"Mind your words, Carlson. Don't act like you don't care for your brother, even if he's lying," the lady with the golden tooth shot a glare at the young man standing beside Guilliman.
Carlson was taken aback, clearly annoyed by his mother's words. He was used to the harsh treatment of his older brother but didn't expect such a reprimand in front of others. The lady's tone was firm, but Guilliman could sense there was more to the situation than just a brotherly spat.
The truth was that the Blackberry family was currently hunting a sacred beast, but the lady had no idea. If she had known, she would have raised an alarm immediately, instead of brushing off her son's behavior.
"Sigh, whatever," Guilliman muttered, carrying another piece of fish to his mouth without a care.
Seeing his indifference, the lady sneered, "Hmp! When you're done, clean up the dishes. Your brothers will be heading over to the shelter's advisory office soon to see if they can take the Slayer test."
There was an edge of pride in her voice. The truth, however, was that Guilliman was the result of her failed first marriage. His real father was dead, and according to shelter rules, she had to take care of him now. But that didn't mean she liked him. To her, Guilliman reminded her too much of her ex-husband—stubborn, prideful, and just generally unpleasant.
More than anything, she wanted to see her new family trample over Guilliman, to crush his pride, especially in the absence of his father. She had no intention of letting him rise above the status she had imposed on him.
"No problem," Guilliman responded, unfazed by her attitude. He knew full well why she hated him—he had inherited the memories and experiences from the previous owner of this body, piecing together the history of this broken family.
"Good," she said with a smug smile before adding, "Also, make their beds when you're done. They might be tired after so they can sleep."
With that, she turned on her heel and left.
A few minutes later, Guilliman's brothers were freshened up and heading out the door to the advisory office, leaving Guilliman alone in the house to clean up.
"Hmm, let's get this over with," Guilliman muttered to himself as he finished the last of his food and stood up to clean.
Creating waves here would be stupid. Despite having completed his shamanic awakening and becoming a Slayer, he knew better than to stir up trouble. While he might have been able to beat these two in a fair fight, he knew that would only draw the attention of the Blackberry family—who had already lost their son and would undoubtedly demand an explanation for why Guilliman was still alive.
What he needed to do now was grow stronger. Once he was strong enough, they wouldn't dare speak to him about taking him into the forest to die, nor would they need to ask why he was still breathing.
So, he cleaned the dishes, swept the floors, and made the beds. His enhanced strength and speed allowed him to finish all the chores in under five minutes.
"Good," he said, satisfied with his work, and then made his way to the bath. The houses in the shelter were divided by tiers, with all the necessary amenities, except for food. So, it wasn't hard to find a place to bathe.
After he finished cleaning himself, he hurriedly left the house.
Unlike his younger brothers, who still needed the advisory officer's approval to take the Slayer test, Guilliman didn't need any such permission.
He was already a Slayer.
…
"It should be around here somewhere," Guilliman muttered to himself as he left the outer section of the shelter and ventured deeper into the sprawling Blacksteel Shelter. The structure was composed of interlocking housing units, blocks of concrete and steel that ranged from low-grade materials to highly reinforced sections, all stacking toward the sky. The architecture resembled something from a building block game, albeit crude and plain to the eyes.
He maneuvered through the crowded streets, passing unexpected dead ends and tight corners, before finally spotting a few individuals walking towards a building. They were heavily armed, with weapons strapped to their backs, all heading to a particular structure.
"Hello, please. Is this the Slayer Test block?" Guilliman asked as he approached a burly young man carrying a greatsword on his back.
The man looked at him curiously. Seeing the frail-looking young man before him, the burly guy took a knee in a respectful manner, his posture stiff and almost rehearsed.
"Yes?" the man asked, his voice a bit too casual. "You want an autograph, kid?"
Guilliman blinked, taken aback by the unexpected response. The man seemed to think he was just another fan or someone eager to meet a famous figure. But Guilliman, not wanting to embarrass the young man, shrugged and turned his shoulder, presenting the ragged sleeve for a signature.
The man, still bewildered, pulled an ink pen out of nowhere, quickly scribbling across the fabric of Guilliman's sleeve.
"Berthold Ironback," the man wrote boldly.
With a proud grin, he patted Guilliman on the back and stepped away, returning to his place in line without another word. Guilliman couldn't help but feel a bit amused at the man's nervousness. Clearly, he wasn't used to giving autographs, but the Slayer Test held a lot of weight, and the anxiety was palpable.
Guilliman couldn't help but wonder why someone so physically strong could be so nervous. This test would reveal not only the man's potential as a hunter but also his mana affinities—an important factor for anyone wishing to become a true Slayer. The test could make or break their future.
As Guilliman took a few steps back and rejoined the line, his curiosity about the man only grew. What was making Berthold Ironback, a Slayer, sweat so much?
Time passed, and soon enough, the sound of a stern voice rang out from the building's entrance.
"Next batch, come in," the female attendant called sharply. Her face was stern, and there was no room for disobedience in her gaze.
Guilliman took a deep breath, the anticipation rising. The test was finally here.