The room was dark when Damien stirred.

No dreams. No interruptions. Just the quiet, subtle pull of consciousness waking his body. His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim glow of moonlight bleeding through the window openings.

The faint rustle of leaves outside and the soft hush of wind against the walls were the only sounds that greeted him.

Evening had fully taken the sky.

Gone was the warm light of afternoon—replaced now by the deep violet of night and the glowing silver of a full moon suspended like a watchful eye above Westmont.

Stars glittered across the sky in cold constellations, their light tracing the lines of old myths Damien hadn’t believed in since childhood.

He rose, rolled his shoulders once, and stepped into the chilled room. His coat hung from the wall hook, his boots lined perfectly by the door. It took him less than a minute to prepare. Everything was muscle memory now.

The quiet felt different tonight. Not tense, not ominous. Just… open.

Damien stepped out into the hallway of the Mercenary Guild.

The stone beneath his boots felt colder than it had earlier, the air carrying a slight nip. Most of the candles had burned low, their wax dripping into tiny puddles at the base of iron sconces.

The smell of wood and old parchment lingered in the halls, but no voices echoed now. No footsteps trailed through the main corridor. The guild had gone to sleep.

He passed the front reception on his way out and paused—empty.

Arielle wasn’t at the desk.

He considered that for a moment. Two possibilities.

The first was that she was sleeping. She’d always been the type to pretend she didn’t need it but inevitably crash after a long mission.

The second was that she was out getting something she didn’t want to explain.

With Arielle, either option was equally likely.

Damien didn’t waste time pondering it. He stepped outside into the cold.

Westmont at night was quieter, yes—but not silent.

Lanterns still burned from shop windows and lampposts. Their warm, flickering light cast golden reflections on the streets.

The occasional merchant cart rumbled by, pulled by mana-touched oxen with glowing eyes and passive enchantments carved into their horns.

Most of the townsfolk had retreated inside. Doors were shut, curtains drawn. Fires lit in hearths.

The city, for all its subtle power and mercenary edge, still moved with the rhythm of people trying to live normal lives.

Damien paused at the street’s edge, breath fogging in the cool air.

Then he spoke.

“Summon Luton.”

The portal opened with a soft hum—small and compact, spiraling outward like a ripple in the air. From it emerged a familiar red form, bouncing once with a faint plap as it landed.

Luton wobbled happily, blinking its non-eyes up at Damien.

“Summon Aquila.”

This portal was larger—swirling blue light that cracked faintly with energy. A gust of wind followed as Aquila stepped through with elegance, wings slightly unfurled, talons clacking softly against the stone.

The majestic griffin let out a low, quiet cry—acknowledging his summoner before bowing its head slightly.

Damien nodded once, mounting the beast’s back in a practiced motion.

Luton didn’t wait for instruction. The slime leapt, bounced once off Aquila’s flank, and landed directly atop Damien’s head. It settled there with perfect balance, wobbling faintly but refusing to fall.

A few late-night citizens looked up at the sound of the summon portals, but none of them panicked.

“Evenin’, Damien!” someone called from across the street.

“Out late again?”

“Back on the streets, huh?”

Damien offered a simple nod, nothing more.

Most people in Westmont knew him by now—if not personally, then by reputation. The man with silver hair, a wyvern in the sky, and beasts that emerged from rips in the air like ghosts.

“Forward.” He tapped Aquila’s side gently, and the griffin began to walk.

Damien rode through the quiet streets of Westmont like a ghost himself, the breeze tugging gently at his coat.

Stone buildings flanked either side of the path—shops, forges, supply stations. Most were closed, but a few remained open, lanterns glowing softly behind fogged glass.

He had no destination in mind beyond a general one—supplies.

There was a checklist in his head: food, herbs, travel tools, and a few specific ingredients he used for maintenance rituals on his gear and summons. He’d neglected restocking for too long.

His thoughts drifted back to Arielle. He didn’t know exactly what she was chasing in her search for the demons’ origin, but he could feel the urgency in her eyes earlier. Like a pressure building behind calm words.

He trusted her. Fully.

He didn’t need to know everything.

Luton had already confirmed what his instincts suspected. His summons didn’t align with liars. And Luton, strange as it was, had never failed him.

Finally, he arrived at one of the late-hour supply stores near the eastern wall.

The building was squat, rectangular, with two lanterns flanking the door and a sign that read: Kellan’s Provisions – Open Late.

He dismounted. Aquila settled nearby, folding its wings as it sat like a living statue. Luton slid down from his head, bouncing once on the ground before following Damien inside.

The bell above the door chimed.

Behind the counter stood a middle-aged man with a trimmed beard and half-moon glasses perched on his nose. He looked up as Damien entered, blinking once in recognition.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Silver Ghost himself.”

“Evening,” Damien said, voice low.

“You’re out late.”

“Stocking for a trip.”

The shopkeeper smiled, already reaching for a parchment slip. “What’s the list?”

“Grains. Dried meats. Water flasks. Cereals. Field bread. Cooking oil. Travel packs, triple portion. Fresh flint. Spare rope.”

“Ah, you’re going long this time.”

Damien didn’t reply and neither did the man press.

As he moved around the shop gathering goods, Damien watched quietly—hands in pockets, Luton sitting beside his boots like a patient, jiggling sentinel.

Ten minutes later, everything was ready. Piled in clean bundles on the countertop, tied and portioned. Efficient. Well-packed.

“Three gold flat,” the shopkeeper said, sliding the parchment aside.

Damien placed the coins.

“Luton,” he said simply.

The red slime rolled forward.

In a matter of seconds, the goods vanished into its body one by one—each item swallowed cleanly into the (Universal Space) within it. No struggle, no resistance. When it was done, Luton gave a happy bloop and rolled back to Damien’s side.

“Still the strangest thing I’ve seen,” the shopkeeper muttered, rubbing his beard. “But damn useful.”

“More than most people,” Damien replied calmly.

He turned and left the shop, bell chiming softly behind him.

Outside, the wind had picked up. The moon was now higher, casting an even colder glow over Westmont’s rooftops. The streets had grown quieter still. Only guards and stragglers remained now.

Damien climbed onto Aquila once more, Luton returning to his perch atop his head.

He tapped the griffin forward.

One shop down.

More to go.

And after that… the wilds.

The real hunt.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep