The Golden Poison Frog (1)

There is a piece of slang that roughly translates to turned into intestines. In plain terms, it means everything has devolved into an absolute dumpster fire.

All I did was post a simple thank-you note, but a few users jumped in, and within seconds, the comment section went straight to hell. Starting with Princess Chaeng-gu, KingLeor barged in out of nowhere, followed by an endless horde of fluid nicks. They hurled vicious curses, traded insults about each other's parents, and flooded my notifications without a moment of respite.

Aren't the moderators supposed to clamp down on this kind of thing?

As far as I knew, the head moderator stepped in whenever things grew too heated. A rule to that effect was explicitly written in the community guidelines. Even if this was just a fight between rabid sports fans, the moment personal attacks entered the fray, it ceased to be about sports entirely.

Right on cue, the head moderator had descended from on high. Don't fight on his post; take it to the arena. With that singular command from the Juddak, everyone complied and vanished into thin air. At long last, I was liberated from notification purgatory.

Before long, a brand-new pinned thread authored by the head moderator appeared at the top of the Gallery board.

A single refresh showed replies pouring in by the dozens. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Stepping into that crossfire would yield nothing of value to my survival. I had heard posts inciting international or interdimensional conflict earned instant bans, but sports tribalism seemed to get a pass. Of course, if things escalated out of hand, the Juddak would step in personally. Say what you will, but the moderator ran a tight ship.

Time to focus on my own business.

Now that I had returned the compasses, I needed to figure out how to conquer the Golden Poison Frog. First and foremost, the river where the creature nested was a natural stronghold in its own right. The water was so unnervingly pristine that gauging its true depth was impossible, and the current rushed by with alarming force. Wading in meant risking instant death from a single venomous dart. A ranged attack was mandatory.

A bow is... out of the question. Is a crossbow my best bet?

I had never drawn a traditional bow in my life. A crossbow, on the other hand, was comparatively straightforward to operate. My current balance charged on the Gallery was roughly 650 gold, earned from selling the Steel-scale Snake. Whether that was enough to purchase a crossbow—especially the specific design I had in mind—remained to be seen. First, let's put up a post.

Was this guy messing with me? I let out a hollow laugh. Then again, considering the profound swordsmanship manuals he had posted before, he might have been completely sincere from his own absurd perspective. Only after repeatedly emphasizing that I was a completely ordinary civilian did the matter finally settle.

As I had decided earlier, I intended to save external aid for true life-or-death emergencies. It was my trump card. Until then, I had to remain self-reliant. If that wasn't possible, I would earn coin and purchase what I needed from the auction house. Besides, a crossbow was a versatile tool that would prove immensely useful long after this hunt.

"Holy shit..."

Why the hell was it so expensive? Did it come embedded with solid diamonds? The price surpassed my wildest estimates. Since roughly 300 gold was an entire month's living expenses for an ordinary commoner, this was far beyond a modest sum. Perhaps it commanded such a premium because it was 'dwarven craft' straight out of a fantasy novel, though I had no clue if that logic applied here.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Regardless of the price, this was an opportunity. Only Passing Dwarf had the craftsmanship to provide the tailored mechanism I needed. Steep though it was, everyone claimed dwarven craft was worth every copper, so I could stomach the expense. If it turned out to be a rip-off, I simply wouldn't do business with him again. If all else failed, I'd procure a weapon elsewhere.

Despite being steeped in imperialistic arrogance, it seemed common knowledge across dimensions that elves were synonymous with archery. At least that matched the pop culture common sense from my old world. Amused by the escalating commotion, I left a comment of my own.

It wasn't a roleplay concept; it was the literal truth. Not that anyone believed me. In the end, it didn't matter. Whether they believed me or mocked me, surviving this hellscape was all that counted.

While we traded banter, Passing Dwarf had already finished the custom adjustments. I initiated the transaction window without a second's delay. A crossbow crafted by a master dwarven smith... Just how exceptional would it be? I desperately prayed it would live up to its steep price tag.

Fifty meters. Hearing that number, I visualized the width of the stream where the golden amphibian resided. It was small enough to be called a brook rather than an expansive river, so the distance across wasn't vast. It was simply terrifyingly deep. Even so, considering the lethal venom the frog spat with pinpoint accuracy, fifty meters cut it dangerously close. Concealing myself and launching a surprise ambush was my absolute best option.

Passing Dwarf had generously provided me with toilet paper earlier, so taking more freebies made me feel somewhat guilty. Yet here I was, receiving a free pair of gloves. Handling that deadly frog with bare skin would have been suicidal, making the gift remarkably thoughtful. If I ever stumbled upon potent medicinal herbs in this forest, I would repay him. Or perhaps monster hide would be better. As a blacksmith, quality leather would likely serve him far more than plants.

Let's see here. He sent it in a crate.

The transaction concluded, and a sturdy wooden box materialized before me. I pried open the lid. Inside lay the crossbow and gloves, greeting my eyes first. But beneath them rested a dark glass bottle that caught me completely off guard.

What's this?

It was a rich amber bottle sealed with a snug cork stopper. That cork made its contents immediately obvious.

Alcohol. I recalled his gruff comment from earlier, offering to send booze so I wouldn't off myself. To think he actually followed through. Beneath that abrasive exterior, the guy was a hopeless softie.

I'll save this for later.

In a survival situation, strong liquor could serve as a makeshift anesthetic or painkiller. Intoxication dulled physical agony. I gently set the bottle against the cavern wall so it wouldn't shatter, then picked up the crossbow to inspect it thoroughly.

Coated in a matte black finish, the weapon possessed an imposing, sleek aesthetic befitting dwarven craftsmanship.

So the bolt is anchored directly to the frame.

The harpoon-tipped bolt was attached to the crossbow via a fine, high-tensile cord. I grasped the operational mechanism at a glance. It was time for a test fire. Crafting a crossbow was notoriously difficult, but firing one was supposed to be child's play.

I placed my foot into the metal stirrup protruding from the front of the frame, just as manual instructions dictated. Bracing the weapon firmly against the floor with my boot, all that remained was to haul the bowstring upward until it latched—

Clack—

"Huh?"

...Wait, what the hell? A bead of cold sweat formed on my brow. I had tugged with reasonable force, but the string hadn't budged an inch. My whole torso shuddered against the stubborn resistance. At first, I wondered if the mechanism was jammed. But when I poured raw muscular force into my arms, the bowstring finally began creeping upward a fraction at a time.

"HRRRGH!"

With an explosive roar from the depths of my lungs, the string finally clicked into the catch with a heavy metallic latch. Panting heavily, I stared at the weapon in sheer disbelief. What kind of monstrosity had this dwarf constructed? Was draw weight like this considered normal out there? Given that this was a world populated by superhuman freaks capable of shattering mountains barehanded, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility.

Wiping away sweat, I loaded a bolt into the grooved rail. First up was the harpoon variant. Since ammunition was scarce, I prioritized the reusable tethered bolt.

It has a full shoulder stock, which makes aiming intuitive.

Despite its heavy-duty build, the overall balance was remarkably light in the hands, allowing for steady aiming. I stepped outside the cave and aligned the iron sights toward a distant tree. Firing into the rock face risked blunting or snapping the harpoon head, making living timber the ideal test target.

Hold your breath... steady...

THWIP!

The instant my finger squeezed the trigger, a sound like tearing silk detonated in my ears. The draw tension was so colossal that the air blast whipped my fringe upward.

THWACK!

The harpoon rocketed across the clearing and drove straight through the center of the massive trunk. To be precise: it didn't just lodge into the bark; it punched entirely through the wood, bursting out the other side. Terrifying, unadulterated kinetic violence. Against power like this, that golden frog wouldn't stand a ghost of a chance. It would be blown apart before it even realized what hit it.

It definitely earned that price tag.

Clicking my tongue in awe at performance that vastly outstripped my expectations, I tugged on the cord to reel the harpoon back. Thanks to the tether, retrieving the shot was effortless.

Still, I need more practice.

Every instinct urged me to charge down to the river and execute the amphibian immediately, but haste was the enemy of survival. With a reload cycle this brutally slow and physically taxing, I would only get one shot. That single bolt had to extinguish the frog's breath instantly. If I missed, my only option would be running for my life. The moment its venom grazed my skin, I was a corpse.

Only through meticulous preparation could I secure an endless supply of drinking water. And no, this had absolutely nothing to do with being blinded by Allfather's twenty-thousand-gold bounty. None at all.

Even if only to wash off this wretched grime, I will bathe in that river no matter what.

Going two days without washing made my skin crawl with disgust. The mild weather was the only saving grace; had it been sweltering and humid, my sanity would have buckled. I spent the remainder of the afternoon drilling non-stop until the shadows lengthened, gradually acclimating to the brutal draw weight of the bowstring.

As dusk fell over the primeval woods, I retreated into the shelter of the cavern.

With the money I have left...

Deducting the crossbow purchase left me with roughly one hundred gold. I needed to stretch every coin to its absolute limit. The most pressing danger was snakes and poisonous insects. Up until now, I had survived on pure, dumb luck, but a lethal bite in my sleep was an ever-present hazard. Beyond that, I required antivenoms and basic medical supplies. An antidote was an indispensable safety net against the frog.

The auction house has almost everything... but the prices are obscene.

The astronomical transaction fees were extortionate. Even if instantaneous dimensional transfer justified the premium, it made my wallet bleed. Yet skipping out on basic survival gear wasn't an option. Swallowing my tears, I purchased a single vial of universal antivenom. To guard against counterfeit swindlers, I combed through previous customer reviews before finalizing the order.

As for repellent... this one looks promising.

After acquiring repellent and basic disinfectants, a mere twenty gold remained. I felt no regret over the spent fortune. If it extended my lifespan by even a day, it was worth every ounce of gold. Stepping to the threshold, I thoroughly coated the cave entrance and the perimeter of my sleeping spot with the repellent powder. Whether it would ward off supernatural predators remained an open question, but the buyer feedback had been stellar.

Crunch. Crunch.

"Ugh. Tastes like bitter dirt."

For dinner, I chewed through several Inedia Pills. Acrid, foul medicinal herbs coated my tongue. Since I had to sustain myself on these compressed rations for the foreseeable future, complaining did no good. Having them was a luxury in itself.

"Nrrgh..."

Swallowing the pills, I forced my legs into the full lotus posture. It was too early to sleep. The moment my knees locked into position, agonizing tension flared through my stiff joints, but I gritted my teeth and endured. This was supposedly the posture required for cultivating mana or circulating internal arts. The Heavenly Demon had offered to teach me, so familiarizing my body with the posture was a necessary first step.

Will I get used to this after a week or so?

Flexibility wasn't forged overnight; it demanded relentless daily discipline. With nothing else to occupy my evenings before bed, I had time in abundance. Back home, I would have spent these idle hours glued to video games.

Thank god the Gallery exists.

Maintaining the lotus posture, I browsed the forum board. In truth, the Gallery was my psychological lifeline. Humans are frail creatures that cannot endure absolute isolation; it is why we are defined as social animals. I recalled reading Robinson Crusoe, where a castaway treated an inanimate volleyball like a living human companion. Communication was essential to human sanity, and the Gallery filled that terrifying void.

Time to turn in.

Lost in reading forum threads, hours slipped by unnoticed. I unfolded my aching legs. Immersed in the digital feeds, I had momentarily forgotten the stiffness in my limbs—until the agony rushed back the second my attention shifted. Wincing through the joint pain, I prepped my bed for the night.

While the forest days were mild, nightfall brought a piercing chill. A fire was mandatory.

Crack! Sizzle!

Striking the Ignition Stone gifted by the Heavenly Demon against dry tinder, flames bloomed across the firewood. Warmth gradually seeped through the damp cavern air. On my first night, sheer exhaustion and the near-fatal Mad Dog ambush had left me oblivious to the cold. Tonight, the gentle crackle of embers brought genuine comfort.

I tossed a few sturdy logs onto the hearth, opened the interface, and drafted a new post.

Right. What on earth was I expecting from these degenerates?

To be clear, I meant the anonymous fluid nicks, not the registered fixed nicks. The fixed nicks offered genuine warmth and encouragement, but the fluid trolls... well, they required no further elaboration.

Even so, having this is a blessing.

Chuckling faintly, I closed the interface and stretched out onto the hard stone floor. If I managed to bag that golden frog tomorrow, perhaps I would buy a thick blanket with the bounty. A pillow wouldn't hurt either. Exhausted by another brutal day in the wild, those pleasant musings were quickly consumed by an overwhelming tide of drowsiness.

As my heavy eyelids drifted shut, and the nocturnal chirping of crickets softened into a gentle hum—

I want to go home.

Cradling that quiet, desperate prayer, my consciousness faded into darkness.