Wizard Starts Farming With Mini Skeletons

When Rodent finally spotted Clayton, he paused for a moment. Clayton had always been known as a coward—though in truth, he was simply someone who exercised extreme caution.

Once Rodent was certain it was really him, he couldn't suppress a knowing smirk. He had been waiting a long time for the chance to kill this man. But until now, he'd never succeeded—either the timing had been off, or the risk of killing someone within city limits had been too great, especially if the authorities found out.

But now, Rodent was far more confident. Ever since joining the loyalist faction of the Blood Raiders, his power had increased dramatically—he was nearing the peak of his strength. He was convinced he could take Clayton down without any trouble.

Meanwhile, Clayton felt a wave of unease the moment he sensed Rodent's piercing gaze. His scalp tingled—like prey realizing, too late, that a predator had locked eyes on it.

He couldn't help but wonder—what had Rodent gained to suddenly seem so threatening?

Clayton studied Rodent's group. They looked calm, but a dangerous energy radiated from them. That unsettling feeling returned, nearly overwhelming him—until he took a deep breath and forced himself to refocus.

Once he calmed down, Clayton turned his attention elsewhere.

At the center of the area stood a towering gate—grand and mystical, stretching high into the sky. Anyone who laid eyes on it would be struck with awe. Around it, people had formed into small groups. Just a few meters in front of the gate stood a sword embedded in a stone. One by one, people lined up to try pulling it out—but so far, no one had succeeded.

The sight triggered a memory in Clayton's mind. The sword was actually a kind of key—whoever managed to pull it free would gain ownership of the weapon, and everything that came with it. Once the sword was removed, the gate to the second trial would open, allowing either an individual or a group to pass through.

But no one had ever managed to extract it. All they could do was wait for the gate to open on its own—a process said to take an extremely long time. According to Clayton's intel, no one had drawn the sword since the dungeon first appeared.

Naturally, this piqued everyone's curiosity. People wanted to try their luck, eager to see what reward lay behind such a deceptively simple, yet clearly difficult, challenge.

Clayton, new to the scene, simply watched in silence.

As he observed, his eyes fell on several individuals exuding overwhelming auras—six-star apprentice mages, clearly on another level.

He quickly concealed his presence, careful not to provoke these elites, and memorized their faces—just in case.

He lingered for quite some time, observing group after group attempt to pull the sword. Still, no one succeeded.

Eventually, temptation crept in. Like anyone else, he couldn't help but wonder—maybe he was different. Maybe he could pull it out. After all, he was a transmigrator—someone who'd always felt he had an edge.

But after thinking it through, he chose not to try.

It wasn't an impulsive decision. If he succeeded, it would cause a massive stir—he'd become a target, either out of envy or because powerful factions would try to control him. Society still clung to a crab mentality—unwilling to see others rise. And elite groups often had a control complex—anything beyond their influence had to be suppressed.

On the other hand, if he failed, it would be a waste of time—and could still attract the wrong kind of attention. Clayton had no interest in becoming the center of drama in such a volatile crowd. He firmly believed in the sayings: "The tall poppy gets cut down," and "The nail that sticks out gets hammered."

So, as always, he chose to stay low-profile and invisible.

As evening approached, Clayton searched for a place to rest and set up camp. Unlike past days, where he'd eaten lavishly from his hunting spoils, this time he ate discreetly—carefully portioning food from his dimensional storage, consuming it little by little to avoid drawing attention through scent or sight.

He picked a campsite not too far from the crowd, but not too close either—just visible enough to seem unthreatening, but far enough to avoid unnecessary interaction.

It was a hassle, but Clayton believed it was worth it. And it turned out he was right—Rodent, who had been watching him the whole time, found no reason to suspect anything.

Days passed, and still, no one managed to pull the sword from the stone. More and more people arrived, making the area increasingly crowded and noisy. Clayton began to feel restless. His sense of privacy was eroding. Eventually, he moved his camp to a quieter location—still within view, but distant enough not to draw suspicion.

That night, as Clayton was eating with a few of his familiars, a loud noise erupted from the direction of the gate and the sword.

Bang!

Wosshh!

Like dominoes falling, chaos broke out. Spells flew in every direction.

Clayton had thought his location was ideal—neither too secluded nor too exposed. But reality proved otherwise—he was still targeted.

Without hesitation, he eliminated his attackers with swift, precise movements. Most of them were thin, ragged individuals—likely immigrants from outside the city.

From a distance, Rodent watched the scene unfold—stunned, and quietly impressed by Clayton's skill and composure.

"This kid... he's no ordinary brat. No wonder he's survived even after his father died. With strength and maturity like that, he could become a major player in the future," Rodent muttered, narrowing his eyes.

That thought only solidified Rodent's resolve to kill him. If he waited any longer, he might not be able to win.

Rodent began to move.

"Hey, Rodent! Where do you think you're going?!"

Just as he was about to act, someone called out to him. Rodent scowled and turned around.

"What?" he snapped.

"You're coming with me. Don't go wandering off. We've got important business."

Rodent could only nod—grudgingly.

As he walked away, his expression soured.

"Damn it… Just wait until I'm stronger. I'll make you all pay…" he growled under his breath.

For a brief moment, a red glow flickered in his eyes, and the veins across his body visibly pulsed.

Meanwhile, Clayton had finished dealing with his attackers and was rummaging through the loot they'd left behind.

Suddenly, a group of people appeared.

"Stop! Don't move!" one of them shouted.

Clayton ignored them and prepared to fight.

"I said freeze! Don't you understand human language?!"

Without hesitation, the man hurled a spell at Clayton.

Clayton dodged and fired back—a powerful Water Cannon roared toward his opponent.

"And who do you think you are? You think I'll listen to your commands just because you yell? Hah! What a joke!" Clayton mocked.

The crowd fell silent, while the man who'd been targeted turned pale—clearly not expecting anyone to talk to him like that.