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MHD Chapter 32: Campfire, Reports, and Regret
🕑 Added 2025-06-29 02:03:35 +0000 UTCOnce they confirmed that the Diablos had been successfully restrained, one of the scholars—armed with paralysis rounds—rushed forward, aiming to throw the prepared ammunition directly at the still-struggling monster’s face.
“Fall back! Everyone, get back!!”
A short-haired woman, sensing a sudden shift beneath her feet, swiftly drew her custom-made hand crossbow and shouted at the approaching scholars.
There wasn’t a second of hesitation. Even though they were just steps away from their target, the scholars obeyed her command without question. Not because of fear, but because of who she was—the sole disciple of the legendary Wyverian hunter who vanished fifteen years ago, a renowned adventurer known for her solitary mastery in the wilds. An elite handpicked by the Hunter’s Guild, bestowed with the title Fieldmaster—a veteran explorer of unquestionable authority.
Her judgment never failed.
The hunters, too, responded to her call. Those who had also heard the Fieldmaster's shout became alert, quickly scanning the ground beneath them for any irregularities, just as she warned.
At the same time, the Admiral, who had just dismounted from the top of the Wildspire bluff, landed in a position that allowed him to spot the anomaly immediately.
“Full retreat! Something big is coming!”
Everyone quickly pulled away from the Diablos. Within two seconds, the ground began to shake, and sand flowed rapidly into the shallow depressions.
Then, with wings flaring, a much larger Diablos burst forth from beneath the earth. Like a thunderous hammer, its massive tail smashed the wooden stakes—still embedded in stone—free from their anchors, tearing the rock apart with them.
Its furious eyes swept over the surrounding hunters who had begun to close in, then it let out an earth-shattering roar. Caught off guard, many of the hunters instinctively covered their ears, grimacing in pain.
But the new Diablos didn’t show any intent to fight. Instead, taking advantage of the hunters' stunned reaction, it dug quickly alongside the previously bound Diablos. Together, they vanished into the earth beneath a veil of swirling sand.
When the hunters finally recovered their bearings, they looked at one another in stunned silence. Days of planning had been undone by a single, unexpected Diablos.
There was a sense of disappointment in the air, but everyone present was a seasoned veteran. This wasn’t the first time an unpredictable factor had caused a hunt to fail. Without needing anyone to step in, they steadied their spirits and quietly awaited the Admiral’s next command.
“Tch… another Diablos that big? What a headache~”
The Admiral casually picked up the massive shield that had been knocked away earlier and gave his sore shoulder a good rub.
“All right, that’s enough for today. Let’s head back to camp and get some rest.”
No rousing speech. No detailed debrief. But somehow, his open, good-natured tone—tinged with a bit of frustration—was exactly what everyone needed to relax. The tension eased. Laughter returned. The hunters began joking among themselves as they gathered their gear and started making their way back to camp.
It was just one failed hunt. No one had been injured. Nothing worth making a fuss over.
That night, the stars above the Wildspire Waste shone brighter than ever.
Around the central bonfire at camp, the Admiral took a deep swig of water, then grabbed the heaping plate of stew handed to him by a logistics Felyne. He gave it a quick blow to cool it down before digging in enthusiastically.
“Ahh—so good! Grammeowster’s stew is still the best!”
“Hey, Sita, didn’t you say you were going to ask Grammeowster to teach you her cooking? It’s been ages—what’s the hold-up?”
The Admiral’s Felyne partner raised a brow coolly, glancing up at him with a deadpan look as it furiously blew on the steaming broth in its own bowl.
It had already asked to become her apprentice—just hadn’t started training yet!
Sure, the stew was delicious… but way too hot. Not Felyne-friendly at all!
“Ha! You little rascal.”
The Admiral chuckled heartily. He knew his Felyne’s personality all too well—and loved that quiet, no-nonsense attitude.
“Leader,” came a voice nearby, “we’ve compiled today’s logistics data. The numbers aren’t looking too great.”
A man with dust-covered clothes but a gentle air—wearing thin-rimmed golden glasses—stepped up to the fire, holding a clipboard of figures in his hand.
“Oh, Kishu, thank you for your hard work!”
The Admiral exhaled visibly in the cold as he quickly gulped down the rest of his stew. Then, taking the report Kishu had brought over, he leaned in toward the campfire and began reading it carefully.
The Huntsman shifted over to make room for Kishu, and immediately a Felyne came running over with hot water and food.
“Thanks!”
Kishu took the food and gave a brief nod of gratitude to the busy Felyne before speaking with a serious expression.
“Earlier today, the Aptonoth near our camp migrated. Because of the distance and how dangerous the route was, the scouts responsible for tracking them couldn’t keep up. Based on our current food reserves, we can last a maximum of three days.”
And that was already a conservative estimate. The Hunters were undeniably powerful, but their appetite matched their strength. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that some 3 to 4-meter carnivorous wyverns didn’t eat as much as they did. Holding out for three days was only possible thanks to Grammeowster’s newly developed recipes, which used cactus bulbs to replace some vegetables and mushrooms.
“Besides food, we’re also running low on medical herbs, bandages, and scoutfly lures. For the next few days at least, we can’t afford to use scoutflies as freely as before.”
“Out of the 16 Hunters in our fleet, 11 are already injured. Among them, Audenor’s condition is critical—he’s no longer fit to continue with the expedition. We’ve ventured too deep into the Wildspire Waste without establishing contact with any of the local Grimalkynes. The Palico cart team from the forest can’t reach us either.”
Hearing this, the Admiral nodded solemnly. This was a serious issue. Even though Hunters had incredible physical endurance, Audenor had taken a full-force charge from a raging Barroth while trying to shield a nearby scholar. His ribs were shattered in multiple places. If he didn’t receive medical treatment soon, his hunting career could very well come to an end.
That was something the Admiral could not allow.
There were only 18 Hunters in the First Fleet. Losing even one elite so easily would be a devastating blow to the entire Research Commission.
Seeing the deep furrow in the Admiral’s brow, Kishu sighed and went on.
“Honestly, all of that isn’t even the worst part. We can assign two extra Hunters to escort Audenor back to Astera ahead of the rest. The real problem is our weapons and ammunition.”
“Even though we’ve collected a decent number of materials along the way to craft ammo, our gunners are nearly out of shots, and the archers are down to their last few arrows. Nearly every Hunter’s armor is damaged to some degree—two longsword users in particular, their gear is now completely unusable.”
“It’s normal for the Long Sword users to be in that condition.”
The Sword Master across from him gave a nod. Though he wielded a Great Sword himself, he was equally proficient with the Long Sword. The First Fleet’s Long Sword users had all trained under him, learning several high-risk, high-reward techniques that pushed the limits of their combat style.
The greater the reward, the greater the risk—and as frontline fighters, Long Sword users were often the ones who took the most damage.
“Armor is one thing, but the state of our weapons isn’t looking good either. The worst case is the three Dual Blades users—their weapons are on the verge of breaking. We’re out of whetstones, and at this point, they’ll need to be reforged from scratch. But...”
Kishu didn’t finish the sentence, but everyone present knew what he meant.
Reforging wasn’t just tedious—it would be faster to collect new materials and craft entirely new sets.
“Emmm... Looks like Lubomir’s going to yell my ears off when we get back to Astera.”
The Admiral gave a bitter laugh.
Lubomir, a Wyverian blacksmith and mechanical scholar, was in charge of maintaining the First Fleet’s gear and constructing defensive facilities at their base. He and his three Felyne apprentices were the only ones capable of handling such work.
Hunter equipment was crafted from a mix of biological materials and metal—an intricate and delicate process.
This time, they’d not only returned empty-handed, but also worn their equipment down to its limit. Even if Lubomir worked around the clock, it would likely take a full month to repair everything. Until then, the combat capacity of Astera would drop significantly.
