On the other hand, there was a more practical reason—fear of a cornered animal’s st bite.

  Even though together they could crush Wilber now that the ritual’s boost was gone, they’d just fought a long slog against him while he was powered up. Their own energy wasn’t at full; both body and mind were tired.

  If they really backed Wilber into a wall, forcing him to pull out some st-ditch, suicide-level trick… in their worn-out state, no one could promise they’d walk away clean. Who wanted to bet against that one-in-a-thousand chance of dying?

  Besides, even though Blighted Hand Wilber seemed to be holding this pce solo, who knew if The Blood Tonic Aldrich behind him, or even other third-rank heavies from Ascension Road, were already on their way or hiding nearby waiting for a cheap shot?

  They were all third-ranks, people who could someday shed the “Apprentice” tag, become real Master Demon Hunters, and finally leave these ruins.

  Without a life-or-death reason or a huge prize on the line, there was no point taking extra, messy risks.

  Watching that sorry figure vanish into the dark, stumbling like a kicked dog, the two third-rank powerhouses from Echo Quarry traded a look. No words needed. They turned right away and headed back for the garden’s core.

  They still had the st step of the pn to finish—setting up Echo Quarry’s own defensive ritual inside this newly grabbed garden, and fast. Only then would tonight’s bloody work actually stick.

  Echo Quarry wasn’t like Ascension Road, a crew of rich potion masters. Their resource pile wasn’t as deep. The ritual they’d set up might not be as strong, precise, or quick as Ascension Road’s had been. But it would have all the necessary parts: defense, early warning, energy gathering, and basic control over the Blood-Weep Worm breeding zone.

  Worst case, these two third-ranks would have to babysit the newly captured garden a while longer, personally keeping the ritual stable until it fully rooted. It would tie up some of their time, but compared to the huge win of taking this resource point back… it was worth it.

  ………………

  Deep in the night, a figure gritted his teeth, stumbling through the shadows of ruined buildings.

  Every step Blighted Hand Wilber took sent a tearing pain from the nasty gashes on his body, making the veins at his temples throb. Moving outside in the dead of night was asking for trouble. The danger didn’t come from people, but from the things mostly asleep during the day that got real lively after dark…

  Zombies.

  The night was their time. Normally, these walking dead might not be a real threat to a third-ranker like him. But some of the special mutated ones, the ones as strong as third-rank apprentices, got a lot more active and aggressive at night.

  In his shape right now, if he got careless and bumped into one of those… if luck was against him, he could actually die here.

  So after making sure no one was chasing him, Wilber made a fast call. He waved off the wounded, ragged Ascension Road stragglers behind him, telling them to find their own ways back. A big group put out too much “human smell,” which acted like a beacon in the dark, drawing in those sharp-sensed, powerful mutant zombies.

  Besides, a bunch of hurt, beaten people couldn’t move quiet. Going alone meant he didn’t have to worry about dead weight. He could hide his presence better and pick the safest path. Splitting up was step one to living.

  Then, fighting the pain, he used his knowledge of the area to quickly find a decent temporary hole-up spot.

  A long-abandoned bakery with its sign hanging half off. The shop door was crooked and open. Inside was pitch bck, only a ssh of moonlight coming through the busted front window, lighting up the dust floating in the air.

  Wilber checked the pce carefully. The zombie count inside was low—just three or four skinny shapes shuffling between the counter and the old oven. They moved slow; low-level for sure.

  He didn’t waste effort. He just moved in quiet and, with his mutated hands, twisted their necks with quick, precise snaps. The light crunch of bone was extra clear in the silent shop.

  After clearing out these squatters, he’d made himself a rough, temporary safe spot.

  A faint smell hung in the air… a baking smell. Not real bread—the bread here had rotted to nothing ages ago. This was the scent from the fake bread aromas bakeries used to make the pce feel cozy. That artificial smell was stubborn. Even after all these years, it clung on, a weird trace of old-world warmth in the middle of the dust and mold.

  Leaning against the cold, greasy oven, Wilber actually felt a strange, long-gone sense of calm. He… kind of liked the smell.

  Here, he started patching himself up.

  He shuffled over to a floor-length mirror covered in dust and webs. Using the weak moonlight from the window, he looked at his own wrecked reflection.

  The guy in the mirror was a mess of wounds, every one of them ugly. A deep chop on the left shoulder, down to the bone, the flesh peeled back showing a glimpse of pale shoulder bde. A bloody hole punched under his right ribs. It wasn’t bleeding now, but the edges of the wound were a sick purplish-bck, clearly eaten by something nasty.

  The worst was the one on his head. A big piece of scalp had been torn and flipped open by something sharp, showing the slightly cracked skull underneath, stained with blood. It looked gross; like his whole body might fall apart any second.

  But Wilber knew the truth. None of these nasty-looking wounds were actually kill shots. With the tough life force and flesh-regen a third-rank Corpse-Pgue Acolyte had, all he needed was some quiet time to rest, and these outside wounds would scab over and close up fine.

  The real problem was the little things buried deep in his flesh, even in the bone…

  The bullets.

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