Starting Out As The God of Beasts

While Roy stood at the center of the malachite amphitheater facing the judgement of the Four Governors, the sun dipped below the sandstone rims of Yeren City, plunging the chaotic basin into a dense, purple twilight.

Down in the lower tiers, far away from the glittering gold columns of the Government House, the grand marketplaces began to close.

The vibrant silk stalls were packed away, leaving behind a labyrinth of narrow, garbage-strewn alleys and deep shadows that the sandstone architecture naturally created.

A shadow detached itself from the side of a clay warehouse.

Alisa moved with the fluid, weightless grace of a phantom.

Her lightweight, dark-grey leather armor—the official uniform of Mandraxx—clung to her slender frame, absorbing the faint luminescence of the rising desert moons.

Her long Rabbit-kin ears were pressed flat against her spine, minimizing her silhouette, while her sensitive hearing mapped out the auditory landscape of the district for hundreds of meters.

She wasn’t here to shop.

She was here to erase the filths.

Through her newly established Mandraxx network, Alisa had tracked a clandestine cell of Orc infiltrators and Ogre mercenaries who had snuck into Yeren City under the guise of caravan guards.

They were spies loyal to the Western Coalition, sent by the Troll King to gauge Yeren’s defenses and ensure the merchant hub didn’t ally with the rising power of Tempest City.

Alisa stopped, pressing her back against a crumbling clay wall.

A heavy, guttural laugh echoed from a dead-end alley up ahead, accompanied by the distinct, sickening stench of sour ale and unwashed hide.

Two massive Orc scouts, thick-necked and tusks protruding, stood guard outside a boarded-up spice cellar.

Behind them, a hulking, B-class eight-foot-tall Ogre sat on a wooden crate, lazily sharpening a jagged iron cleaver against a whetstone.

Alisa’s eyes, normally soft, hardened into cold, calculating pinpricks.

She reached into her sash and drew the weapon she had crafted using Varanium steel and her mana.

It was a powerful relic that could transform a mundane beastman into a psuedo cultivator thanks to its high mana frequency.

The Phantom Veil Dagger.

The obsidian-glass blade didn’t reflect the moonlight; it seemed to actively drink the ambient darkness around it.

She didn’t run.

She didn’t leap.

She simply synchronized her breathing with the rhythmic scritch-scratch of the Ogre’s whetstone.

On the next stroke of the stone, she vanished.

Using her agility and the stealth modifications of her class, she closed the distance in a breath.

She appeared directly behind the first Orc scout like a rising mist.

Before the creature’s peripheral vision could register the distortion in the shadows, Alisa’s left hand shot forward, wrapping around his jaw with monstrous, beastman strength, tilting his head back.

Thwip.

The Phantom-Veil Dagger slid effortlessly through the thick leather collar of his armor, piercing his throat directly to the hilt.

The dagger’s passive skill instantly triggered.

The Orc’s vocal cords were entirely paralyzed, and his internal mana structure violently unraveled before he could even process the pain.

His yellow eyes widened in mute horror as Alisa gently guided his massive, breathless body down into the dirt without making a single sound.

The second Orc, standing barely three paces away, noticed the sudden absence of his partner’s breathing.

He turned his heavy head, his hand dropping toward the hilt of his broadsword. ”Gorg? What are you—”

He never finished the sentence.

Alisa didn’t pull the dagger out of the first corpse. Instead, she spun on her heel, her low center of gravity allowing her to slide beneath the second Orc’s guard.

Her hand swept upward, driving a concealed, silver-plated throwing needle straight through the soft tissue beneath the Orc’s jaw, piercing his brain cavity.

The massive beast stiffened, his muscles locking instantly as the localized toxin on the needle paralyzed his nervous system.

He collapsed backward, landing squarely into Alisa’s waiting arms.

She lowered him gently beside the first, her expression completely detached, like an artisan going through a practiced routine.

”What’s taking so long out there?” the Ogre grunted, his deep, gravelly voice rattling the spice cellar door as he finally looked up from his whetstone.

His single, oversized central eye blinked in confusion as he stared at the empty alleyway. His two guards were gone.

The Ogre roared in sudden realization, lunging off the crate and hoisting his massive iron cleaver.

But before his feet could even touch the pavement, a cold, soft weight dropped onto his massive shoulders from the rafters above.

Alisa locked her legs around the giant’s thick neck.

The Ogre thrashed violently, trying to reach behind his back to crush her, but Alisa was already moving.

She pulled the Phantom-Veil Dagger from her sash—having retrieved it from the first corpse—and drove it with absolute, unyielding precision straight into the soft, unarmored spot at the base of the Ogre’s skull.

The dark-glass blade buried itself deep into his central mana node.

The Ogre’s massive frame instantly froze.

The terrifying kinetic energy he had been gathering for his swing dissipated into a harmless puff of static air.

The light in his single eye fractured, his grip loosening as the heavy iron cleaver clattered harmlessly onto the dirt.

With a heavy, muffled thud, the eight-foot abomination collapsed face-first into the alley, pinned beneath his own sheer bulk.

Alisa flipped gracefully off his collapsing back, landing lightly on her feet. She didn’t lose a second.

She wiped the obsidian blade clean against the Ogre’s coarse tunic, her long ears twitching as she scanned the surrounding rooftops.

The entire triple-assassination had taken less than twelve seconds.

And she hadn’t used her mana during the process.

The quiet streets of Yeren City remained completely undisturbed, the local watchmen entirely oblivious to the blood that had just been spilt in the dark.

Alisa sheathed her dagger, her silhouette melting back into the brickwork of the alleyway as she turned her eyes toward the Government House.

”I’ve commenced the execution of the filths, Master Jarden,” she whispered into the wind.

”The stage is yours.”