Shouldn’t be, I’ve been careful to hide everything.
Ilven went over everything in his head, but his hand still slowly reached towards his nearest weapon. Would he have to make a move? Here?
“My back hurts recently, I think I might have to see the doctor. Why don’t you help a brother out.”
A slovenly youth with disheveled hair dressed in the standard white uniform stitched with the insignia of Grey Tulip quickly made a gesture with his fingers.
Extortion? Ilven was slightly taken aback, and his hand froze in place.
This wasn’t something unusual and instead was quite normal, the only problem was the situation, and the parties involved.
The gatekeeper was a logistical position unlike the sentry soldiers, typically it was held by ordinary citizens as a kind of settlement duty that changed bi-monthly; a reoccurring shelter management task.
They just opened the gate and operated the descent mechanism, simple.
They had no real power, but it was an easy job, typically most gatekeepers had some amount of connections yet usually nothing of importance.
With that being the case normally they wouldn’t risk offending scavengers who danced with death every day, who were quicker to resort to violence even more so, scavengers were nominally their superior.
The standard hierarchical ladder of a settlement like theirs was arranged with refugees - slaves - citizens - farmers - wilderness scavengers - high class citizens/ business owners - town head - wilderness hunters.
It was likely this new gatekeeper saw he was young and alone and wanted to take the chance to extort him. In fact, Ilven was absolutely right.
James was the young son of a farmer, but he was only the third son of the second wife with little inheritance rights or prospects, his parents couldn’t afford to train him extensively so he could neither ingest a gene potion nor apprentice to a skilled professional. However, farmers were still of a high enough status so non-life threatening tasks were easy to arrange for their progeny.
The problem began a few days ago when James went to the local tavern to blow off steam from his boring job, he partook in one of the tavern mistress’s special services after he was drawn in by her curvy figure. He was still quite young and never experienced such a wild yet exhilarating night before, so he was instantly addicted, but the price was quite steep and after two trysts his pockets ran empty.
Still ever since then he had been daydreaming about her and sadly could only keep her in memory. Seeing Ilven who looked like a shabby new scavenger, he instantly thought of a way to see his beloved after watching Ilven pay tribute to a sentry.
His hands couldn’t help but itch.
James knew his limits; he wouldn’t dare provoke a real scavenger who were known nutcases with dangerous abilities but for some skinny newbie it was no problem.
In fact, James couldn’t be blamed for not recognizing Ilven, oddly enough Ilven did his job a little too well in keeping a low profile to avoid trouble.
Unlike other scavengers who knew they could die at any time and indulged in pleasure before and after every expedition, he didn’t do anything like that and kept to himself. He also happened to be a lone wolf with no team members. The turnover rate for scavengers, being what it was, resulted in a lot of his fellow comrades not knowing his face or even hearing about his existence much less a spoiled farmer’s son.
Those who started off at the same time or even before him were mostly dead.
With scavengers being a mixed bunch there were quite a few short-lived ghosts and useless wastes among them, the ones apart of the social hierarchy were not these newbies but those who had tenures of six months at the bare minimum. Their status came from their earning and spending power as well as their combat abilities and various sinister methods.
To top it all off, Ilven was now very skinny being in post recovery. His deliberately dirty appearance also made him seem like a refugee which was similar to the appearances of the newbie scavengers.
James thought he was merely a newbie who struck it rich and extorted him seeing him make an offering to the sentries unlike ordinary useless fellows who normally came back empty handed.
Ilven could never have expected such a standard action to cause him trouble revealing his ‘wealth’ but even if he knew he still had to, unlike the ignorant fool in front of him, the sentries knew who he was.
“What don’t want to?” James snickered threateningly. Although he was a waste in his parents’ eyes, he was still their child. Moreover, he had some competent older brothers, taking care of a little scavenger was nothing for them. Seeing Ilven by himself James assumed his team was killed and he reaped the profits, so he was not on guard at all.
Ilven’s eyes grew cold hearing the naked threat.
“Fine.” He said in a neutral manner.
In ordinary cases, he would let this ignorant youth know why his moniker had wolf attached to it but now, richer than most landlords in the shelter he wanted to keep a low profile and avoid causing trouble. Gatekeepers usually were related somehow to high class citizens, if he could avoid trouble then he would, such was his nature.
He tossed another claw of the Flightless Bird that Old Driver shot to death to James.
Unexpectedly, James caught a glimpse of the rest of the diced corpse in the bag.
So much?! That’s at least worth 50 coppers, that’s five nights with Madam Lily!
“That’s it? My medical expenses are quite expensive you know.” A greedy light shone in his blue pupils. If he could get everything in that bag, he could treat himself to a decent meal and Madam Lily together! The deluxe package.
“Is that right?” Ilven coldly glared at him, he hesitated for a bit but handed him another foot. Treat it as tossing scraps to a dog, besides his things didn’t come cheap.
“I--” Before the lion could open his mouth again Ilven took out his beast knife that still had dried blood on the surface. He stared at James whose greedy pupils froze seeing this action.
“W,What, you dare threaten me! I’ll have you know my brother Gerald is a part of the shelter militia!” James shouted but couldn’t help but take a step back.
“Hand over that bag and I’ll let you off with just a warning.” He commanded his gaze switching between the bag and Ilven’s bloodied knife. His quivering voice betrayed his nervousness.
Ilven remained silent and began sizing him up, as if wondering what would happen if he really did make a move.
Ilven walked towards James who now realized he was in over his head.
“W,What are you doing? Stay away, away! Attacking a guard is punishable by, by a, by…” James stuttered realizing the punishment for scavengers was a fine and prison time which based on Ilven’s loot, he could well afford.
Unless he was an actual refugee in that case punishment was death but that was impossible, all scavengers new and old were registered with the shelter.
James had a faint hope, but it was immediately extinguished when he recalled further.
Ilven drew closer, knife in hand as James sweat bullets, seeing Ilven’s cold eyes leaking chilling killing intent, his knees gave out and he ended up on the floor shaking in fear.
Ilven reached out towards him, “My brother won’t let you go!” he screamed and shut his eyes, regret filling his entire being. If only he hadn’t been so greedy and provoked a maniac who didn’t follow the rules.
So this is why we are warned not to mess with scavengers!
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
James waited a while with his eyes tightly shut before he heard the elevator descending and felt his keys were missing. He heaved a sigh of relief feeling he had a new lease on life but seeing his soiled pants his relief turned into shame then fury.
“You… just wait.”
He squeezed through his grit teeth.
***
Inside Grey Tulip's vast dome-like cavity, Nectar Fireflies filled the air with dancing light. The fist-sized creatures drifted lazily through the darkness, their glow marking daytime for the shelter's inhabitants. They were perfect light sources - easy to feed and naturally dimming when they slept, their rest period serving as the shelter's night.
Ilven made it through the tunnel to Grey Tulip holding a spare velvet cravat he swiped just now, it was embroidered with the name James Horden.
He took out a notebook of crossed out names and turned the page to some new names: Fenri, Fesco, Drunken Williams, Sir Peters, Galdor and now James Horden. He tossed the cravat into the dirt and continued on his way.
Before he set foot in the town he could hear the distant hawking of sellers, smell the odor of beast manure, and taste fresh gush of the artificial waterfall in the air. His heart heard the noisy chattering of pedestrians mixed with some wailful cries overpowered by the other sounds, the familiar noise bringing him a sense of safety after days on the edge.
There were no high walls around Grey Tulip unlike the average shelter, instead it employed different defense mechanisms in the effort to avoid beasts finding them completely. Perhaps this was why the shelter managed to make it to 57 years of age.
The only wall present was not for defensive purposes but served to separate the refugees from the shelter residents.
The outer layer of the town like shelter was made of clay and stone houses with rough craftsmanship, there was no uniform design with most inhabitants choosing to build their homes by themselves. It was a dirty place filled with garbage, dirt, smoke and the scent of decaying corpses, the only thing not found in the shanty area was the smell of feces and bodily waste which was strictly supervised.
Some desolate beasts enjoy eating human waste as they were incapable of digesting many nutrients and minerals within them therefore human bodily waste was akin to processed foods for these desolate beasts who saw it as something very nutritious; to avoid this defecation and urination were strictly controlled.
“Get your nutrient bars, brand new nutrient bars from the Yellowstone Shelter! Twice as much nutrients with the scent of Wagyu Rabbit Meat! Just 50 Kimber for 6 bars!”
“Not sleeping well at night? The screams of your fallen comrades from the bloodthirsty journey ripe in your mind? Buy my Calming Incense for just 30 Kimber, puts you right to sleep with no weight on your mind.”
“Exchanging daughter for food, very obedient and doesn’t cry loudly, just one week’s worth of rations!”
“Selling handmade clothes from used materials, please come take a look.”
“Need to venture outside or need a charm for your loved one who is a black farmer? Buy our Stormhawk feces guaranteed to keep pests and desolate beasts away!”
Ilven listened to the sounds as he waded through the crowd.
The commercial street stretched out along the path to the main shelter gate. Stalls marked by cloth coverings or simple lines in the dirt filled both sides, each vendor holding a numbered wooden token. Whether selling goods or services—even one's own flesh—everyone paid taxes.
Most couldn't afford the three copper gate fee and stall prices inside the main shelter, so they made do here. The offerings were diverse: cheap sweets and hot snacks under twelve kimber, energy bars in different flavors, skilled laborers for hire. Women sold their bodies openly, while others peddled drugs for pleasure or numbness.
The gang in charge collected tribute, and though the main shelter wasn't directly involved, everyone knew they permitted this arrangement. The sounds and atmosphere remained unchanged from Ilven's memory—a marketplace of desperation and survival.
Ilven noticed a few more persons selling themselves into slavery, likely the majority of which were new arrivals. Current residents of the shanty area would have already tried to do so long ago.
Refugees very rarely travelled alone or in small groups across Gray Haven.
The wilderness was far too dangerous, with that being the case every few months or so groups not exceeding ten would make their way here.
This was with their original group being twice as large, losing members was a foregone conclusion for ordinary people traveling the wastelands with no protection.
Unless there was a large disaster nearby then the influx of refugees would be significant, the current status quo indicated there was nothing to be worried about. Ilven silently heaved a sigh of relief.
Seeing these enthusiastic sellers in the shanty town might give one the illusion that the living conditions were great but that was far from the case.
The stench of corpses yet to be removed was a telltale sign of this.
The means of earning money for refugees were very limited and typically life threatening. Most didn’t know where their next meal came from and had to stretch what little they had as far as possible.
Ilven continued moving along the main road.
The road of the central commercial street leading to the town shelter was very wide, as big as two Highland Buffalos allowing for many sellers to set up shop. The light of the nectar fireflies illuminated the various streets below, occasionally two or more fireflies would play with each other causing the light to be magnified at a certain point below.
The various hearty sounds were filled with the vitality of the various peddlers but at a closer glance this was merely a veil, the smiles given were forced and the weary looks and stress caused from their true expressions over time were carved into their face as if by a sharp dagger difficult to conceal.
The wind was flowing outwards in streams from the high-powered windmills embedded in the inner wall. Years ago, it's said the main shelter didn't care about the smells emanating from the slums outside, but the high maintenance costs of the incense and air purifiers caused them to scrap that idea. They tried getting people to be clean but didn't put in much effort, disdaining to be in close contact with the slum dwellers, over time a simple solution was created, large turbines would force the odors away from the shelter walls back into the slums. They found this solution cheaper and eventually all the unpleasant smells from within the town were included as well after modifying the turbines.
So occasionally thick gusts of smelly air assaulted one’s senses, the sale of gas masks was once quite popular, but it was more cost effective for residents to gradually get used to it. For scavengers like Ilven it was no problem at all.
They had to smear or even sleep in feces and vomit to survive in the wilderness. Desolate beasts were quite sensitive of smells and waste from stronger predators, therefore these had a great deterrent effect for scavengers who sought to be invisible.
The residents had to deal with assault on the nostrils every waking hour. The slow sales of their wares, the hanging gloom of the outside world, the burdens of the heart from the suffering or loss of their loved ones… all these emotions combined made their usual forced smiling behavior seem like that of a marionette, the strings pulling them that of hope and survival.
Ilven came to the halfway point along the commercial road where a large bulletin board was erected, somehow the crowd in front of it was larger than usual today. Could something have happened? Another sighting of a creature above the medium black iron level nearby? Some business owner recruiting servants or concubines?
“51st? Its… al-alreaby bein 1,2,3… so soup times now?” One of the local drunks was perched high up and babbling incoherently before he fell down.
“It’s already that time.”
“Five years pass in a flash don’t they.”
“Speak for yourself it feels like twenty.”
“Hahaha, this time for sure. I have four brats surely one of them will succeed.”
“This year for sure! Our family will have a dragon rise up from amongst us!”
“Tch, its hopeless, it’s better to sell them so they can be more useful.”
The discussions continued and after listening for a while Ilven could make out that this had something to do with a higher level shelter which instantly dissipated his interest. These fellows often daydreamed about being granted residency in such shelters or being accepted as a lover by some great noble figure. Ignoring the latter, how could they dream of being accepted by a higher shelter when they couldn’t even enter the heart of their current shelter?
It was nothing worth his time.
Just then Ilven heard some heart-wrenching guttural cries nearby.
One man who was among the few like himself on the streets was wailing loudly, barely decipherable among the loud chatter, desperately asking for money to help bury his mother. He looked to be a filial child, the sorrow on his face and the hoarseness of his cries was genuine, something rare in the slums.
He wanted his mother to rest in peace, who wouldn’t but reality was often sad.
Ilven couldn’t help but let out a sigh. Many people did the same, but they all walked right by him. They could barely take care of themselves, much less a stranger.
The wailing man was quite pitiful, his cries weren’t tearful pleas but instead deep exhortations that tugged on one’s emotions, his voice weak but his words powerful. There were no tears streaming down his weathered face but that didn’t take away from his sorrowful plight and instead enhanced it.
In ordinary times the man needed to bury his mother outside which costs quite a bit due to the danger, now the Crimson Night was near, the dead had to be chopped into pieces, burnt to ash and processed before being laid to rest.
If they had a particularly difficult life, then they also needed to pay a priest clear away their resentment. Otherwise, the corpses of the dead and their lingering ghosts would harm the living.
The Crimson Night was the most dangerous period for humans within shelters, the blood moon would be full, and the gates of hell would open corrupting human spirits, the more resentment present the stronger the resulting spirit. These spirits instinctively hunted and haunted humans unlike desolate beasts, their lingering humanity guiding them to slaughter their own kind.
The red moon was full for three days each time, each instance was predicted by the different churches’ priests allowing residents to prepare adequately.
The cost of burying the dead was not a small amount for the average refugee even at normal times, now with the prices inflated from the increased demand it was a back breaking sum.
Suddenly, Ilven’s heart seemed to move a bit, a faded yet searing memory flashed within his mind, he paused for a bit before continuing.
Ilven had a lot of copper baht on him and tossed a few into the wailing man’s bowl, just a handful, for an ordinary refugee or citizen it might be a lot but for scavengers it was not enough to attract attention. Still in past days this was more than his average haul after taxes, so it was a very generous amount.
Hearing several clanks of the coins falling in the bowl the wailing man cries stopped.
He’s quite passionate as well, robbers shouldn’t target him for this amount.
Ilven thought to himself.
“Thank you sir, thank you sir.” The man repeatedly kowtowed in gratitude, but he merely waved as he departed, seeing the man beg for the sake his parents reminded him of himself all those years ago when he did the same for his own family but in the end, it came to nothing.
Ilven paid the toll, flashed his identity token and passed through the shelter’s main gate without issue, heading towards his home.