Reborn as an Adventurer: I Gain a Skill From Every Monster I Eat

Chapter 121: Chapter 121 — A Deliberate Hunt

Arlen returned to Millhaven’s guild outpost the following morning, curious enough about the surrounding wilderness to seek out proper information before continuing his journey, and found the same halfling receptionist from the previous day working through a stack of morning postings.

”Back again,” she said, glancing up. ”Thought you were passing through.”

”I am, eventually. Wanted to ask about local wildlife first — specifically anything genuinely dangerous, worth documenting properly before I move on.”

She considered the question. ”Depends what you’re after. Most of what’s nearby is manageable enough for local hunters. There’s the Thornback Elk population, though, if you want something with real teeth to it.”

”Thornback?”

”Territorial herbivore, but don’t let that fool you. Heavily armored — natural bone plating grown across its back and flanks, thick enough that ordinary arrows barely scratch it. Gores anything that strays too close to its range during rutting season, which we’re coming up on now.” She pulled a worn bestiary volume from beneath the counter, flipping to a marked page. ”Rank 4, typically. Higher end of what most local adventurers handle alone.”

Arlen studied the entry, the sketched illustration showing a massive, elk-like creature whose spine and flanks carried a distinct, plated ridge unlike anything documented in the Ashen Frontier’s own bestiary. ”Where would I find one?”

”North ridge, past the old quarry. They favor the exposed rock there — good visibility for spotting threats, I’d guess, given how territorial they get.” She studied him with renewed curiosity. ”You’re not planning to hunt one solo, are you? Guild doesn’t officially discourage it, given your confirmed rank, but I wouldn’t recommend it without proper reason.”

”I collect unusual creatures,” Arlen said. ”Documentation, mostly — meat quality, materials, that sort of thing. Rank 4’s within what I can handle carefully.”

”Your funeral, if you’re wrong about that.” She said it without real alarm, more professional caution than genuine worry. ”I’ll mark the posting as informally claimed, in case anyone else considers the same hunt while you’re out there. Bring back proper documentation, if you manage it — always good having fresh material for the regional archive.”

”Do you have anything more specific on its behavior?” Arlen asked. ”Feeding patterns, herd structure, anything that might help me approach it properly rather than simply stumbling into its territory.”

The receptionist flipped further through the bestiary, tracing a finger down a densely annotated page. ”Herds run small this time of year, three to six animals, one dominant bull leading each. They graze in the mornings, rest through midday heat, then graze again toward evening. Bulls separate from the herd occasionally to patrol territory boundaries alone — that’s your best window, if you’re set on this.”

”And the plating? Any known weak points?”

”Belly’s softer, from what hunters report, and the inner legs. Everything else, you’d want a considerably heavier weapon than most people carry, or something that gets past armor entirely rather than trying to break through it.” She closed the volume. ”That’s about the extent of what’s properly documented. Beyond that, you’re on your own out there.”

He thanked her and spent the remainder of the morning provisioning — checking his gear, purchasing a whetstone and a few additional supplies from Millhaven’s market, and turning over the receptionist’s account of the elk’s behavior until he’d settled on a rough plan. Wait for a lone bull. Approach from downwind. Target the belly or legs, since the plating elsewhere would likely blunt or turn aside anything short of an overwhelming strike.

The terrain shifted as he left the town proper that afternoon, Millhaven’s cultivated riverbanks giving way to rockier, more exposed ground, and by mid afternoon he stood at the edge of the old quarry the receptionist had described — a wide, weathered depression in the landscape, its exposed stone walls pale and sun-bleached from what looked like considerable age.

He spotted his first Thornback Elk within the hour, grazing along the quarry’s upper ridge, and found the sight considerably more imposing than the bestiary’s sketch had properly conveyed — a heavy, muscular build, its back and flanks armored in overlapping plates that caught the afternoon light with a dull, bony sheen.

He settled into a low crouch behind a weathered outcropping and simply watched for a while, tracking the herd’s movement across the ridge. Three animals total, smaller than the receptionist had suggested might be typical, one considerably larger bull positioned at the group’s edge in what looked like a deliberate, watchful stance rather than ordinary grazing behavior.

The plating covered the bull’s back in a solid, continuous sheet from shoulder to haunch, individual plates overlapping in a pattern that reminded him, distantly, of the crystallized armor he’d once fought through on the Ashveil Broodmother. But the receptionist’s information held true on closer inspection — the plating thinned noticeably along the belly, where the creature’s ordinary hide showed clearly beneath a much sparser scattering of smaller, less developed plates.

He waited through the better part of the afternoon, patient in the particular, practiced way he’d built across a lifetime of watching before acting, and was finally rewarded as the light began shifting toward evening. The bull separated from its two companions, moving alone along a lower section of the ridge to patrol what Arlen guessed was the herd’s territorial boundary, exactly as the receptionist had described.

He began his approach immediately, moving downwind and low, using the quarry’s broken terrain for cover the way he’d learned to read unfamiliar ground since his earliest days tracking game outside Greyhaven’s walls. The bull paused once, head lifting, ears swiveling toward some distant sound that had nothing to do with him, and Arlen went perfectly still until its attention settled back toward the path ahead of it.

He closed the final distance slowly, sword drawn, every sense sharpened by the accumulated weight of the afternoon’s patient observation. The bull’s plating gleamed dull in the fading light, formidable and largely unbroken from this angle — but he’d already marked the target he needed, the soft, sparsely armored stretch along its belly that would demand a precise strike rather than raw force.

He drew a slow breath, steadying himself, and understood, standing at the edge of a decision he’d spent the whole afternoon carefully building toward, that whatever came next would test every hard-won lesson this journey — and the year before it — had actually given him.