because when I opened the Aura Market once more, I’d already accumulated 202 Aura.

  But then again, I shouldn’t.

  I looked over the field. Seven enormous oxen lay scattered across the grass like fallen siege engines. I remembered the knight code: no malicious havoc on local people. True, the Code said nothing about terrorizing cows. Knights ate meat, after all. Slaying a beast for food, hide, or survival was perfectly acceptable.

  But this?

  I hadn’t needed seven oxen.

  The first had been a battle. The second had been practice. The third had been efficiency.

  Somewhere around the fourth, it had become… experimentation.

  I had been testing intimidation mechanics.

  On cows.

  Saint Merin hadn’t banned the killing of animals. That didn’t mean I had been granted a holy license to terrorize livestock until the countryside ran out of beef.

  I planted the sword tip in the grass and sank to one knee. “Saint Merin, Keeper of the Just Path. I have acted without malice, yet without restraint. I have taken more life than was needed, not from hunger, nor duty, but from pride and curiosity. I vow to amend this failing. I will take only what is needed, and I will not forget that strength exists to protect, not merely to prove that it can. Let this be my witness.”

  I did not know if the Saint had acknowledged me, but after a while, I rose to my feet and turned my attention to the aftermath.

  Loot.

  Specifically: horns, hides, and the uncomfortable realization that killing something and processing something were entirely different skill sets.

  The horns at least were straightforward.

  Aetherhorn horns were anchored deep into the skull, but not magically fused. Awkward, but doable. I braced a hoof with my boot, set the longsword at the base, and worked the blade in with controlled leverage rather than finesse. Sawing, not slicing.

  Six corpses later, I had a small, neat pile of horns arranged by size, and a sword that needed a thorough cleaning but hadn’t suffered any meaningful damage. That part, at least, I could claim as a success.

  Then came the hides.

  I stared at the first ox and crouched, trying to remember anything Sir Roland had ever said about skinning.

  He had not, to my recollection, ever said anything about skinning. Probably because knights weren’t supposed to do this part.

  I made the initial incision carefully, shallow and controlled, just under the rib line. The blade snagged. I adjusted the angle. It snagged again. I tried a longer cut. The hide resisted, stretched, then tore unevenly, like badly cured leather refusing to cooperate.

  This is dreadful.

  Skinning required finesse, short strokes, and wrist control. What I had was a longsword.

  Each attempt produced either too little progress or far too much damage. Finally, the hide came away in ragged sheets instead of clean panels.

  I grimaced. I should’ve kept the slime dagger.

  Which meant, regrettably, that this was now Anabeth’s problem. Anabeth struck me as the sort of person who would absolutely own a dagger. Several, in fact. The sort of collection acquired not out of sentiment, but preparedness. Harmless-looking people were always like that.

  I sheathed my sword, took one last look at the field, and mounted Silvermane once more.

  “Right,” I muttered. “We’re finding Anabeth.”

  Silvermane snorted.