Cain stood at the center of their makeshift huddle, hands relaxed but eyes sharply tracking the shifting terrain around them.
His voice, clear and rhythmic, was not loud — but it carried weight.
Everyone had seen what happened back at the Elargi's territory.
No one was about to question him now, not after that call they all misjudged.
He flipped open a small case the size of a lunch tin. From it rose a slender automaton, half the half a feet in height.
Connecting his terminal, it blinked once, pulsing with a pale blue glow, then let out a soft chime.
A hologram shimmered upward — two monsters, rotating side by side in eerie silence.
One slithered with armor of greens, the other lumbered with tangled limbs like a tree root hungry for something to feast.
Cain just leaned forward, fingers tucked in the strap of his utility belt.
"Next shardling sites are scattered. Could be fifty clicks, could be two hundred. No guarantee they're even active."
"But I have intel on these two, courtesy of Beany right here."
The group didn't ask how, so he gestured toward the first image as it zoomed in.
"This one's called the Blight Centivine. It moves fast, so with our setup, we'll need to get in close. See those fan-shaped ridges? They pick up sound, rhythm, and even footsteps through air molecule tension."
"A single scratch from its filament legs can corrode gear alloys or rot low-tier barrier magic. With seven toxin sacs that it could mix and match, it's practically a walking catalyst, part chemist's tool, part pharmacist's nightmare."
Then he switched views.
"This here is the Mandrake Coil. Size varies. Some grow to two meters, others reach four. Roots whip like tendrils, and the bark is tougher than steelwood. But it's manageable if you stay out of its scream radius. The real danger comes when it runs. It starts mimicking taunts, hundreds if not thousands, copied from magical beasts and drawing in all the wrong attention."
He let the projections hang as the automaton hummed a low note.
The team glanced at each other — some nodding, and some gripping their gear tighter.
Cain stepped back slightly and crossed his arms.
"We vote. Dictator kingdom only happens in web novel anyway. I'm not here to prove I'm the smartest one in the woods. You've all seen what's out here. Pick the one you think we can hunt... And more importantly, haul without getting robbed."
There was a beat of silence, then each of them raised a hand.
Unanimous, they pointed to the Blight Centivine.
Cain smirked.
'This is the difference between dreamers and survivors.'
"Alright, the centivine it is then."
Cain took a slow breath as the projections hovered above the automaton, the digital glow casting faint reflections across the muddied armor of his teammates.
He could feel their eyes on him again — not with doubt this time, but with expectation.
Leadership wasn't about barking orders, it was about painting the risk in colors they couldn't ignore.
"The Mandrake Coil's safer,"
Ricky said evenly, pointing toward the twisting mass of root and teeth.
"But its price swings worse than a gambler's wrist. The market wants it fresh — fifty percent of its value vanishes in less than a day. We'd have to kill it, pack it, and pray someone take it off our hands before the rot kicks in."
Then he turned to the other — slick, insectile, lined with pulsing sacs and twitching sensors.
"The Centivine, though. Toxic sacs. Paralyzing nodes. Half of it can be processed on-site. You don't need cold crates or perfect timing. Demands steady on this one. Stabilizers, Cleansers, and even Nerve-dulling elixirs. You name it, someone's mixing it."
Seeing Ricky finish, Cain met their gaze, one by one. The air hung still, thick with tension and silent calculations.
Leaning back slightly, arms crossed, letting the rhythm of their voices shape his understanding.
Fara stepped forward first, fluid and precise, her fingers flexing with a dancer's grace that veiled brutality beneath.
"I do joints, pressure points and dislocations arts."
She flicked her knuckles once against her palm and cracked a grin.
Cain nodded with everyone else.
Next came Ricky. He didn't say a word at first. Just drew his blade and let it hum — low, steady, like metal singing to itself.
A deep golden aura rippled down the edge, vibrating with tension.
"Continuous cast, shears through steel. Can't throw it far, but if I'm close? It cuts."
The hum grew louder, then stopped as he sheathed it with a clack.
Tol gave a nod and unslung his blades — then clicked them into place with a practiced snap.
They elongated and locked into a spear as a translucent beam shot from its tip, glowing blue-white.
"Battle magician, spearmanship class. mid-range."
Then Pumbo stepped up, a little awkward at first. But with a flick of his wrist, he chained his twin shotguns together and swung them with surprising grace.
"Nunchuck configuration, Ki-conductive. Fires by momentum and aim. I… I'm part beastman, so primal ki flows easier for me."
Cain watched every move and measured every pause.
He gave a slow nod, arms behind his back as if he were just a spectator, not the one pulling the reins.
Everyone had shown their cards, or at least the first layer of them, and it was only fair he did the same.
He reached into his belt, quickly attaching the rest of the rifle modules. He put them out to avoid his secret haul from leaking any energy fluctuation, which might draw the wrong kind of attention.
He held it up for a moment, casually, like a hunter showing off a broken sling.
"This is mine,"
The others glanced at it.
Ricky raised a brow, Pumbo scratched the back of his head.
Tol looked unimpressed.
Casting rifles weren't rare, they weren't flashy, nor bold. Anyone could fire one.
Cain didn't elaborate. He didn't need to.
The game wasn't about tools — it was about placement, timing, and outcome.