The Hunting Manual—another new creation from Wade.
Its effect was basically a bestiary. It recorded information about monsters the holder had defeated, items they'd obtained, and special scenes they'd encountered. It even stored short background notes and lore entries.
In practice, it turned those informational flashes adventurers normally received when picking up something new into a tangible, organized record.
It didn't cost much Mana to implement, but it added a layer of immersion and a satisfying sense of achievement—exactly the kind of thing that helped a dungeon tell its story.
And, of course, completionists would grind it to death. No matter the world, those people always existed.
The Hunting Manual wasn't handed out for nothing. To obtain it you had to extinguish the beacons of two Farron Keep and then either survive long enough against the invading Hunter or beat him outright.
Patches was a special "easter egg" character. His summon sign appeared near the Hunter.
If players summoned him, the Hunter's combat ability dropped and the two performed a dramatic little show—practically guaranteeing that adventurers would walk away with the Hunting Manual.
So what was the catch?
After summoning Patches, the player would be hunted by half the monsters in Farron Keep—and, on top of that, they might get betrayed by Patches himself.
Both the Hunter and Patches were Wade's constructs—entities similar to the Invaders from Dark Souls.
The difference was Patches' personality. He had a touch of built-in intelligence: he could answer simple questions and mimic his original, despicably sly self. Everything about him revolved around one purpose—how best to trick people.
Most of his lines were predesigned. When summoned as a helper he kept quiet. But if the summoning player got separated from their party during the monster-horde event and wandered into certain trigger zones, Patches would appear.
Sometimes several Patches could spawn.
Those trigger areas tended to sit near cliffs—perfect places to kick someone off.
Except in Maru's case, most of those cliffs didn't outright kill the adventurer. They survived and were dumped into new areas to explore.
So—was Maru lucky or unlucky? Hard to say.
The traps weren't fatal, but they were infuriating—and entertaining enough, from Wade's point of view, to keep players emotionally invested.
The adventurers who got tricked didn't share his opinion.
"Damn it…"
Darrick eased himself against a rocky wall, one hand wrapped tight with bandages. Blood soaked through the linen—his left hand had been torn open when he fell, ripped on jagged stone.
He didn't have many healing potions. Unlike Maru and some others who used them like water, he hoarded what he had. A bleeding wound wasn't worth wasting a potion on.
He was a Silver-ranked adventurer now; he should've been the sort who could afford to spare potions. So being stingy felt strangely humiliating.
"I shouldn't have trusted him," he muttered, eyes flicking up to the unreachable cliff above. Regret and anger twisted his face.
No doubt—he'd been another of Patches' "lucky victims."
Lucky because he hadn't died from the fall. Unlucky because his sword was gone. The blade had cost him half a year's wages; the loss made his chest ache.
Next time I see that bastard, he thought, I'll make him pay.
After a short rest he limped forward to explore the unknown area he'd been dumped into.
Patches had shoved him off the cliff, but Darrick had landed on a narrow rocky ledge. By sheer luck he'd survived.
A tunnel yawned ahead—black, foreboding. He could feel danger radiating from it, but turning back wasn't an option.
If he died here, the thousands of souls he'd hoarded would vanish. That was enough to level him up—he couldn't afford that loss.
Souls reset to zero upon leaving the dungeon; they couldn't be carried over.
Keeping close to the wall, Darrick crept forward with only a dagger for backup.
Sniff, sniff.
His nose twitched. "Monsters… not many. And the musk of beasts. There's wind ahead—means there's an exit."
He trusted his nose without question. It had been honed since childhood—he'd been raised among wolves.
He no longer remembered his biological parents' faces. When he thought of family, the image that came to mind was his wolf mother. Human memories blurred like bad dreams.
Strange—why hadn't the wolves eaten him back then?
Maybe that upbringing was why his night vision surpassed most humans. The cave's darkness bothered him little.
"There's something painted on the wall…"
He scanned the rock, wary as he studied the crude drawings.
The murals were simple—stick figures.
A group danced and sang around a fire—peaceful, joyous.
Then another group appeared—twisted, malformed stick figures slaughtering the first. Their feet were thickly painted in black; wherever they walked, darkness spread.
Darrick frowned. Unease rose at the sight of those inky shapes.
The blackness consumed life; anyone it touched became warped and monstrous.
Then a figure emerged—a man with a sword and shield. He walked through the darkness unharmed, beating back the twisted horrors alone. The survivors knelt before him in worship. After leaving something behind, he strode deeper into the black.
The middle section of the mural was damaged—unreadable.
Darrick's eyes gleamed faintly. If these were murals from Farron Keep, the story had to relate to this place.
But imagination wasn't his strong suit. People called him dull; he couldn't parse symbolic paintings well.
Maybe that sword-and-shield man was one of the Abyss Watchers. Then the creature he fought must've been the Abyss. That was the best Darrick could guess.
Ahead another mural showed people kneeling before a great beast.
Even in crude strokes, he could tell—the beast was a giant wolf.
But why worship it—
"Awooo!"
A wolf's howl shattered his thoughts. It wasn't alone—there were other noises, too.
Not Ghru, not Basilisk, not slimes—something closer to human.
The howl rang with rage, but it was young—a pup's voice.
Darrick dropped to his belly and crawled toward the sound. Peeking around a corner, he saw it.
A small wolf glared at a monster. Its legs were mangled; it couldn't stand properly, but it bared its fangs with fierce defiance.
And the monster—
Darrick's pupils narrowed.
It was roughly humanoid, covered in deformities—scales, tentacles, bone claws—a hideous patchwork.
A demon—no mistake.
But something else caught his eye. Thick black liquid oozed from the monster's feet.
The mural flashed through his mind; his breath hitched. This wasn't just a demon—it matched the creature in the painting.
The Abyss.
Why did the Abyss share features with demons? He didn't know.
Fear made him hesitate. He'd planned to sneak in and finish quickly, but now he wasn't sure.
The thing didn't seem strong—if it truly was Abyss spawn, it must be a low-tier grunt.
He could wait for them to weaken each other—
Damn it, he cursed inwardly. Why a wolf? If it had been anything else, I wouldn't think twice.
At that moment the pup met his eyes. Its mouth opened—about to bark.
Shit, I'm exposed!
Instead the pup howled in the opposite direction, drawing the monster's attention away.
Darrick seized the chance and lunged like lightning.
"Gah—?"
The creature twisted to respond, but the wolf latched onto its ankle with all its force.
Slash!
Steel flashed, and the monster's head rolled away.
"Awwooo!" The pup yipped triumphantly and stared at Darrick with grateful eyes.
Darrick's face stayed cold. "Don't come near me."
He liked wolves, but he wasn't naive. Surface beasts could bond with humans; dungeon monsters could not.
Many had tried to tame dungeon beasts. At first it seemed possible. The next day, when they returned, the creatures reset—the affection gone.
"…Awoo…"
The pup drooped but peeked at him timidly, almost adorably.
Darrick hissed. "Great. It even knows how to act cute."
A man of his word, he muttered to himself—he'd promised not to get involved, and he meant it. No sympathy.
A few moments later he sighed and, despite himself, tended the pup. He held it by the scruff with one hand while bandaging its injured leg with the other.
"I'm warning you," he said, voice flat, "one wrong move and I'll snap your neck."
A healing potion was out of the question; he hardly had enough for himself. Still, the pup stayed quiet and obedient—unlike other dungeon beasts. Maybe it was a special variant.
If so, caring for it made sense… right?
"Idiot," he murmured. "You said you wouldn't get involved."
He couldn't help it. Maybe he was cursed to get tangled with wolves forever.
The pup's wounds bled steadily.
When Darrick pressed against the fur to bandage another cut, he realized he'd nicked himself during the fight. A drop of wolf blood slid across the pup's fur and touched his wound.
"Hm?"
He paused. A faint whisper drifted to his ears—muffled, indistinct.
The sound flickered; his surroundings blurred; the scene wavered.
"Awooooo!"
A mournful howl echoed across some distant void.
Darrick jolted, then froze. He was standing at the entrance of Farron Keep.
No—this wasn't his body.
A voice brushed his ear:
"Go. Extinguish the three beacons. The wolf's blood you seek awaits you."