My monster cards can evolve infinitely.

Chapter 97 Winter Wolf and Fish

The night was as dark as ink, and in a clearing in the northeast corner of District Twelve, a campfire crackled.

Eight adventurers sat around a campfire, the firelight dancing on their faces, reflecting expressions of either weariness or relaxation.

This is the joint camp of Squad 34 and Squad 35.

Both teams consist of a classic four-person adventurer setup, with the dwarf warrior Glenn and the human paladin Alfred as their captains.

"So, that black-robed mage just left like that?" Tom, a young member of Squad 34, asked while munching on a hard loaf of bread. "Leaving the two squads here while he went west alone?"

Glenn is a mountain dwarf who is only four and a half feet tall (1.35 meters), but his shoulder width is almost the same as his height.

He had a meticulously groomed reddish-brown beard, the ends of which were tied with brass rings.

He was currently shaving the tobacco in his pipe with a small knife, and without looking up, he said, "Captain Silves has his own plans. Besides, it's been a peaceful day, hasn't it?"

"Calmness is good," said Alfred, the paladin captain of Squad 35, his voice gentle and steady, "but the calm in the Grey Forest often foreshadows a greater storm."

Alfred was about thirty years old, with a handsome face and short, light brown hair.

He wore a worn full chainmail, and the emblem on his chest was the scales of justice, the god of balance. This god only requires believers to uphold justice and maintain order, and is naturally opposed to chaotic and evil beings like demons.

"At least I can get a good rest tonight." Dwarf Glenn put the pipe in his mouth, lit it with a burning twig, took a deep drag, and then exhaled a smoke ring with satisfaction. "I've lived for eighty years, I know when to be tense and when to relax."

"Eighty, eighty years old?" Tom's eyes widened, and he almost dropped the bread in his hand.

He stared at the dwarf captain's face, which looked no more than forty years old—a ruddy complexion, bright blue eyes, and apart from his long beard, he showed no signs of aging.

"Dwarves are a long-lived race, kid." Glenn grinned, revealing teeth slightly yellowed from smoking. "We usually live over three hundred years. Eighty? Heh heh, by dwarven standards, I'm in my prime!"

Alfred laughed too: "Fifty years ago, when the demonic tide broke out, Captain Glenn was only thirty years old—in his own words, still a child."

"A thirty-year-old kid?" The female loafer next to Tom chuckled. "Then I'm nineteen now, wouldn't I be a baby?"

"For dwarves, it's about the same." Glenn shrugged dismissively, his gaze drifting into the distance. "The demonic tide fifty years ago... I was indeed young then."

At that time, I had just left my hometown and come to Summertown with my uncle to do ironware business. Then the demonic tide broke out, the trade routes were cut off, and we were trapped in the town for three months.

He took a drag on his pipe and slowly exhaled: "Those three months, I witnessed what true hell is. Demons surged out of the forest like a tide, and battles raged daily on the town walls. Waves of guards died, and eventually even the civilians took up arms..."

'

The young people around the fire quieted down, even the sound of chewing their food stopped.

"My uncle is an old adventurer who reached the level of a Level 2 professional when he was young," Glenn continued. "He taught me how to use a warhammer and how to survive in the chaos of battle."

In those three months, I transformed from a dwarf boy who only knew how to forge iron into a warrior capable of wielding a hammer and killing enemies on the battlefield.

"So it was around that time..." Tom asked cautiously.

"No." Glenn shook his head. "After the Demon Tide ended, I spent another twenty years honing my skills before I finally reached the threshold of becoming a professional at the age of fifty."

At fifty-two, I successfully advanced to Level 1 Hammer Warrior. For dwarves, that's quite young.

The female wanderer leaned forward curiously: "Captain Glenn, you just said you've touched the threshold of becoming a professional."

Can I ask, how exactly does one become a professional?

All the young adventurers around the campfire turned their attention to it.

This is the question that all novice adventurers are most concerned about.

Glenn took the pipe out of his mouth and tapped the ash with his short, stubby fingers.

"Of course, why not?" He laughed heartily, his voice deep and resonant. "I admire ambitious young people. Energy, hard work, and ambition are essential qualities for adventurers."

His expression turned serious: "But you need to know a cruel fact—95% of adventurers never cross the threshold into becoming professionals in their entire lives."

Only that lucky 5% are either exceptionally gifted, blessed with good fortune, or extremely hardworking. But all of this requires a good amount of luck.

Alfred nodded and added, "And even after becoming a professional, every step forward, every level up, is harder than climbing to the sky. Of course, there are exceptions for the very few with exceptional talent."

"Then... what are the different levels of adventurers?" Tom pressed.

Glenn relit his pipe and gathered his thoughts.

"To put it another way, we call newcomers to adventure novice adventurers, or to put it more bluntly, rookie adventurers."

He looked at Tom and the female vagrant: "These newcomers are often inexperienced, lack awareness of danger, and are prone to making basic mistakes during missions. But they are enthusiastic and energetic, and as long as they survive, most of them can grow quickly."

"And then?" The female vagrant's eyes lit up.

"After novice adventurers accumulate a certain amount of experience and combat skills, they will begin to shed their naivety and become more composed," Alfred continued. "At this point, we will no longer call them novice, nor will we use any other prefix; we will simply call them adventurers."

""

Glenn nodded: "That's right. And after adventurers have undergone numerous trials and battles, their knowledge, experience, and combat skills will all be greatly enhanced."

With both experience and strength improving, one advances to become a seasoned adventurer.

He pointed to Old Jack, the archer in his team who had been silent all along: "Someone like Jack, who hasn't become a professional yet, has mastered one or two combat skills and has accumulated a considerable amount of adventure experience and combat experience, is a typical veteran adventurer."

Old Jack was called upon, but he merely nodded slightly and continued polishing his longbow.

"What if... what if we go even further?" Tom continued.

"If he takes another step forward and successfully crosses the threshold into the professional world," Glenn took a deep drag of his cigarette and slowly exhaled, "he will find that a whole new world unfolds before his eyes."

There was complete silence around the fire; even the crackling of the firewood seemed exceptionally clear.

"Professionals at levels 1 and 2 are called entry-level professionals." Glenn's voice echoed in the night. "These professionals are often the elite among adventurers. They are capable of handling local threats in villages and towns or even county cities, and they are the professionals that are most easily seen."

Alfred added, "Captain Glenn and I are novice adventurers. At this level, we are already far superior to ordinary adventurers, but we still need to proceed with caution."

"What about after level 3?" the female wanderer asked impatiently.

"Levels 3 to 5 are called advanced professionals." Glenn's eyes turned serious. "This group has already created a clear gap between themselves and beginner professionals."

The most typical example is the mage profession—a level 3 mage can skillfully use second-circle spells, and from then on, their status becomes extremely important.

Alfred said softly, "At this level, they'll be respected and treated with courtesy in any town. They're truly influential figures in the local area."

"And then what?" Tom almost jumped up from the ground.

Glenn smiled, a smile tinged with longing: "Levels 6 to 10, elite professionals of the kingdom. As the name suggests, those who reach this level are already well-known figures in the kingdom and are generally registered."

"President Elon..." the female wanderer murmured.

"That's right, Guild Master Airon is an elite-level mage in the kingdom." Glenn nodded. "He has a certain reputation throughout the entire Kingdom of Red. The Summer Town Adventurers' Branch's prosperity today is largely due to his presence."

Tom swallowed hard. "Then...what about further up?"

"Levels 11 to 15, Master-level professionals." Alfred's voice carried respect. "This is already the pinnacle of a field, not to be ignored throughout the entire kingdom. Most of the top scholars at the Solmar Royal Academy are at this level."

Glenn continued, "Levels 16 to 20 are Master-level professionals, commonly known as extraordinary professionals. This is the pinnacle of a field, extremely important throughout the kingdom, and not to be ignored across the entire continent."

People at this level rarely take action personally anymore; their students, their theories, their very existence are a force to be reckoned with.

A long silence fell around the fire.

The young adventurers processed this information, their eyes flashing with a complex light—a mixture of longing, awe, and self-awareness.

"Then..." Tom finally asked in a low voice, "What about level 20 and above?"

Glenn and Alfred exchanged a glance.

The dwarf captain spoke slowly, his voice so soft it was almost carried away by the night breeze: "Level 21 and above, the legendary realm. They have become legends across the continent, their stories sung in the songs of bards. That level... is beyond the imagination of us mortals."

The night wind blew through the woods, bringing with it a faint, inhuman howl from afar.

The campfire flickered, casting dancing shadows on everyone's faces.

Just then—

boom!

A deep purple firework suddenly exploded in the night sky to the southeast.

The purple was so rich, as if dyed with the deepest night sky. When it bloomed in the dark sky, it resembled an eerie violet, or a demon's eye slowly opening.

"Dark purple warning..." Glenn slowly stood up, his pipe slipping from his hand and falling into the dirt. "Massive demonic tide."

Before he finished speaking, a fiery red firework shot into the sky from the west direction where the black-robed mage Sylves had left, exploding into a blinding red light in the night sky.

Red fireworks.

The situation is extremely urgent; we request assistance.

"Was it Captain Silvers who set off the fireworks?" Tom's voice trembled.

"Of course not him." Glenn bent down to pick up the pipe, patted off the dirt, and a complicated expression appeared on his face. "Our captain never even considered that he would need to be rescued. When the communication fireworks were distributed before we set off, he left them all for us."

Alfred had already stood up, his longsword drawn: "It looks like a distress signal from the neighboring 13th Regiment. But Captain Silvers' location in the West District is quite close to theirs."

"Should we go check out the West District?" Glenn gazed intently in the direction of the red signal, his eyes deep. "After all... he's our captain too."

The paladin was silent for a moment, then nodded: "The God of Justice teaches us that we cannot stand idly by and watch someone die. Besides, if the 13th Legion really does encounter a large-scale demonic tide, we will be affected sooner or later."

"Everyone!" Glenn turned around, his voice like a hammer striking an anvil, "Check your equipment! Extinguish the campfire! Move out immediately!"

The camp instantly went into battle mode.

The young people hurriedly packed their belongings and checked their weapons and armor.

Old Jack had already adjusted the quiver to the most convenient position, while the female wanderer inspected the dagger and trap tools.

Glenn and Alfred quickly discussed the route.

"The straight-line distance from here to the western edge is about four miles," Alfred said, pointing to the map. "But marching at night, plus the forested terrain, the actual distance may exceed six miles. If all goes well, we can get there in half an hour."

"Half an hour..." Glenn gritted his teeth, "Hopefully they can hold on."

He looked up at the western night sky, where the last rays of red fireworks were slowly fading, replaced by a deeper darkness.

And from the darkness, the increasingly clear, inhuman roars could be faintly heard.

Meanwhile, in a secluded valley deep within the West End, the black-robed mage Sylves is facing a challenge even more difficult than the demons themselves.

Grilled fish.

To be precise, it is about cooking a silver swordfish from the deepest strait of Sword Bay.

This fish lives in the cold waters thousands of meters below the seabed. Its entire body is covered with fine, silvery-white scales that shimmer with a faint blue light under the moonlight.

Adult silver swordfish can grow up to three feet long. Their flesh is tender and firm, rich in magic, and is a favorite nourishing food for spellcasters.

Of course, the price is also extremely expensive—this one alone costs at least three gold coins on the market.

At this moment, this rare sea fish, worth three gold coins, is skewered on a thick wooden stick and placed over the campfire.

Or to be more precise, it was placed on a pile of things that used to be a campfire, but now look more like a pile of coke.

Silves squatted by the fire, the hem of his black robe trailing on the ground, covered in dirt and bits of grass.

The hood had long been removed, revealing a young and handsome face—short, light blonde hair, deep purple eyes, a high nose bridge, and a well-defined jawline.

This face was privately ranked among the "top three most desirable faces for second-year students to date" by countless girls at Somma Royal Academy.

But now, that face is covered in cigarette ash.

"Damn it..." Silvers gritted his teeth, carefully flipping the grilled fish with a twig.

One side of the fish was charred black, while the other side still had traces of blood.

The grease dripped into the fire, making a hissing sound and sending up more black smoke.

Winter Wolf Frostfang lay to one side, its massive body occupying a large area of ​​open space.

Its icy blue eyes were fixed on the grilled fish, and its tail unconsciously swept the ground, raising clouds of dust.

An anxious purring sound came from its throat, as if saying, "Hurry up, you idiot owner!"

"Don't rush me!" Silvers said without turning around. "Cooking is a delicate art; it requires patience!"

Even so, his movements became increasingly frantic.

As the eldest son of a northern sorcerer family, Sylvester received the most elite magical education from a young age.

He began learning the laws of meditation at six, mastered his first magic trick at ten, successfully summoned his first undead creature at twelve, entered the Arcanist Academy of the Royal Academy of Solmar at eighteen, ranked second in the entrance exam, and advanced to Level 2 Necromancer that same year. By twenty, he had already broken through the threshold of Level 3...

He was an undisputed genius when it came to learning magic.

In real-world drills, he remained calm and wise, always finding the most efficient solutions.

Even when faced with tricky questions from his academic advisors, he could handle them with ease, citing classical texts and examples.

But grilled fish...

Grilling fish is a real challenge.

"Why is it so hard to control the heat?" Sylvester muttered to himself, fine beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "The 'Basic Alchemy' manual clearly states that the Silverscale Swordfish needs to be slowly roasted over a low flame, allowing the magic to gradually seep into the flesh... But how much of a low flame is that?"

Winter Wolf Frost Fang rolled its eyes – a gesture so human-like that it would surely shock any other adventurer who saw it.

Although the winter wolf is an intelligent magical beast, it is unheard of for it to roll its eyes like a human.

It stood up, walked over to Sylvester, brought its huge head close to the grilled fish to sniff, then stepped back in disgust and let out a low growl.

The meaning was clear: "It's burnt, you idiot!"

"I know it's burnt!" Silvers exclaimed angrily, "But the other side isn't cooked yet! This fire... this fire is so uneven!"

He tried to adjust the angle of the stick, but the movement was too large, and the grilled fish slipped off the stick and fell into the fire with a "thud".

Silves:

'

Frostfang: ".

'

The man and the wolf stared at the silver-scaled swordfish that was rapidly being engulfed by the flames in the fire, remaining silent for a full ten seconds.

Three gold coins.

At least three gold coins.

That's it, gone.

Frostfang let out a mournful cry, lay back down on the ground, buried its head in its front paws, and stopped wagging its tail.

He looked just like a big dog that had been bullied by its owner.

Silvestre's lips twitched, and he was about to say something about salvaging his dignity when—bang!—*bang!*

Two fireworks exploded in the night sky one after the other.

First, it was a deep purple, eerie and rich, in the southeast direction.

Then came a fiery red, piercing and urgent, in the sky not far to the west.

Silvers looked up abruptly, a sharp glint flashing in his deep purple eyes as the fireworks illuminated his face.

"Dark purple warning... A massive demonic tide has begun to spread." He muttered to himself, then a look of relief spread across his face. "Red fireworks, a neighboring squadron calling for help? No, at this distance and in this direction..."

'

He glanced at the charred fish in the fire, cleared his throat, and turned to Frostfang with a serious expression: "This is a signal of a massive demonic invasion. Frostfang, there's no time to eat!"

Silvers quickly stood up, brushed the dust off his black robe, and put his hood back on.

The necromancy genius who once dominated the Royal Academy and commanded awe in the Adventurers' Guild instantly returned to him.

"Get ready to face the onslaught of the demonic tide!" he said solemnly, his staff already in his hand.

Frost Fang raised her head and gave him an extremely human-like, contemptuous look.

That look in his eyes clearly said, "Keep pretending. You're obviously just making excuses because your grilled fish failed."

Then, the winter wolf looked longingly at the charred remains in the fire and let out a pitiful whimper.

Suddenly, a burst of cold air erupted from its body!

Visible waves of icy blue rippled outwards from Frosttooth, freezing the grass and covering the rocks wherever they passed.

The bonfire, along with the charred fish inside, was instantly frozen into a solid block of ice.

The flames remained burning within the ice, but no longer emitted light or heat, transforming into a bizarre ice sculpture.

"Hey!" Silvers took a step back, dodging the chill. "You've got quite the temper, kid!"

He gave a dry laugh, but his eyes had completely calmed down.

The simultaneous appearance of deep purple and red fireworks signifies two things:

First, the demonic tide has already erupted on a large scale, indicating that the lower plane of Anchorway is at least a medium-sized demonic lair.

Secondly, there is an adventurer team in the vicinity in danger and in urgent need of rescue—although Sylves is reluctant to admit it, that team is very likely the joint team of 34 and 35 that separated earlier.

"After all, it's my own squad. Should I go to their rescue?" The black-robed mage pondered for a moment.

"Frostfang," Silvers said softly, his voice no longer carrying the embarrassment of before, "it's time to get to work."

Winter Wolf Frostfang suddenly stood up, his icy blue eyes scanning the darkness ahead.

It let out a low growl, no longer the previous pitiful whimper, but a threatening warning belonging to an apex predator.