Chapter : 605
The System wasn't going to make him wait. It wasn't going to throttle his progress. It was challenging him. It was daring him to keep up. It was presenting him with a near-endless, self-replenishing supply of high-value targets, and the only thing stopping him from accumulating a king's ransom in Farming Coins was his own ability to stand, fight, and endure.
The last vestiges of the soul-crushing boredom of the slime grind were burned away in the fire of this new revelation. The slow, patient waiting of the goblin forest was a forgotten memory. All that was left was the pure, unadulterated, and terrifying challenge of continuous combat. How many could he kill? How long could he last? How far could he push himself and his divine spirits before their power cores ran dry and their wills finally broke?
It was a magnificent, horrifying, and utterly liberating thought. He was no longer a farmer waiting for a slow, predictable harvest. He was a warrior standing on the shore of an endless ocean of enemies, with a bounty on every single wave that crashed upon the sand.
The thundering grew louder, closer. The dust cloud was no longer a distant plume; it was a rolling storm. He could now make out the individual shapes of the boars within it, their forms just as massive, just as furious as the last.
He felt the deep, resonant ache in his unified power core. He was not at full strength. His spirits were only partially rested. To take on another full herd so soon, without a proper recovery cycle, was a risk. A significant, undeniable risk.
He laughed. It was a short, sharp, and utterly fearless sound that was carried away by the hot, dry wind of the savanna.
Risk was just another word for opportunity. And this opportunity was too profitable to ignore.
He summoned his spirits once more. Fang Fairy appeared in a flash of cool, calming azure light, her golden eyes already locked on the approaching threat, her expression one of serene, battle-ready focus. Iffrit materialized with a guttural roar of his own, a furious, challenging answer to the thunder of the herd's charge.
Lloyd raised his sword, its dark, potent blade seeming to drink in the harsh sunlight.
"Round two," he said, his voice quiet but ringing with an absolute, unshakeable confidence that was born not of arrogance, but of a perfect understanding of the new, brutal rules of the game. "Let's get to work."
The bounty of the Savage Brushland was endless. And he was ready, willing, and able to collect.
The second battle was a masterclass in adaptation. Armed with the game-changing knowledge of the active spawn rate, Lloyd approached the engagement with an entirely new philosophy. The strategic calculus had been fundamentally rewritten. This was no longer about winning a single, decisive fight. It was about establishing a sustainable, efficient, and repeatable process of extermination. The new primary constraint wasn't the availability of targets, but his own mental and spiritual endurance. Every drop of energy, every ounce of focus, was a precious, non-renewable resource that had to be managed with ruthless efficiency.
As the second herd, a mirror image of the first in its fury and power, thundered across the savanna, he implemented the tactical adjustments he had formulated just moments before.
"Iffrit, no firewall!" His mental command was a blade of pure, strategic clarity. "Your raw power is our greatest asset, but static defenses are a luxury we can no longer afford. I want targeted strikes. I want you to think like an artillery piece, not a fortress wall. Use your flames to create chaos, not barriers. Break their charge before it forms."
A wave of guttural, intelligent understanding, mixed with a grudging respect for the cold logic of the new strategy, flooded the psychic link from his fire demon. Less wall, more cannon. The logic is sound. It will be done.
"Fang Fairy!" Lloyd's second command was equally precise, a counterpoint of cool, ethereal control to Iffrit's brute force. "Area denial. I need you to make the ground itself our ally. Forget precision strikes on their eyes for now; it requires too much focus. I want you to electrify pools of ground, create zones of pain that will shatter their momentum and force them to maneuver into our kill zones. I want a web of storms."
A web of storms, she replied, her thought a cool, elegant, and perfectly descriptive concept. Their rage is a current. I will build the dams to redirect it. As you command.
With his two spirits aligned to the new doctrine, the engagement began.
Chapter : 606
The herd thundered closer. This time, Iffrit didn't wait for them to reach a designated line. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his magma-plate chest expanding like a bellows. Then, with a series of powerful, guttural roars, he unleashed a torrent of fire, not as a solid wall, but as a volley of five massive, roaring fireballs. They soared in high, graceful arcs, trailing plumes of black smoke like demonic artillery shells, and crashed into the charging herd with devastating effect.
The explosions were not as instantly lethal as the firewall, but they were infinitely more disruptive. One fireball detonated directly in the middle of the pack, the concussive blast sending two half-ton boars flying through the air like discarded toys. Another created a deep, temporary crater of molten earth, forcing the beasts behind it to swerve violently, their charge breaking as they collided with their neighbors. The single, unified wave of the stampede was instantly shattered into a series of panicked, fragmented, and disorganized movements.
This was the chaos he wanted.
Simultaneously, Fang Fairy executed her part of the plan. She zipped across the battlefield at low altitude, a blur of silver and azure light, her hands trailing arcs of crackling electricity. She didn't strike the boars directly. She struck the dry, grassy earth in their path. Large, circular patches of the savanna sizzled and popped, the ground itself now glowing with a visible, dangerous blue energy. She was weaving a minefield of pure electricity, a series of traps laid with supernatural speed.
The boars, their simple minds still driven by a singular, aggressive rage, ran headlong into these electrified zones. The moment their heavy hooves touched the charged ground, they were hit with a massive, paralyzing jolt of high-voltage current. It wasn't enough to kill them, but it was more than enough to inflict excruciating pain. They squealed, their powerful leg muscles seizing in violent spasms, their thunderous charges collapsing into uncontrolled, pathetic stumbles.
The result was a masterpiece of tactical battlefield control. The herd was scattered, burned, disoriented, and being actively funneled into zones of agonizing pain. Their greatest weapon—their unified, unstoppable charge—had been rendered utterly impotent before they had even gotten within fifty yards of Lloyd.
This was the new strategy. Not annihilation, but control. Not overwhelming force, but superior tactical design. It was far more energy-efficient for his spirits, and infinitely more elegant.
Lloyd watched the chaos unfold with the cool, detached satisfaction of a master puppeteer pulling the strings of his divine marionettes. His spirits were no longer just his swords and shields; they were extensions of his strategic will, actively reshaping the very terrain of the battlefield to his precise specifications.
Now, with the enemy broken and confused, it was his turn to enter the stage. The conductor was ready to bring the symphony to its bloody crescendo.
With the battlefield perfectly prepped, a chaotic arena of his own design, Lloyd made his move. He didn't charge into the thickest part of the melee. That was Iffrit's domain. Instead, he became a ghost, a predator hunting on the periphery. He picked his targets with the cold, calculating precision of a surgeon identifying a tumor to be excised.
His eyes locked onto a massive boar that was flailing on the ground, its body still twitching from the lingering effects of one of Fang Fairy's electrical fields. It was exposed, vulnerable, and a prime target.
His Void power, the B-Rank Steel Blood, answered his call. But this time, he didn't manifest his signature assassin's chains. That was a tool for binding, for control. He needed something faster, more direct. He focused his will, and a single, thick, three-foot-long spike of polished, dark steel materialized in his hand. It was perfectly balanced, its point honed to a razor's edge. A short spear. A javelin.
He didn't throw it. He launched it.
With a powerful, focused pulse of his kinetic Void power, the steel spike shot from his hand. There was no sound, only a faint distortion in the air as it accelerated to a speed that made it a near-invisible blur. It crossed the thirty yards to its target in an instant and struck the downed boar in the thick, armored plate of its skull.
CRACK!
The sound was like a boulder being split by a blacksmith's hammer. The B-Rank steel, propelled by his will, proved superior to the beast's natural armor. The spike punched through the bone plate and buried itself deep in the creature's brain. The boar's flailing ceased instantly. It was dead before its nervous system could even register the killing blow.
Lloyd didn't pause to admire his handiwork. He was already forming another spike in his hand, his eyes scanning for the next target of opportunity.
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Chapter : 607
This new combat style was a revelation. It was a fusion of all his strengths. He was the commander, directing his spirits. He was the mage, using his Void powers to create and propel munitions. He was the assassin, picking his moments with lethal precision.
The battle raged for another five minutes, a whirlwind of fire, lightning, and silent, deadly steel. The boars, for all their power, stood no chance. They were outmaneuvered, outsmarted, and systematically dismantled. Trapped between Iffrit's fiery hammer, Fang Fairy's electric anvil, and Lloyd's surgical steel strikes, their defeat was a foregone conclusion.
When the last boar fell, its throat pierced by one of Lloyd's javelins, the savanna fell silent once more. The second hunt was over.
Lloyd stood panting, the mental strain of this new, more complex style of fighting even greater than before. He had to manage not just his spirits, but his own attacks, his own positioning, his own energy expenditure. It was exhausting, but exhilarating.
He checked his quest progress.
[Progress toward 'Savage Cull' Quest: 20/20]
The quota was met. His heart pounded in anticipation.
[QUEST COMPLETE: SAVAGE CULL]
[REWARD: 150 FARMING COINS (FC) HAVE BEEN ADDED TO YOUR BALANCE.]
[A NEW 'SAVAGE CULL' QUEST IS NOW AVAILABLE.]
His balance surged from 500 to a magnificent 650 FC. He had done it. He had mastered the new biome's rhythm. He had established a new, highly profitable, and sustainable farming loop.
And then, just as a wave of triumph and relief was about to wash over him, he felt it again.
The tremor.
The distant, rhythmic pounding.
He looked up, a wry, weary smile touching his lips. On the horizon, a new dust cloud was already forming. Round three was on its way.
He stared at the approaching storm of fury and dust, and then he looked at his own two hands. He felt the deep, resonant thrum of his unified power core, aching but still potent. He felt the unwavering loyalty of his two divine spirits, resting and regenerating within his soul.
He was mentally exhausted. He was pushed to his limits. And he had never felt more powerful.
The System had given him an endless wave of enemies. It had made the limiting factor his own endurance. It had thrown down a gauntlet, a challenge of will and stamina.
And Lloyd Ferrum, the man who had the mind of an eighty-year-old general and the spirit of an indomitable conqueror, picked it up without a moment's hesitation. The spawn rate anomaly wasn't a curse. It was a gift. It was a direct, unfiltered pipeline to absolute power, and he would drink from it until he either drowned or became a god.
"Alright," he said to the empty, blood-soaked savanna. "Let's see how long we can keep this up."
—
The seventh herd was the one that nearly broke him.
Not physically. By now, the brutal, rhythmic dance of destruction had become a familiar, if exhausting, routine. His body, a vessel forged in the crucible of his System 2.0 update, was a marvel of resilience. It was his mind, the soul of the eighty-year-old general, that was beginning to fray at the edges. The relentless, high-stakes nature of the continuous combat was a form of mental attrition far more grueling than any physical test. Every charge was a new tactical problem, every boar a lethal variable, and the constant, unbroken pressure was grinding him down.
This particular herd was different. They were larger, their bone armor thicker, their tusks sharper and more menacing. They seemed to carry an air of veteran fury, as if they were the elite royal guard of the Savage Brushland's boar kingdom. Their charge was more coordinated, their movements less chaotic. When Iffrit unleashed his volley of fireballs, they didn't just scatter; they veered with a terrifying, unified purpose, their formation bending but not breaking as they flowed around the explosions.
The fight was a brutal, chaotic slog. Iffrit was a bulwark of fire, his magma-plate armor taking a pounding as he physically intercepted a massive bull that had broken through Fang Fairy’s electric web. The deep, guttural roar of his fiery familiar was laced with a genuine strain, a testament to the sheer, overwhelming power of his opponent. Fang Fairy, a silver-and-blue phantom, was working overtime, her Lightning Darts flying in a continuous, desperate stream to cripple, harry, and distract the rampaging beasts.
Chapter : 608
Lloyd himself was a whirlwind of deadly motion, his Steel Blood javelins finding their marks with ruthless precision, but the sheer number and ferocity of the boars were overwhelming. He was forced into a defensive posture, using his chains not to attack, but to create brief, desperate barriers, to trip and to entangle, buying precious seconds for his spirits to press their assault.
They were winning, but the cost was immense. His unified power core, which had felt like a deep, inexhaustible ocean, was now beginning to feel like a rapidly draining lake. He could feel the first, tell-tale signs of true spiritual exhaustion—a slight dizziness, a faint tremor in his hands, a fractional delay between his thought and its execution.
The battle reached its crescendo. A single, colossal boar, a true monster with tusks like twin crescent moons, broke through all their defenses. It had shrugged off a direct hit from one of Iffrit’s fireballs, its armor scorched but unbroken. It had plowed through one of Fang Fairy's electric fields, its furious momentum overpowering the paralyzing jolt. And now, it was thundering directly at him, its red eyes burning with a singular, murderous intelligence.
Iffrit was locked in combat with two other boars, his fiery zanbatō a roaring arc of defensive fury. Fang Fairy was on the other side of the battlefield, suppressing a flanking maneuver.
He was alone.
His Steel Blood javelins would not be enough. The beast’s armor was too thick, its charge too powerful. His chains would be shattered like thread. In that split-second, with the thunder of its charge shaking the very ground beneath him, his mind, driven by the pure, desperate instinct for survival, went to his ultimate trump card. The one that had allowed him to stand against his father, the Arch Duke.
The merge.
The fusion of his soul with that of his spirit partner, Fang Fairy. The transformation into the storm-forged prince, a being of divine lightning and supernatural speed. It was a power that transcended the normal rules of combat, a state of being that would give him the strength to meet this unstoppable charge and shatter it.
He reached out with his soul, a desperate, silent plea to the storm spirit within him. He opened himself completely, inviting the familiar, exhilarating torrent of azure energy, preparing for the agony and the ecstasy of the transformation.
Fang Fairy! Now! We fuse!
He braced himself for the supernova of power, for the searing pain of being torn apart and reforged.
And nothing happened.
His call, his desperate command, echoed into a sudden, inexplicable void. He could feel her presence, her unwavering loyalty, her own readiness to answer his call. But the connection, the pathway that allowed for the ultimate union of their souls, was simply not there. It was like reaching for a door he knew was there, only to find his hand passing through a blank, solid wall.
A cold, sharp spike of pure, unadulterated panic, colder and more terrifying than the prospect of being impaled on the boar’s tusks, lanced through him. His ultimate weapon had failed. His final, desperate gambit was impossible.
In that moment of absolute shock, the System Administrator’s calm, synthetic voice, a dispassionate god in his personal machine, delivered the brutal news.
[Alert: User has attempted to initiate a 'Soul Merge' protocol.]
[Warning: This function is incompatible with the current dimensional parameters. The Soul Farm is a simulated reality, a construct designed for training and resource acquisition. The 'Soul Merge' is a true fusion of spiritual and physical entities, an act that fundamentally alters the user's core existence. Such an act cannot be replicated or safely contained within a simulated environment. Initiating a merge within this dimension would result in catastrophic system instability and the potential for permanent, irreversible corruption of the user's spiritual core.]
[Function Disabled. The User can summon and command spiritual entities, but cannot achieve true unification within the Soul Farm.]
The words were a death sentence. A clinical, logical explanation for why his ultimate power was a beautiful, useless dream in this place.
The boar was now less than ten feet away. He could smell its hot, musky breath, see the flecks of spittle flying from its snarling maw. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The world narrowed to the twin points of its descending, gutting tusks.
His mind, cleared by the sheer, absolute terror of the moment, screamed at him. No tricks left. No trump cards. Just steel. Just will.
He didn't have time to form a javelin. He didn't have time to weave his chains. He had only his sword, his body, and the last, burning embers of his strength.
He abandoned all thoughts of a clever counter, of an elegant parry. This was not a duel. This was a collision.
