The Nameless Extra: I Proofread This World-Chapter 90: Peace Is the First Lie

Crestbeak Fowl was a large, land-bound avian marked by sharp beaks, a hunched gait with darker feathers. They were among the more tolerable faces of the Voidspawn, classified as Lesser-rank. They lacked danger and intent; they were rarely aggressive, did not starve in the way other things did, making them, in this world of rot and ruin, a rare mercy.
Though not aggressive, they were far from defenseless — startled too quickly, and they would scatter in a burst of speed and shrieking feathers. Their powerful legs can propel them into dense brush before a blade could find its mark.
However, when taken down, their value was immediate and valuable.
Unlike most creatures touched by the Void, whose bodies were fouled by poison, warped by instability, or simply too grotesque to stomach. Crestbeak Fowl were strangely untouched by such corruption, their meat firm, clean, and startlingly rich in protein, and nourishing. Their taste was indistinguishable from ordinary meat.
Yerin’s voice broke the momentary silence, firm and assured.
“According to the data and studies we reviewed, they’re one of the island’s most common fauna — adapted to this environment, drawn to open terrain with sparse cover and shallow soil. If the pattern holds, we should find them nearby… soon.”
Her words hung there, hopeful in logic but aware of how often logic failed in places like this.
Arlok shifted beside her, adjusting the weight of his poleaxe with a fluid motion, his eyes already scanning the land beyond. “Then we move fast. The sooner we secure food, the better… before something hungrier than us decides it’s time to hunt.” He said freely.
The dry grass gave a brittle whisper as their steps softened by caution. The team moved as a single, silent unit. No words exchanged, only the shared understanding of practiced coordination.
Their eyes sweep every inch of the uneven terrain. Yerin dropped to one knee beside a patch of disturbed earth, her hand reaching out slowly, brushing against the soil where a line of clawed tracks had sunk deep into the ground.
Sharp-edged, narrow, and fresh enough that the dust around them hadn’t yet settled. The indentations were clean as though whatever passed through had only just slipped beyond sight.
Just ahead, the wind blew a few scattered feathers — long, coarse, and grey-brown — caught in the grass. Some flattened underfoot, others trembling with each gust, while nearby stalks lay broken and bent in a loose trail pointing toward a single direction.
“They passed through here, not long ago… minutes, maybe less, but why were they moving fast?” Yerin murmured, her voice barely rising above the hush of the wind as she traced the deepest print with her fingertip.
Horren stood a short distance behind, his bow already drawn and angled toward the horizon, the arrow between his fingers steady. “Something startled them?” he asked, voice low.
“Or they’re just cautious,” Arlok said from the side, lacking the question, his poleaxe resting against his shoulder as he scanned the open field.
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A few feet to the side, Shima crouched low beneath the broken shadow of a crooked tree, her fingers drifting across the bent grass and splintered stems. Her touch trailed over faint scratches etched into the bark, then her lips pulled into a small smirk. “They’re close. Look at this. Something big passed through here, and not long ago either.” She murmured with keen observation.
Arlok stood a bit further back, his broad shoulders still as he lifted his head and drew a long breath through his nose. The wind shifted direction and brought with it the scent of river water, damp soil, and something faintly musky mixed among it all.
He exhaled through his teeth with a grunt. “Wind’s against us,” he muttered, gaze narrowing toward the far grass. “If we move any closer without a plan, they’ll smell us before we see them.”
Yerin’s eyes flicked upward at that, her gaze reading the drift of leaves and the slant of disturbed grass before she gave a short nod. “Then we stay downwind,” she said, voice lowered into a near-whisper. “Conceal your mana and move slowly without noise.”
And so they did — slipping forward one by one through the tall grass, their movements careful as they skirted around the area of loose dirt and slipped between dry twigs. Their forms kept low, breath drawn light, every motion reduced to the barest minimum of sound.
Ruvian observed the landscape in slow, methodical passes and then, through the quiet distance, he saw it. Roughly twenty meters ahead, half-shrouded by a patch of brittle grass and framed by the broken outline of low shrubs, a Crestbeak Fowl stood in the clearing.
Its massive, hunched form grazes with the absent rhythm of a creature at peace. Its limbs were rooted in the earth with clawed, scaled legs. Each step pressed deep enough to crack roots underneath the surface.
Its dark-brown plumage layered in coarse, dirt-matted feathers. And at its front, a thick, curved beak drove into the soil, pecking and tearing at the ground in search of insects or rootflesh.
The avian was utterly unaware of the eyes now locked upon it.
Horren positioned himself carefully, his bow already drawn, the string pulled restrained without a sound. While beside him, Yerin raised two fingers and flicked them downward in a subtle motion.
Arlok lowered his center of gravity, feet angling for balance, poleaxe angled just slightly behind him in readiness. While Shima slid a half-step to the right, angling to cut off any route of escape should the creature panic and bolt toward the ridge.
Everything was in motion, under control, until a cold pressure pressed into Ruvian’s chest, creeping all over his blood vessels.
‘Something isn’t right.’
His eyes narrowed slightly; the fowl itself was too still. Its head dipped and rose in an oddly machinelike rhythm. It did not so much graze as repeat a motion it had already performed, and weirdly… the air around it felt off to him.
‘Shouldn't Crestbeak Fowl always be travelling in flocks of five or six at minimum, especially in open plains like this?’
‘So, where are the others?”
Ruvian’s fingers curled slightly around the smooth shaft of his wand, the chill of realization crawling up his spine. He looked around the edges of the clearing again.
‘No, wait… even if some wandered off, this bird’s behavior lacked the nervous alertness of a creature separated from its kin.’
‘.....’
Then, he noticed a familiar scent from his past life. It was faint and buried beneath the layered smells of grass. But undeniably, it was there.
‘Blood…’
The scent rose upward in a thin, iron-laced thread, masked by the wind, muted by the dirt, but still fresh.
Ruvian slightly leaned toward Yerin. “Tell everyone to stop. Now.” He whispered.
Yerin’s eyes flicked toward him, surprise flickering for the briefest second before instinct took over — her hand lifted with authority. And across the clearing, each member of the team froze mid-crouch, weapons held ready but unmoving, their eyes darting for meaning behind the sudden command.
“Why?” Yerin asked, voice low but edged with tension. Her gaze sharpened as it moved between Ruvian and the still-grazing beast beyond the grass.
“Because the Voidspawn in front of us—”
He murmured, almost reverent.
“—is not a Crestbeak Fowl.” (+50PP)
PP= 4050
ME= 510