“Right about here marks the Lionbite Shark’s territory,” Agnes said, gazing at the muddy marsh ahead.

“The air’s thick with dampness, and patrols of magical beasts are everywhere.”

“Far more than the intel suggested…” Sasha murmured.

Just as the earlier female mage had warned, patrols here were denser than the Mercenary Guild’s records claimed.

Why?

If not human interference, something else must be amiss.

Human hunters had targeted the Lionbite Shark relentlessly for half a year—nearly all perished. Yet the beast showed not a trace of change. A sudden temperament shift now seemed implausible.

Even if the Lionbite Shark had gone berserk, why would *all* beasts in the territory act so tense?

“Could… the Grade-A Lionbite Shark be attempting a breakthrough?”

Tina’s casual remark sent a chill down their spines.

For a Grade-A beast, the next step was Grade-S.

A Grade-S magical beast could overwhelm even an ordinary Grandmaster.

If Sasha’s group entered and caught it post-breakthrough? Suicide.

Even under a Deity’s protection, severe injury remained likely.

“I doubt it,” Agnes countered. She rarely followed Tina blindly—often debating her young mistress outright.

“If it were breaking through, patrols wouldn’t linger at the perimeter. They’d retreat inward, forming an impenetrable net around the lair.”

“…You’re right,” Tina conceded.

“Then what *are* they doing?”

The question looped back to square one.

…

Meanwhile, Roland’s group pondered the same puzzle.

“Injured,” Autumnwater offered simply.

Even slow-reacting Thuke caught his meaning.

“You mean the Lionbite Shark’s wounded? If so, having underlings patrol while it heals makes sense… but *who* could wound it?”

“Perhaps a Heaven-rank Martial Sovereign. Such individuals exist,” Autumnwater replied with quiet confidence—he was one himself.

Roland, a Yellow-rank Martial Sovereign, disagreed.

That Lionbite Shark was extraordinary. Ordinary fighters couldn’t scratch it; even Heaven-rank warriors would struggle.

A light or moderate wound? Maybe, at great cost. But severe injury triggering *this* level of perimeter patrol? Nearly impossible.

“So… we *have* to go in?” Thuke scratched his head.

“Weren’t we slacking off together?”

“Slack off all you want—but a Deity’s watching. Skip the territory entirely, and when accounts settle later? We get paid *nothing*.”

Roland knew the Deity might hear this. But it was an open strategy: entering the territory counted as success.

The Mercenary Guild’s mission *aimed* to conquer the Lionbite Shark, yet exploring the zone for two days also contributed data. New findings earned partial rewards.

“And crucially,” Roland added, pointing inward, “my three Grade-D and one Grade-C missions all lie *inside* this territory.”

Thuke paled.

“So… no choice?”

“None. Fail, and we face Tina and Agnes’s scorn *plus* a credit breach with the Guild. Bad news for our living expenses.”

Roland preferred slacking *convincingly*—making Tina’s group believe they genuinely hunted the beast. Bumping into them inside would boost credibility perfectly.

“But with patrols this dense… how?” Thuke gestured toward a crossroads swarming with beasts.

Before the words faded, Autumnwater stepped forward.

“Leave it to me.”

“Your plan?”

“I’ll lure them away. You slip in.”

Thuke’s eyes welled up. “A-Autumnwater bro… sacrificing yourself for us?”

“Who said I’m dying?” Autumnwater chuckled, patting his shoulder.

He summoned a wisp of black mist into his palm.

“Hold this.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll see.”

Thuke pinched it. “…Feels like cotton.”

“Get ready.”

Autumnwater darted from the grass, firing crossbow bolts straight at the beasts.

Mindless and enraged by the brazen attack, they roared and charged.

“Perfect…” Autumnwater smirked. No demon wings sprouted—just raw speed on foot, matching the four-legged pursuers stride for stride.

Once the beasts vanished in the distance, Roland yanked Thuke toward the path.

Then—

A shark-headed griffon blocked their way.

Thuke scanned it with his phone. Bingbing flashed:

“Grade-C magical beast: Shark-Griffon. Amphibious, aerial, terrestrial. Beware its claws!”

Roland kicked Thuke aside an instant before claws slammed down.

Thuke rolled, summoning his halberd from the Spatial Storage Ring.

“A mere Grade-C? We felled a Grade-B *yesterday*—what’s to fear?”

“…”

Enthusiasm was good. But yesterday’s “victory” came after four high-rank mercenary martial artists crippled the Ironwater Lizard at the cost of two lives. Roland’s group merely finished it. Truth was, against a healthy Grade-B beast? Roland doubted they’d fare better.