That dawn they packed the bulk of their belongings into two trunks—which they then stashed into Dorian’s new interspatial ring.

“Thank Heavens!” said Kaya, laughing as she dragged out a sled from out a corner of the tent. It was a mess of wood which looked like it’d been designed and nailed together by a slightly stupid child; half its wheels were missing and the other half were misshapen, groaning with each pull. It looked like it was held together by only spit and prayers.

Now Kaya smashed it to bits with a single stroke.

“Screw that,” she breathed. “I’m done lugging shit.”

She waved toward the sled with a cheeky grin. “Suck it in, pack mule!”

“Mule?” said Dorian, rolling his eyes as he pressed a hand to it and willed it into the ring. It went easily. “It doesn’t feel any heavier when I put stuff in. It’s not stored in the ring.”

“Oh?” Kaya cocked her head at him. “Then where does it go?”

An in-between space, a pocket dimension orthogonal to our own.

“Dunno,” he said out loud. “Why’d you keep asking me?”

Kaya brushed some dust off her hands and went to take down the rest of the tent. “Who knows with you?” she said, yanking out a pole. “Y’know, not long ago I could just about tell every thought that went through that lil’ brain of yours. Now I haven’t got a clue.”

Dorian caught a pile of rigging as she lobbed it to him. “Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe I’m growing up.”

“Maybe…”

She gave him a glance as he packed in the rest.

Together, they set off to join the caravan.

***

They left at dawn, greeting the rising sun. Dorian cycled as he walked, discreetly practicing Kata, letting qi flow through his veins; it was a task impossible unless you’d achieved high mastery of them—and done some modifications besides. He hummed with energy; it ran through him like a current, and he couldn’t keep from smiling. He could feel the boundary of [Origin] Level 6 fast approaching.

Most Hunters didn’t exceed Level 8. The climb only got steeper each level, and especially each Realm, but he was happy with his pace.

Of course, if he’d been born a Young Master in one of the richer lower realms he’d have been Vigor Realm out of infancy! But that was by the by.

They strode in an arching pattern, a big blob formation. At the forefront were a troupe of Hunters and the Chief. Other Hunters brought up the rear. Some helped the needy, the old, or the high-status with their belongings; he caught a glimpse of Hu near the front, strolling leisurely as two Hunters dragged along a massive load of his belongings.

There was good reason for the caution. They were headed fast into unfamiliar territory—dangerous territory. The closer they got toward a Sinkhole, the more things started to change; the first indication was the terrain. Even just an hour’s march in, its normal biome seemed to be scaling up, growing more chaotic. Where usually the Desert’s dunes were smooth as silk cloth, now tracks littered the sands. The cacti sticking out of the ground seemed wider, too; fatter. Well-fed.

In the skies Vordor circled about in lazy arcs. Chief Rust frowned at the sight of one of them.

He held up a fist. The Tribe came to a sudden halt.

“Hunters…” he warned.

At the word the entire front guard started to cycle, suddenly on edge. Dorian glanced up. The thing was thin, flying in irregular, haggard patterns. Usually Vordors only went for freshly dead carcasses, but a desperate Vordor might resort to killing too.

This one seemed desperate enough. Its beak shuddered with saliva. There was a sharp edge to its movements, spasming like it was undergoing a living rigor mortis. Its eyes caught the pale light of the sun and burned furious white.

It screeched: a long, shuddering, up-and-down sound; it seemed on the verge of attack and yet settled on that edge, unwilling yet to commit. Its circles came lower, its shrieks louder.

Dorian looked at it with mild curiosity. It wasn’t a [Vigor] realm beast—probably in the higher levels of Origin. Nothing the Chief couldn’t solo himself, much less his Hunter squadron. If it got too low, he expected violent action.

Then it swooped so close he could make out each feather on its tarp of a wing, and he was proven right.

But not by any Rust Tribesman.

As it dove, it passed by a cactus. An unusually fat cactus, but on cursory inspection Dorian hadn’t noticed anything special about it.

Then its spikes shifted up all at once, angling toward the Vordor as though they could see it. Dorian blinked, rubbing his eyes, and watched as the Vordor dipped lower and lower…

And the spikes tracked it spot for spot, bristling like harpoons. Are they about to—

A giant puff of mist burst out from the cactus, a mass of fog. A fraction of a second later, a hundred streaks of white speared through the fog; they whistled like baby demons. The Vordor barely had a second to react before they sank into it in fifty-odd places.

The Vordor screeched; black blood splattered out. It tried to lift off and shake the spikes free, beating its free wing with a passion, but it wouldn’t budge. Tuketu barked something; the Hunters stepped back, readying techniques. Tensed. Waiting.

Now a desperation took hold of the Vordor, spurred its movement to jagged hurdles. It yanked with all its might; it clawed at the spikes to no avail; it screeched again, one shrill note laced with unbridled panic.

“Stay back!” roared Tuketu, eyes fixed on the struggling Vordor. “It’s but a Wyrmtrap Cactus, one of many nasty critters that pop up the nearer we get to a Sinkhole. It masquerades as a normal cactus until it lulls its victims close—then strikes.”

His voice rose. “Look at its hooks! See the black creeping along them?”

Indeed—the once-white spear-strings were filling with black which flowed toward the cactus body, as though along a tube. It was sucking the thing dry and keeping it trapped all the while.

Then the spikes started to pull.

The Vordor was dragged off-balance. It tried to right itself but the spikes reeled it in, insistent and with a vice grip on its wing. The more the cactus drained the more the fight seemed to go out of the Vordor. It was like a heavy fatigue had settled on the creature, slowing the beats of its wings, brushing closed the lids of its eyes. It was visibly shriveling; in less than a minute it’d halved in size. It was being sucked to nothing.

It’s not draining just the blood. It’s draining the life-essence too.

“Relax,” said Tuketu, righting himself. Seconds later the Vordor hung limp.

“Their range is only ten yards,” said Tuketu. He looked serious, but his stern face betrayed not an ounce of fear. “Follow our lead and do not stray, Tribesmen! We’ll lead you clear of such creatures…”

He tapped his nose. “The presence of the Wyrmtrap means we’re getting close.” His voice lowered. “This may not be the last time we encounter a Spirit Beast. The next one may find us a more appetizing target. Stay alert.”

Then he turned and started back on the march. Dorian shared an uneasy glance with Kaya and kept up with the crowd.

Ten minutes of silent, furtive walking later, a familiar face popped out.

“Greetings!” said Hento Rust, smiling ear-to-ear. “If it isn’t my favorite Chosen!”

“Hi,” said Dorian, smiling back. “What do you want?”

If Hento was taken aback, he didn’t show it. “You’ve got a ring—you’re not carrying anything. Why don’t you join me at the front of the vanguard?”

Dorian blinked. “No thanks. Where’s this coming from?”

Hento swallowed. “Uncle Tuketu seems to think I need to prove my bravery, whatever that means… tch… such an elitist, relative concept! What one man mistakes for a lack of bravery another sees as tactical withdrawal—“

“The vanguard?” interrupted Dorian.

“Huh? Oh! Yes. I think it’d be a splendid idea to make a good show of being at the front! Make ol’ Tuketu swallow his words, eh? Plus, the ladies love a gallant Hunter…”

“Maybe. What do I have to do with it?” Dorian kept scanning around. Sounds trickled in from afar—clashes of beasts, distant roars, thuds…

“Well…” Hento scratched the back of his neck, looking a mite embarrassed. “You’ve got nothing else to do, right? Come with me. It’s no fun going it alone. Besides, what if a beast horde comes along and all the Hunters rush off to defend the commoners? I’d be alone out there!”

“You’re scared.”

Hento blushed. “That’s—you’ve an acid tongue, don’t you? I wouldn’t put it quite like that…”

“You’re trying to prove your bravery, right? You don’t need me. If anything, I’d hinder you.” Dorian gave him an encouraging shove. Shove off. “Go it alone! Best of luck.”

Hento looked back at him like a kicked puppy.

“‘Scuse me?”

Kaya was stalking over like an angry mother lioness. Hento squeaked a little and stumbled back. He ran his eyes down her newly muscled form.

“Whaddaya want?” she rasped. Over the last few days she’d grown a few inches; now, at a steady six-foot-plus, she craned down at Hento in disdain.

“N-nothing!” he stammered, blushing. “I’m s-simply bidding dear Io a h-happy hello! L-lovely to meet you as always, K-k-kaya dear… I’m off…”

He scrambled back, turned, and dashed into the crowd.

“What’s up with him?” snorted Kaya. She yawned, stretching out her arms. Where before she’d had some softness to her, now it was all cut, lean, fighter’s muscle. She looked like a beast of prey.

“You’ve changed, sis,” said Dorian with a shrug. “So has he.”

***

Morning passed like a fever dream. Afternoon swept in and still the tribe walked, shifting to heightened states of alertness. Every crack held a double meaning, every thump was a cause for alarm. They must be an hour off from the Sinkhole, perhaps less. The gatherers, led by the Head Gatherer, Chief Rust’s wife, were readying their kits and their sacks.

It’d be a clean extraction, no more than a quarter of an hour. They’d fetch the Spirit water, harvest a swathe of Spirit herbs—enough to last the tribe half a year—and then clear out of Spirit Beast territory for good, bound with a plentiful treasury to meet up with the rest of the tribes.

Each one of them was on a knife’s edge. The dunes had become not only imposing but sinister. What hid behind each mound? As the sun lowered it cast long shadows over the dunes. An idle mind could make dark furs out of a shadow, or eyes in the dark out of a glint…

Even Dorian was surveying his surroundings, calm but cautious. He and Kaya were placed in a healthy spot, near the middle. There were no surprises to be found here; at the least, they’d be third in line to be victims.

Dorian squinted. Next in line was some sort of perception technique; relying on these poor eyes was no different from blindness! Was it his imagination, or were the shadows ahead shifting? In the distance he caught vague contours which melded into the darkness, fading in and out, an impression of a mirage, a smudge of gray on the black of the dunes, melding with the shadows.

Scratch that. Not one—several. They roiled like waves. Dorian squinted. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? He could almost mistake them for the ribbed backs of beasts, rising and falling…

Yet making no sound all the while. Silent as a slow wind.

He settled into a combat stance, frowning. And he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

Tuketu held up a fist. The Tribe halted as one.

Then Tuketu made a fast, severe gesture: a signal for the Hunters to be at-the-ready. Immediately.

All of them cycled at once. Nobody dared try a qi technique. Not here, where bright flashes might draw very unwanted attention. Not unless they were certain of the threat.

For a few heart-thumping seconds they watched, waiting.

The smudges were resolving to lines. Whatever was out there was real, and it came in big numbers. A pack—big one. It was still hundreds of feet off, but Dorian could now make out features as they flitted about in the shadow—a snout, legs bulging with muscle, mouthfuls of amber, jagged teeth.

The silence, the speed, the bodies, the camouflage all pointed to one thing.

The low growls that followed, sent like warn horns, only confirmed Dorian’s guess. In response, he bared some teeth of his own.

The Sinkhole wasn’t far off and he was itching to snatch up some treasures of his own—but to get there he’d need to wade through fire. The first test?

The most vicious scavengers of the desert, the Sandwolves.

Time Elapsed: 1 week, 2 days