Jack looked at the last two entries in his status panel.
[Enhanced Libido. The fifth characteristic of the Dominator Physique. It passively boosted the host's libido to an extreme degree, making him more susceptible to the allure of romantic and sexual encounters. It helps the host experience sexual acts with greater intensity and frequency, finding more profound physical and emotional release.]
Sighing, Jack put his palm on his face. This one is more of a double-edged sword. While it can be a source of pleasure and release for Jack, it can also be a distraction. A potential source of weakness if not managed properly. And...
[Subjugating Intercourse. The final characteristic of the Dominator Physique. When engaging in sexual intercourse with another individuals, the host passively exudes the dominating aura that subjugate their will. It will gradually strengthen their connection, intimacy, trust, loyalty, and devotion toward the host.]
Now, this one was... bad. Sexual intercourse for him now basically meant mind control. And mind control was simply mental slavery. His conscience would not allow him to enslave innocent women, even prostitutes, through this.
But, would it mean he had to be sexually abstinent? Sexual abstinence? With [Enhanced Libido]?
Jack internally swore. This [Dominator Physique] might bring him more trouble than its worth.
He activated his [Incarnation Shift] and reverted back to his specter form, Jack Mystery.
...
Jack reappeared back in the real world.
He was near a small spring. The one he used to enter the Mirror Space. Mist, thin and clinging, wreathed the stunted trees and skeletal ruins of the Mist Palace behind him.
It was still night. But the deepest part. The pre-dawn lull. The twin moons offered little illumination through the patchy clouds.
Where to go? That was the most important question for now. His mind quickly ran through the options.
He could go to the nearby campsite. Their expedition's base. Well, now it would undoubtedly be a wreckage after the undead assault. It was the closest immediate point of interest. There might be survivors he could help there.
Then there was the coast. The landing site where their ship, the Rhythmic Oars, had anchored. The ship might still be waiting there. Or not. He didn't know the deal Count Bellcroft had with Captain Gullaw.
It was further away. Some survivors might have made it there. It was doubtful though. It was also doubtful that the ship would have waited.
Or, he could go to the center of the island. The 'Fateless' thing that the Cloudfather's Trial of Fate had hinted at him.
It was very likely that the Temple of the Rainsister was there. The coin given to him by the trial might be the key to enter the place. It would probably another place for Inheritance Trials.
But going for another ruin this soon... Nope. He didn't think he could face another trial this soon.
The campsite, then. Proximity dictated the choice. Besides, he needed to assess the immediate aftermath. Gather information. And if possible, locate any survivor from the cursed expedition.
He stayed invisible and floated to the direction of the campsite.
The Mist Palace, dark and foreboding, loomed behind him. The air grew heavier. The scent of carnage was more pronounced. As he approached the familiar clearing.
The first sign was the overturned wagon. Its wheels askew. A dark stain spreading on the canvas cover. Then came the scattered supplies. The ripped tents. The broken crates. And then, the bodies.
The bodies. They were everywhere. Undead bodies were mixed up with human dead bodies. Some horribly mangled. Recognizable only by tatters of clothing.
He moved among them. His eyes were scanning. His senses were alert. The silence was unnerving. Broken only by the sound of insects. And distant, hooting cry of some nocturnal bird.
Then he saw him. Old Sam. Lying face down some distance away from the campsite. Jack spectral senses could still feel a little warmth on his body. It was recent. His death was much more recent than the others.
Jack used his [Mysterious Anomaly]. Turning Sam over gently. The old man's face was pale. His eyes were wide. Staring at nothing. There was no claw mark. No bite wound. No grotesque wound inflicted by an undead creature.
Instead, a small, dark hole marred the back of his leather vest. Directly over his heart. A clean kill. A stab wound.
Jack had seen something like this before. It was the work of... Queen Mirage.
The name coiled in Jack's mind. A cold, hard knot of rage. She had survived, it seemed. Jack had no time to deal with her before. As he had to handle the Glorious Demon. She had used the chaos to escape.
And now, Sam had become her victim.
Gritting his spectral teeth, Jack decided. Sam wouldn't lie here. As food for scavengers. He had been his friend after all. He deserved better. He deserved a grave. At least.
Jack activated his [Mysterious Anomaly] again.
The ground beneath him began to churn. Not violently. But with an eerie, controlled precision.
Dirt and roots and pebbles rose. Suspended for a moment in a swirling vortex of shadow. Then drifted gently to the side. Forming a neat mound.
A rectangular depression. Deep enough. Wide enough. It formed next to the place where Sam lay. It was a grave. Dug by an unseen force. By the will of a specter.
Jack carefully, gently, maneuvered Old Sam's body into the trench. It was a solemn, quiet act. No prayers. No eulogies. Just the silent, grim determination of one mercenary burying another. And a silent promise, to hunt down the one responsible.
As the first faint blush of dawn touched the eastern sky, Jack finished. The dirt returned to its place. Settling over Sam's resting form. Patting down into a modest mound.
A stone was placed on the head. A mark without a name. It was crude, but it was a grave. The final resting place for Old Sam, the mercenary.
The night cold receded. Replaced by the damp chill of the morning. It was already dawn. The light, though weak, revealed the full extent of the devastation.
More bodies lay scattered in the wider perimeter of the campsite. Mercenaries, researchers, porters. All dead.
Jack had no desire, no time, and certainly no energy to bury them all. It was a practical assessment. There were too many.
He was just one specter. His mission now should be... finding survivors. And keep them alive. If he could. He had to assume Queen Mirage wasn't the only threat still lurking.
He left the campsite. Gliding away from the terrible massacre ground. His ears were straining. His eyes were scanning the nascent light for any movement. Any sign of life.
The silence remained. Thick and oppressive. For a long stretch. The island was small on the map. But it was not that small in reality.
Then, a distant howl tore through the quiet. Not the mournful wail of a lost soul. But the sharp, challenging howl of a predator. It was followed quickly by others. Many predators. Very likely... wolves.
And then... there was the distinct thrum of a steamrune mechanism engaging. The whine of a powerful machine. And the metallic clang of a heavy impact.
Jack's spectral head snapped up. Battle. Not undead. Those sounds were different. This was the clash of metal on flesh. The roar of an engine. The snarls of beasts...
He immediately changed direction. Gliding swiftly and silently towards the source of the commotion.
He phased through trees and a copse of dense, thorny bushes.
The sounds grew louder. Clearer. The growls were deep, guttural. Accompanied by the frantic thud of paws on earth. The mechanical whine was growing more desperate. Punctuated by the rhythmic sound of a powerful cutting blade.
He found them in a small clearing. Partially obscured by the morning mist that still lingered close to the ground.
One mercenary. A man encased in crude, but effective, mechanical armor. Gleaming dully in the pre-dawn light. He wielded a massive steamrune chainsaw. Its teeth whirring, spitting sparks as it bit into any object in his surrounding.
He was a large man. Broad-shouldered even without the armor. Fighting against seven Horned Wolves.
These weren't ordinary canines. They stood taller than a man. Their fur was a bristly, matted black. With eyes glowing like an eerie amber light.
From their brows sprouted thick, gnarled horns. Sharp as spears. They were likely used for goring their prey.
The pack of beasts moved with a terrifying speed and coordination. Circling. Feinting. Darting in and out. Their fangs were constantly snapping.
The mercenary was good. He swung the chainsaw in wide, savage arcs. Forcing the wolves back. Occasionally catching one in a glancing blow that sent fur and blood flying. But there were too many.
One wolf would lunge. Forcing him to block with his chainsaw. While another would try to flank him. Snapping at his armored legs.
The nan could defend himself well. His armor was deflecting most attacks. But he wasn't fast enough to defeat the entire pack.
He was already bleeding from several gashes. From where the horns or claws had found gaps in his plating. He was tiring. His movements becoming slower. More labored.
Jack knew him. Not well. Just a nodding acquaintance from the Mercenary Union in Sapphire City.
He was Mosk Oaklane. The Lumberjack. A specialist in heavy machinery. Known for his custom-built power armor and his brutal chainsaw machine. He was a brute. But a reliable one. And he was outnumbered.