By the campfire.

Before long, a large white mosquito took shape, lifelike and crisp.

The formless “mosquito spirits” around Gauss streamed in at the same time.

Its wings quivered; it drifted softly through the gloom.

Gauss blinked at how realistic the clay mosquito looked—unexpected.

Was it the “spirit” that made the sculpt so convincing?

Which meant… if he wanted to sculpt a person that vividly, he’d have to—

Nope. Stop that thought. Hard stop.

He refocused on the mosquito hovering in the air.

“Stop.”

At the command, the white mosquito halted.

Obedient, too.

He quickly realized he didn’t need to speak—he could push commands silently. The link ran through the “spirit” between them:

[Gauss] → [Spirit] → [Clay Construct]

Fly forward.

He thought it.

The white mosquito glided deeper into the passage.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have any shared-vision–type spell yet; otherwise he could’ve watched from the mosquito’s perspective. When they got back topside, he’d hit the association…

He pondered a moment. The white mosquito continued on the last order. When he snapped back to the present—

“Return.”

Nothing. No response.

Maybe it had flown out of range?

He stood, glanced down the corridor, and started after it.

Far ahead, cloaked figures nearly dissolved into the dark. One pulled out a spyglass to check on their target—only to be interrupted by a whispering companion:

“Boss, look—what a huge mosquito.”

He glanced up. In the faint glow from the overhead flora, a white mosquito was indeed drifting toward them.

“Careful.”

His gut tightened. He barked the warning.

The white mosquito froze above their heads.

They’d been made?

He raised the glass again. The man who should’ve been sitting by the campfire was now on his feet, walking slowly toward them.

Then the boss realized this was the perfect chance: the man’s two companions were still asleep—only he was up.

He didn’t know why their mark hadn’t roused his teammates, but opportunities like this were rare. Drop him first; numbers would decide the rest.

He flicked a hand sign. The others answered instantly.

Spread. Lurk. Kill.

Shadows peeled away and vanished into the dark.

“Finally got a signal.”

Gauss felt the thread reconnect as the white mosquito returned—then a prickling wrongness crawled up his spine. His eyelids twitched. He stared into a patch of darkness.

The hidden attacker, already spotted, couldn’t wait for the others to set up. She burst from cover.

A dagger with a sickly green gleam drove straight for his throat.

Gauss slid back. The blade kissed his neck, then shuddered against the outer layer of his Omni-Armor.

“A rogue?”

The lithe body under the dark cloak, the attack line—he had his read.

And…

He flicked his gaze around.

Not just one.

Three more—four rogues total.

They flowed out of the shadows like wraiths, moving in a well-drilled cross to pen him in—fast, silent, their timing tight. Veteran jackals.

The image of the four naked corpses from earlier flashed through his mind.

Right. “Hyenas.” People-eaters. Predators who stalked other adventurers in the labyrinth, murdered and looted for a living—exactly the sort the Guide warned about.

And night—when most teams needed sleep—was prime time to hunt.

He was suddenly grateful he’d stumbled onto them now. If this were the second half of the night, with Alia or Serandur on watch—and if the hyenas had their knockout gas and tricks ready—this would be much uglier. He wasn’t even sure if a crew like this could slip a basic alarm ward; it was common and predictable enough for them to plan around.

“You’re hyenas, aren’t you?” Gauss asked the leader.

He phrased it as a question; his tone said he already knew.

The man didn’t flinch. They’d been tailing Gauss’s team; he knew they’d found the bodies and would be on edge.

And maybe with the four of them around Gauss now, he felt brave. He nodded.

He didn’t waste breath—admitting it was just a way to grind pressure.

“Go. Kill him. He’s a caster!”

A queer purple light veiled the leader’s eyes. In his sight Gauss gleamed with a dense aura: a mana user. The sheer volume made him uneasy—but by their experience, any mage brought to melee distance was dead meat.

“Break his shield!”

He pitched several white balls.

“BOOM!”

They hit beside Gauss—flame and pressure slammed him even as he moved. His field thrummed, holding the heat outside.

He was still pushing up when two more shadows knifed in from different angles, sick-green blades thrusting, while a crossbow steadied for the shot from behind.

A heartbeat of choking pressure—his mind tightened, then snapped clean; high Intelligence and iron focus cut through it. His fingers flexed. The steel longsword filled his hand.

A flick of thought—Brute Force surged. Smooth muscle turned rope-hard; cords and veins stood in relief.

The sword in his hand might as well have been weightless. Air tore and whistled as the arc cut like a cold crescent moon at the nearest rogue.

No parry—just a brutal counter.

Anyone who singled them out died. He wasn’t in the mood to spare.

“Clang! Clang!”

Metal screamed. The sick-green dagger shattered; the longsword’s path carved on, smashing into a bracer, drawing a ragged wail as the rogue flew back. A forearm—bracer and all—spun away; a deep gash split the chest.

The other two strikes—dagger and bolt—broke harmlessly on the unbroken forcefield.

They’d misread everything—thought the earlier blast had gutted or broken the ward, thought melee gave them the advantage.

Wrong on all counts.

Back at the camp, Alia and Serandur were already through the tent flaps at the first explosion. No Gauss by the fire. Alarms rang in both heads. They turned toward the blast-flash—steel flickered in the dark.

Serandur tucked his body and shot forward, a gold streak. Alia was right behind.

Across from Gauss, the leader’s pupils shrank. Those surging arm muscles, that savage strike—his skill pulse misread the class? Warrior?

He saw the camp behind, the allies rushing in—and he knew they couldn’t finish this fast.

“Pull!”

He didn’t even glance at the downed man. In a crew like theirs, the wounded were dead weight.

Gauss reset his field—fresh and thick—and watched the shadows retract. He hadn’t expected them to abort so fast.

He felt a flare of frustration. He couldn’t let this nest of vipers melt back into the dark; you can’t spend every night guarding the henhouse from the same fox. Even if they couldn’t beat him head-on, hyenas lurking out there meant no peace.

As the three bolted and left their bleeding man to die, Gauss made his choice.

Ghoul Form: Activate.

Alia and Serandur were right behind; even if he burned out, they’d keep him safe. No reason to hold back.

Power answered. Hair surged long, black draining to slate to pure frost-white. Twin ivory horns grew along his brow. Bones crackled and reset; in a breath he was two meters tall. The scholar’s calm bled into a feral, glacial edge.

“—huh—”

He exhaled, cold and clear.

They’d only gotten a handful of strides.

He flexed. The ground answered.

WHUMP.

Stone boomed under his foot; cracks webbed out, pebbles jittered and skittered away.

He vanished.

No—he was there, just too fast. To most eyes, a long smear of white.

Alia’s eyes went wide; the fleeing rogues’ pupils blew as a sliver of winter ripped the dim like a razor and erased the gap.

The rearmost—crossbow—felt it first. A cold like ice water rose up his spine. He had no time to move.

Long, cold fingers clamped his nape like iron. The hand pressed down.

CRACK.

The neck snapped. THUD.

The crossbowman’s skull met stone like a watermelon. Red and white sprayed between palm and rock. He didn’t even scream.

Start to finish—a blink. Engage, close, seize, terminate—no wasted motion.

Gauss’s eyes tracked the other two as they ran, then split at the corner.

He hit the wall at full speed, drove a thigh into it, and kicked off.

Stone spiderwebbed; his body stopped on a dime.

Hawk eyes locked one target. He reached—white wand snapped into his hand.

“Magic Missile.”

Five bolts spun into being, ghost-white laced over blue. They tore away.

Gauss didn’t turn to watch. He cut back, burned toward the last.

BANG BANG BANG—!

The corridor bloomed behind him. He hit the final rogue as the echoes rolled.

Keep one alive.

The heat in his blood wanted slaughter. His head stayed ice-cold. He eased off—barely.

He rose above the runner in a blur. Fine fingers snapped to the nape.

“Deep breath—dizziness is normal.”

His other fist checked itself and rapped the man’s skull.

THUNK.

Lights out. The body sledded across stone under Gauss’s weight, then lay still.