I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World
Chapter 35: Killing Wyverns

Chapter 35: Killing Wyverns

The morning sun rose like a blade, slicing through the chill mist that clung to Windspire Cliffs. Inigo stirred the fire one last time before stamping it out with his boot. The sky above was clear—too clear. A hunter’s sky. No cover for anything that flew.

Lyra yawned softly as she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her hair had fallen from its tie during the night and now framed her face like silvered silk. She blinked at the brightness, then glanced toward Inigo, who was rechecking his gear in that focused, meticulous way of his.

And then she noticed it.

"What’s that?" she asked, pointing.

Inigo looked up, his hand still resting on the weapon laid across his lap—the matte black body of the M110 glinted faintly in the sunlight. "This?" he said casually, brushing imaginary dust from the scope. "Something I brought along."

"I’ve never seen it before."

Inigo shrugged. "It’s always been with me. I just didn’t have a reason to bring it out until now."

Lyra’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Is it like the other one? The smaller one with the impossible recoil?"

He smiled faintly. "Something like that."

She didn’t press further—but her gaze lingered a few seconds longer than usual.

By midmorning, they had broken camp and descended further into the cliffs. The wind screamed along the ridgelines, tugging at their cloaks and sending loose gravel tumbling down the slopes. The climb was slow and deliberate, each step calculated. They had marked the likely nest site the day before—a jagged outcropping veiled by stone and wind. A good vantage. A better hiding place.

Inigo took point, rifle slung across his back beneath the longcoat. Lyra moved behind him, quiet as a shadow, her bow always within arm’s reach.

"We’re getting close," she said, pausing to listen. Her ears twitched. "I hear wingbeats."

Inigo raised a hand, signaling a halt.

They crouched behind a ridge and peeked over.

There it was.

The nest.

Built into the spine of a broken cliff face, it was a grotesque mound of bone, feathers, and rock—at least two wyverns visible, curled around eggs the size of barrels. A third prowled the outer perimeter, wings half-furled.

"Three adults confirmed," Inigo murmured. "Eggs too."

"Do we eliminate the nest?" Lyra asked, her tone even, but there was a faint tightness in her jaw.

"We do what we must," Inigo said. "But first, we thin them out."

He unslung the sniper and lay flat along the rock, extending the bipod and peering through the scope.

The heat signatures flared immediately. Pulse rates. Movement. Wing muscle shifts.

He exhaled.

"First shot’s mine. Once I fire, they’ll scatter. You take the high path and pick off anything that tries to flank."

Lyra nodded and moved without another word, scaling a narrow ledge that wound around to an elevated perch.

Inigo centered his crosshairs on the sentinel wyvern’s eye. Its head tilted slightly as if sensing something.

Too late.

He squeezed the trigger.

CRACK.

The shot ripped through the air, deafening even with the suppressor. The wyvern’s skull snapped backward, and it crumpled mid-step.

Chaos erupted.

The other two shrieked and launched skyward, wings slicing wind as they rose in spiral bursts of fury. Inigo rolled left, chambered the next round, and sighted the second.

Another pull.

CRACK.

This one clipped the beast’s wing—sending it tumbling down the cliffside, smashing through stone and debris.

The third wyvern shrieked and dived, heading straight for Inigo.

He ducked, unslinging the rifle and switching to his sidearm in one fluid motion. But before he could fire—

THWIP.

An arrow embedded in the creature’s neck, glowing red with flame. Then another, and another.

Lyra stood atop her perch, face unreadable, her bow singing death with every pull.

Inigo fired twice more.

The wyvern collapsed in a cloud of dust, its last scream echoing across the cliffs.

Silence followed.

Except for the wind.

He stood slowly, brushing grit from his coat.

"You alright?" Lyra called, already climbing down to him.

"Alive," he said, "and impressed."

She eyed the sniper still in his hands. "So... when did you say you got that again?"

Inigo offered a nonchalant shrug. "Let’s just say I don’t show all my cards on the first hand."

Lyra raised an eyebrow, but instead of arguing, she merely nodded. "Remind me not to play poker with you."

They approached the nest carefully, weapons drawn, in case any stragglers remained.

The eggs were intact.

Inigo stared at them for a long moment.

"Do we destroy them?" Lyra asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Then, slowly, he nodded. "We came here to eliminate the threat. That includes potential threats."

Lyra drew in a quiet breath and stepped forward. Together, they worked in silence—efficient, methodical. She laid enchanted fire arrows gently between the eggs, while Inigo poured a light arc of oil around the perimeter. A single spark was enough.

The nest ignited with a muffled whoosh, flames licking upward, the crackle loud against the wind. Smoke began to rise, curling into the sky like a black signal of finality.

Inigo stepped back, watching the flames. "No hatchlings. No loose ends."

Lyra didn’t look away. "It feels cruel," she said, voice steady but hushed. "But I understand."

"It’s not about cruelty," Inigo replied. "It’s about preventing more riders from screaming on these cliffs."

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was reflective.

When the flames died to embers, they turned to leave. Their boots crunched across gravel and scorched bone as they descended the ridge. The climb back to the path was slow, but the wind had lost its teeth. The sun crept higher behind them, and the shadows of Windspire finally began to shorten.

At the base, Inigo paused and looked back one last time at the blackened ruin of the nest.

Lyra stood beside him. "Do you ever think about what your world would do with something like this?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "You mean the wyverns?"

"No. Your weapons. The power to erase something from range with one pull of a trigger."

He hesitated. "They already have it."

She glanced at him, but he didn’t elaborate. She didn’t push. The silence returned, but this time, it was comfortable.

By midday, they reached their horses, and the long ride back to Elandra began. There were few words spoken—only the sound of hooves on stone and the distant cry of birds overhead.

And it was—.