Chapter 109: The Saviour of Boulder Creek
The object was a head.
It was a monstrous thing, larger than a full-grown bull. It was covered in thick, black, chitinous plates that shone with a dull, oily light.
Two long, serrated mandibles, each as long as a man’s arm, were open in a silent scream. A dozen multi-faceted eyes, like a cluster of black diamonds, stared blankly at the ceiling.
A thick, black, and foul-smelling ichor was still dripping from the severed neck, pooling on the old, scarred wood of the table.
The entire inn was frozen. The mercenaries, the merchants, the guards—they were all tough men who had seen their share of death and monsters.
But they had never seen anything like this.
Tyren, the one-eyed mercenary captain, was the first to recognise it. He had seen it once, from a great distance, during the last swarm.
He had seen its terrible shape silhouetted against the sky as it commanded its army of death.
His one good eye went wide with a look of pure, unadulterated shock. He slowly stood up from his chair, his body trembling.
"By the god of Ale..." he whispered, his voice a choked, disbelieving sound. "It’s... it’s her. The Matriarch."
A collective gasp went through the room. The men stared at the monstrous head on the table, then at the silent, cloaked figure standing beside it.
The two things did not seem to belong in the same reality.
The greatest fear of their city, the monster that had haunted their nightmares for generations, was dead.
And its killer was standing right here, in their inn.
The Grey Ghost was not just a hunter who killed common monsters anymore. He was a god of death who could slay a Boss.
Rhys stood by the table, feeling the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes on him. He ignored them. He was tired.
The fight with the Matriarch had been long and difficult. The creature was powerful, its chitinous armour almost unbreakable.
But its greatest strength, its swarm, had been its greatest weakness against him. He had turned its own children into his Ashen Marionettes and had used them to wear her down.
He had not done it for the city. He had not done it for these people. He had done it because the Matriarch’s lair was located in a cave that was rich in a rare, high-grade crystal he needed to forge a new, more powerful set of defensive formations for his own city inside the Ashen Dimension.
Call him foolish for making the city inside his own dimension a fortress when no one but him could come inside. He just enjoyed building things. The safety of Boulder Creek was just a convenient side effect of his own mission.
He looked around at the stunned, awestruck faces. He felt nothing. No pride, no satisfaction. Just a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
Rhys turned to the innkeeper, Elric, who was standing behind the bar, frozen in place, a dirty rag still in his hand.
The cloaked figure raised a single hand and pointed at the stairs that led to the rooms above.
"A room," he said. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the absolute silence of the inn like a sharp knife. He then pointed at the bar.
"And some ale."
The sound of his voice broke the spell that had fallen over the Wandering Wyvern. Elric jumped as if he had been struck by lightning.
The dirty rag fell from his trembling hand. He fumbled for a moment, his eyes wide with a terror that was quickly being replaced by a frantic desire to serve.
"Yes! Yes, of course, My Lord Ghost!" he stammered, his voice a high-pitched squeak. "The best room! The finest ale! On the house! Everything is on the house!"
He scrambled out from behind the bar, his large body moving with a surprising speed. He snatched a key from a hook on the wall and practically ran to the stairs, gesturing with a shaking hand for Rhys to follow.
Rhys twitched his lips.
’Ghost? What kind of name is that.’
The rest of the inn’s patrons finally began to move. The initial shock had passed, and now a wave of awe was washing over them.
They were not just looking at a powerful hunter. They were looking at their saviour.
Tyren, the one-eyed mercenary captain, was the first to fully process the reality of the situation. He was a man of action, a man who had faced death a hundred times.
He took a slow, deliberate step towards the table where the Matriarch’s head rested. The black ichor was still dripping onto the wood, a slow, thick rhythm that was the only sound in the room besides the heavy breathing of the stunned men.
He cautiously reached out with the tip of his dagger and prodded one of the creature’s dead, multifaceted eyes. It was solid. It was real.
The monster that had been the boogeyman of his entire life, the beast that had taken his eye and many of his friends, was well and truly dead.
A deep, shuddering breath escaped his lips. The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders for years seemed to melt away.
He turned from the head and looked towards the cloaked figure who was now walking towards the bar. Without a single moment of hesitation, Tyren dropped to one knee, his head bowed.
"My Lord Ghost," he said, his rough voice thick with an emotion that was close to tears. "On behalf of every hunter and mercenary in this city, we thank you."
His action was a signal. The other mercenaries in the room, tough men who bowed to no one, all followed his lead.
They knelt, their heads bowed in a gesture of profound respect. The city guards, seeing the mercenaries on their knees, did the same. Soon, almost every man in the inn was kneeling before the silent, cloaked figure.
Rhys stopped at the bar. He felt the weight of their respect, their gratitude. He understood what was happening. In their eyes, he was no longer just the Grey Ghost.
He was a hero, a king. He felt a familiar weariness settle over him. The images of the Azure Province played in his mind, his palms curling into fists.
’Loneliness is what you deserve, Rhys. Loneliness is your salvation.’
He ignored the kneeling men. Elric, the innkeeper, had already poured a large, frothing mug of his best ale. His hands were shaking so much that some of it spilled onto the counter.
Rhys took the mug without a word. He pushed the shadow of his hood back just enough to reveal his mouth and chin.
He drained the entire mug in one long, continuous pull. The cool ale washed away some of the dust and grime from the long fight.
He placed the empty mug back on the counter with a soft thud.
"Get someone to clean this up," he said, gesturing vaguely towards the monstrous head on the table.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked up the stairs to his room, leaving a hall full of kneeling men and the severed head of their greatest fear behind him.
The moment he disappeared up the stairs, the inn erupted. The silence was shattered by a storm of shouts, cheers, and disbelieving laughter.
Men jumped to their feet, clapping each other on the back, their faces lit with a joy that was almost manic.
"He did it! The Ghost actually did it!"
"The Matriarch is dead! The swarm is gone forever!"
"Did you see the size of that thing? And he killed it alone!"
The news spread through the city of Boulder Creek faster than a wildfire. People rushed out of the Wandering Wyvern, shouting the news to anyone they met.
The message was passed from street to street, from house to house. Windows opened, doors were thrown wide. People poured out into the streets, their faces a mixture of disbelief and dawning hope.