Bruton stepped out of the clay hideout and into the red dust. His scarred scalp gleamed in the sun. He had a list of three names burned into his head: Journey, Ventura, the Huntsman. Today the hunt began. Today Quest-line started dying. Behind him, his war-party gathered. The Horsemen of Death checked their blades and tightened their saddles. The crooked tower of salvaged ship-wood and adobe loomed over them, a skull mounted above its door. This was the staging ground. From here, the riders would scatter across the land. Bruton walked to the center of the yard. He dragged a broken town guard from the cart and dropped the body in the dirt. More bodies followed. He arranged them in a ring around a slab of flat stone. With a chisel, he carved deep letters: QUEST-LINE WILL DIE. He set small fires at each corpse's head. Let any traveler see it. Let word run ahead of him. A pack of bog goblins crept forward from the brush. They wore animal skins and green beards. Their leader offered a clay jar and a spear. Bruton paid them in coin and meat. They knew every swamp trail and every cold camp for a hundred miles. They would be his nose. From a chained post, Bruton unhooked his beast. The gator hound snarled, red eyes burning, venom dripping from its claws. He pressed a torn scrap of cloth to its snout — fabric stolen from a Huntsman's cloak. The hound locked onto the scent and pulled hard against its chain. No more rushing. No more traps. This time the prey would be found by patience, not pride. Bruton mounted up. He raised one fist. The Horsemen rode out behind him, the goblins loping at their flanks, the hound straining ahead. The hunt for Quest-line had begun.