Becoming a Monster

Chapter 450: Chapter 450: Ashenveil Forest

Five days had passed since the drake had transformed.

Far from Noah’s territory, beyond the forest and the decrepit, deserted mall, a massive settlement stood.

High stone walls encircled the town, thick enough to withstand siege beasts and tall enough to discourage aerial predators. Watchtowers, each manned by armored guards, scanned the horizon with a vigilance that had grown more alert in recent days.

Their hands rested closer to their weapons than before. Signal braziers were already prepared, oil-soaked and ready to ignite at the first sign of trouble.

The outer stone bore scars, gouges from claws, scorch marks from old magic, but none had broken it.

Inside those walls, life moved contrary to the walls’ battle scars.

The streets within were lively, but beneath the commerce and chatter lay tension. Blacksmiths forged not just tools, but weapons in bulk. Enchanters etched sigils into armor at an increased pace. Merchants spoke in lowered tones about caravans that never arrived. Rumors traveled faster than coins.

Something in the wilds had shifted. And the town felt it.

In the very center of the settlement, rising above the tiled rooftops and merchant banners, stood the structure that defined the town’s faith and fear alike.

A cathedral.

It towered above all else, dwarfing even the Guild. Its walls were engraved with reliefs of saints, martyrs, and celestial beings wielding radiant blades. Tall spires pierced the sky, each crowned with crystal lenses that refracted sunlight into faint halos around the structure.

Stained-glass windows depicted holy battles against demons, dragons, and corrupted forests. A wide courtyard lay before it, paved in white stone and lined with statues of armored paladins kneeling in prayer.

And if the cathedral dominated the skyline, then beside it stood the town’s foundation.

The Guild.

Broad, fortified, and built of reinforced timber and stone, its entrance was framed by carved shields and crossed blades. A large open training yard sprawled behind it, where wooden dummies bore fresh cuts and scorch marks. Adventurers sparred under the watchful eye of instructors, steel clashing as spells sparked briefly in controlled bursts.

Inside, the guild hall resembled a tavern as much as a command post.

Long tables filled the main room, cluttered with tankards and maps. Laughter mixed with arguments. The scent of ale competed with the smell of oiled leather and sweat. A wide staircase curved along the far wall, leading to upper chambers reserved for meetings or private contracts.

To the right of the entrance stood a polished reception counter. Behind it, two guild clerks worked briskly, accepting completed mission tokens, stamping parchment, and handing out sealed envelopes marked with wax insignias.

Beside the counter, the mission board loomed.

It stretched nearly the length of the wall, layered with parchment requests: monster subjugations, caravan escorts, herb gathering, ruin exploration. The higher-tier requests were marked with red ink and reinforced with metal pins.

Dozens of voices filled the hall. Ranging from laughter, arguments, to hushed whispers.

But among the crowd of tens gathered inside, one group drew more attention than the rest without trying to.

Not because they were the loudest or the strongest. But their ranks grew at a pace that bred resentment among those who had spent years building far less.

They stood near the bulletin of missions, seven figures clustered together in quiet discussion.

Nearby adventurers stole glances; they intended to whisper, but to hear one another over the crowd, their whispers still reached nearby tables.

They didn’t dress alike. They didn’t carry matching insignias. Yet, anyone who spent more than a minute watching them understood that they moved as one.

"There they are, right? The ones who magically appeared with that weird castle?"

"That’s them."

"I heard they have cleared over 20 D-rank missions already and can take on C-level missions."

"20? I’ve done more D-rank missions than I can count, and I’m still considered a Drank adventure."

"It’s because they have connections... I heard that the Guild Master has personally taken the time to train them."

"Idiots..."

The voice came from a scarred man drinking his ale near the edge of the room. He didn’t bother lowering his tone.

"Connections can only get you so far. What makes them different from us is their numbers."

"Numbers?" someone scoffed. "You think just bringing more bodies lets you skip ranks?"

"They didn’t just bring bodies," another cut in. "They finished twenty D-rank contracts in three days."

That finally quieted a few tables.

"And because of it, they were able to apply for a promotion."

Now even the louder tables were listening.

"Because of their headcount," he continued, "they weren’t given a standard C-rank monster. They were ordered to eliminate an entire goblin tribe, the very one in the caves up north."

"Blackroot Caverns," someone muttered.

A low whistle followed before the hush whispers continued again in small groups. This time, there was less mockery and more discussion about banding together to create a large group that could rival theirs.

Because the Guild did not care how many people stood beneath a single banner. There was no fixed number for a party. No limit carved into policy. The only things that mattered were the mission’s difficulty... and how it was completed.

Efficiency, survival rate, collateral damage, and recovery time.

By those measures alone, Paul, Jas, Bailey, Ishii, Alicia, Raven, and Levi had forced the Guild’s hand.

They had not merely completed twenty D-rank missions in three days. They had done so without losing a single member.

The seven stood together near the board, but they were not alone.

Behind them, scattered through the hall in loose formation, were others, men and women who had chosen to remain under their influence.

But not everyone had.

When they first reached the safety of stone walls, desperation had faded. The kind of unity forged in the face of imminent death did not always survive peace.

Some who once fought side by side now avoided missions entirely. Safety had softened them. They no longer wished to gamble their lives.

And then some found something else.

The Church.

If humanity once believed in gods without proof, then proof now stands in living miracles. Priests could heal wounds with just prayer. Holy light burned corruption, healing infections from the zombies that carried over that had nearly wiped out the humanity of their world.

When the world had fallen apart, faith had broken with it. But when miracles became something you could see and touch, people believed again.

Some left quietly, some left tearfully, and the others left without looking back.

Paul had not tried to stop them. His mindset has matured over time. He understood his weakness and came to terms with his greatest fear. He couldn’t save everyone.

Since the day he was turned, his weakness has grown more apparent. Not because he had grown weaker, but because his strength was exponentially stronger than before.

The Paul of today could defeat his past self with barely any effort. And when he thought about his current strength, and how Fenrir, the one who gave him this strength, was even stronger than himself, he could now grasp the gap in their strengths.

And Noah’s parting words had forever been etched into his heart. One day, he will come for him. And if he didn’t live up to Noah’s expectations, what would happen to him? No... Paul feared more about what would happen to the others if they tried to get in Noah’s way.

That was the thought that sharpened him.

Above all else, Paul intended to grow stronger.

————————

Even after the departures, their numbers still dwarfed any newcomer party the Guild had seen.

They did not operate as a single swarm. They functioned in cells.

Each of the seven could command their own division. Each division could complete independent objectives.

Raven alone had nearly ten subordinates who moved with her without question. Among the women who survived the world’s collapse, most had gravitated toward her. Not because she was strong; her strength barely made it to the top three.

Because her pain, her trauma, and her perseverance resonated with them more.

___________________

Paul calmly stood at the center of the group, one hand resting on the board while he scanned the higher-tier requests. His calm was the kind that made others slow down without realizing it.

To his right, Bailey leaned in just enough to read the parchment over his shoulder. "Western ridge again," she muttered. "That’s the third escalation this week."

Jasmine said little; her eyes tracked a part of the board that most people avoided.

"Another village was taken out..." Her muttering had drawn the others’ attention. When their gaze tracked the missions she was reading, they instantly understood the real reason behind her solemn expression.

"The zombies have become stronger since coming here, and..." Jasmine’s gaze looked up at the top of the board, where instead of missions, lay news of a particular hero.

"I heard that the church was to head the frontlines against them... I wonder if Mark is ok..."

The others didn’t say anything right away. False hope has become something that most of them weren’t capable of giving anymore.

During their silence, Paul took down a quest, grabbing their attention.

"If you are worried about him...then just get stronger. Then we will have the chance... to fight with him again."

Ishii tilted his head slightly as Paul was taking down another mission. "What did you take?"

"Troll subjugation, Ashenveil Forest."