The shardling staggered upright, its metallic frame creaking and groaning as if the very act of standing defied its nature.
Its surface shimmered, morphing in jagged ripples, metal bending and folding in unnatural ways.
This wasn't some cinematic display — it was raw, visceral, like watching iron liquefy and reshape in real-time.
Cain's gaze flicked to Ragta, who was already preparing.
The giant's hand clenched around his scourge, prana flaring with a crackling hum.
The weapon responded, its length stretching and curling, barbs extending along its surface like fangs growing from flesh.
What had been a simple whip morphed into something monstrous — a segmented, barbed chain that gleamed with malevolent energy.
It thrummed in Ragta's grip, vibrating with barely-contained aggression.
Cain's eyes locked onto it, thoughts swirling.
'Now that's a custom weapon!'
His fingers twitched involuntarily, envy burning just beneath the surface.
Sure, he had his pistols — precise, reliable, efficient.
But they weren't…ambitious.
They weren't forged in the fires of individuality, crafted to reflect the wielder's spirit.
His teenage instincts clawed at him, whispering of grandeur, of weaponry that wasn't just functional but iconic.
'I want something like that!'
He promised himself, the thought simmering with determination.
Ragta didn't wait.
The scourge snapped forward, barbs whistling through the air before latching onto the Shardling's shifting surface.
Cain watched as the weapon coiled tight, iron hooks digging deep into its armored plating.
The shardling convulsed, limbs thrashing, but Ragta only pulled tighter, muscles rippling with strain.
And then Cain saw it — the faint glow, almost imperceptible, trailing from the Shardling's metallic veins and feeding into the scourge.
It wasn't just siphoning metal or oil — it was draining energy.
Raw, unfiltered power surged through the barbs, flowing like crimson threads back into the weapon itself.
Ragta's grip held steady, his expression unchanging as the shardling's movements grew sluggish, its frame dimming with each passing second.
'Vampirism... Pretty unique augment.'
He'd only read about it online — an augmentation so hard to create only a master could pull it off.
It was no forbidden type of enchantment — despite it could drain energy directly from a target and redirect it.
A flash of greed sparked in his eyes, but he masked it well, his face neutral beneath the visor.
'Most vampiric augments have side effects but still... If that one works well....'
Ragta gave the whip one final pull, and the Shardling collapsed, its glow extinguished.
Cain swallowed, his mind racing.
He needed something like that — no, he corrected himself, something better.
Cain didn't miss the glances cast Ragta's way — sharp, envious looks for the vampiric scourge that hummed with stolen energy.
He saw it in their eyes — the subtle signals, and flicker of greed as they weighed the benefits while calculating every advantage.
Augmentation like that was rare, almost mythical for those without direct connections to master artificers.
Most enchanters doubled as artificers, blacksmiths, or some form of manufacturer. It was practically tradition.
Following this train of thought, the beastmen eager for better gear looked at Cain with sparkling eyes.
The beastmen were about to try their luck, but Cain simply shook his head, sending a ripple of frustration through their ranks.
A few growled under their breath, while others clicked their tongues in disappointment. He caught bits of murmured curses, words he'd learned to ignore long ago.
Cain exhaled slowly, his hand resting on the hilt of his pistol.
'It's unfortunate. If I'd bothered to learn the basics of artificing, just the fundamentals, I could've secured my safety right here.'
'A few basic augments, a minor tweak to their weaponry, and I'd have bought himself more than just time. I would have earned leverage.'
But he hadn't. Instead, he had poured his efforts into magicule control, enchantment theory, and raw survival.
His fingers tightening around the pistol grip. He hadn't been patient, hadn't taken the time to invest in long-term skills. Here, with eyes on him and expectations unmet, it stung.
A thunderous crack shattered his thoughts. The lionare beastman, still simmering with wounded pride from his earlier blunder, barreled into the fray.
His fist swung like a battering rams, smashing through a shardling's metallic shell — fragments scattered, glimmering in the faint light as the beastman let out a triumphant roar.
Cain watched, hiding a frown under visor — unimpressed.
The lionare's movements were brutal, efficient even — but sloppy.
Cain could see the impatience, the need to prove himself.
'Who is he trying to impress around here?'
Ragta didn't hide his displeasure. The earth giant stepped forward, his towering form casting a shadow over the shattered remains.
His eyes narrowed, a thick finger pointing at the Shardling's exposed innards.
"Core."
He jabbed toward the now-powdered crystals still glimmering faintly with residual energy.
Cain's heart skipped a beat. Even he knew that killing a shardling that way was wasteful.
Those fragile crystals — those were the cores.
Intact, they were worth a good sum.
'Crushed and fragmented? Practically useless. What a wastrel... Is the young master just out here for experience?'
Ragta's glare was enough to silence the lionare, whose jaw clenched tight, fists still trembling from the force of his blow.
Strength is pointless if you destroy what's valuable, Cain noted, filing away the lesson for later. Here, even giants understood that power without precision was just reckless waste.
The lionare only grunted, his movements turning more measured, more deliberate.
Cain watched carefully, eyes narrowing. Why aren't they going for lethal strikes? he wondered, fingers tapping absently against his pistol.
The answer came to him in a whisper of realization — Golemite.
Shardlings weren't the real prize — they were just the fragments.
When only nine were left, they would merge, fusing into something far more dangerous — a golemite, smarter and more lethal.
Cain's heart quickened, excitement and anxiety knotting in his stomach.
But then, a foul stench hit his nose — thick, pungent, and unmistakably like cow dung, all of it purely metaphorical.
'I smell bull crap. If... theoretically, they spawned two golemites and took them down, what's my share? Hell, would I even get to keep my life?'