James strode into the mission hall, its heavy wooden doors creaking slightly as he pushed through. Inside, hunters filled the space, swapping stories, bartering monster parts, and exchanging bounties.
Ignoring the noise, James approached the counter, nodding briefly at the person of the staff—a wiry man with round spectacles, always sharp with his evaluations.
Without a word, he reached into his bag, pulling out the bundled herbs and the remains of the peak low-rank shade wolf, including its monster core. He placed them on the counter ,and slid them toward him.
The man inspected the materials, tapping at the terminal. His fingers traced the shadewolfparts, lingering over the hide and fangs.
"For these, 400 credits," he muttered. "Hide's intact, decent condition."
James gave a slight nod.
Then the man moved to the herbs, his brow raising slightly. "Mission payout—12credits," he said plainly, barely looking at them.
Finally, his grip settled on the monstercore, rolling it slightly beneath his palm. Its faint pulse still held lingering traces of energy.
"A core like this goes for 700 credits."
James exhaled. That was the real payoff.
The man pressed James' crystal card against the terminal, and a soft glow pulsed from the device. Within seconds, the updated balance flickered on the small holographic display.
Previous balance: 25 credits
Herb collection mission: +12 credits
Shade wolf materials: +400 credits
Monster core: +700 credits
New total: 1,137 credits
James pocketed the card without hesitation. The payout was solid—better than most hunts.
Behind him, hunters continued their dealings, some boasting about their kills, others nursing fresh wounds from hunts gone wrong.
James stepped out of the mission hall, the cool night air pressing against him as he adjusted the strap of his bag. His thoughts were still on the Blackwell sisters and the situation he'd unknowingly stepped into, but first—he needed food.
A short walk brought him to the town's Bakery, a modest shop nestled between taller buildings, its wooden shutters partially open to let out the scent of fresh bread. The warmth spilling from inside was a sharp contrast to the evening chill.
Inside, a handful of people lingered, speaking in hushed voices as they browsed the simple selection of bread, rolls, and pastries laid out on wooden shelves. James approached the counter, nodding at the Baker—a stout woman dusted with flour, her sleeves rolled up from a long day's work.
"Late night shopping?" she mused, glancing at him while wrapping up a loaf for another customer.
"Something to last the night," James replied.
She nodded, grabbing a fresh round loaf from the counter and weighing it quickly before passing it to him. "That'll be sixcoppercoins."
James reached into his pouch, fishing out the coins before sliding them across the wooden counter. The baker took them, stacking them neatly before slipping them into her cash drawer.
He pocketed the bread and stepped back into the streets, the quiet hum of the town lingering as he made his way toward the orphanage.
It wasn't much—just a simple meal to carry him through the night. But given everything that had happened, he had a feeling tonight wouldn't be about food or rest.
As the old orphanage came into view, its worn stone walls standing against the moonlit backdrop, James exhaled, preparing himself.
Inside, Amelia and Claire Blackwell were waiting. And by the time the night was over, he had no doubt he'd have even more questions than answers.
James stepped into the orphanage, shutting the door behind him as the cool night air gave way to the familiar scent of dust and worn stone. The place was quiet—too quiet. Amelia and Claire were somewhere inside, likely tending to the space or resting after their exhausting escape.
He placed the bread on the old wooden table near the kitchen, the simple meal meant to last the night. His body ached from the long day, and the grime from travel clung to his skin, making every movement feel heavier than it should.
Without hesitation, he headed toward the bathroom, eager to clean up before anything else.
As he pushed open the door, steam curled through the air, carrying the faint scent of herbal soap. That was when he saw them—Amelia and Claire, submerged in the tub, their luscious mounds floating on the water , with Amelia's bigger than Claire's, though both had their own unique charm , with bright pink nipples peeking from under their damp hair . He felt his blood rushing to his head, and a strange warm feeling coming from below.
Amelia's gaze lifted first, sharp yet unreadable. Claire, startled, instinctively sank lower into the water, her face turning a shade redder.
James froze.
"I—" He cleared his throat, averting his gaze immediately. "Didn't realize the place was occupied."
Amelia exhaled, brushing damp strands of hair behind her ear. "We didn't expect you back so soon."
James stepped back, gripping the doorframe before turning away. "I'll wait outside."
He closed the door, leaning against the hallway wall, listening as the water shifted and footsteps moved across the wooden floor. The sisters murmured to each other briefly, their voices quiet before the door finally creaked open.
Claire walked out first, her damp clothes sticking to her skin, her face tinted slightly red ,eyes flickering to James before quickly looking away. Amelia followed, with her head lowered, ears bright red, as she followed behind her sister ,he could sense the tension lingering in the air.
Neither said a word as they stepped past him, disappearing toward their shared room.
James exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before finally stepping into the bath himself. As he lowered into the water, letting it wash away the exhaustion of the night, his mind wandered—not to the awkward encounter, but to the Blackwell sisters, their pursuers, and the weight of the mystery he had just stepped into.
Whatever secrets they held, whatever danger followed them—he knew this was only the beginning.
After taking a bath, he dried himself off , put on a fresh pair of clothes, and walked to the kitchen, after sitting down he started tearing into the loaf of bread.
James finished the last bite of his bread, dusting off his hands before settling onto the worn-out mat near the corner of the room. The night was quiet, the orphanage still, but his work wasn't done yet.