Mining (1)

Leave it to the Gallery. Toss them a juicy piece of drama, and they happily entertain themselves for hours. Amidst the endless banter, there were occasionally insightful speculations, which made scrolling through the thread surprisingly productive.

Seeing as they all speak with such an archaic cadence, whoever taught them must have hailed from an older generation.

The most notable detail was Chief Gorilla's dated manner of speaking. Language naturally evolves over time; one didn't have to look far back on Earth to see stark differences between the Korean spoken fifty years ago and modern dialogue. Moreover, the Righteous-Blood War that ravaged the Central Plains some sixty years ago had triggered massive linguistic shifts. Chief Gorilla was essentially speaking the dialect of someone who lived through that era.

Man, that place really went through hell and back.

From the catastrophic rise of the Undying King to the blood-soaked Righteous-Blood War, such was the tragic tapestry of human history—at least half of it punctuated by violence, conquest, and slaughter. Beating each other senseless was simply a regular Tuesday.

Not that it's any different here.

The wild offered no higher moral ground. It was an unforgiving theater where a desperate battle for survival played out every single day. Hell, I had nearly met my maker at Chief Gorilla's hands just this morning. I had no right to look down on anyone else; as I'd reminded myself countless times, I was drowning in my own problems.

I leaned back and pondered how to tackle the rest of the day. Chief Gorilla's unexpected intrusion had completely derailed my morning schedule, necessitating an immediate overhaul of my plans.

Should I... actually build walls and a door?

A single casual palm strike from Chief Gorilla would reduce any door or barricade to kindling. Even the third little pig's brick house stood sturdy against the big bad wolf, yet the sheer physical absurdity of Chief Gorilla rendered such fortifications entirely moot.

At least he apologized, which means an unprovoked invasion into my territory is unlikely.

Still, there was no telling when another monstrous predator of similar caliber might crawl out of the woods. A defensive structure painstakingly erected over weeks could crumble in a single effortless strike. And it wouldn't just be the barricades—the shockwave could bring the entire cave roof crashing down on my head, mirroring the collapse of my sanity.

Let's scrap the walls and gate. I'll just set up surveillance cameras.

Accepting that reality made it easy to let go. Honestly, I should consider myself lucky for learning the lesson early; had I spent weeks building a fortress only to watch Chief Gorilla flatten it like a cardboard box, the despair would have crushed me twice as hard.

Even so, I couldn't just leave my camp wide open to thieves. Losing a few Inedia Pills was tolerable, but if someone snatched my precious elixirs, my very survival would hang by a thread.

I need to stash the critical valuables beneath the floor.

The plan was straightforward: dig a hidden cache into the stone floor, conceal it beneath a wooden lid, and drape a tiger pelt seamlessly over the top. I'd even pack it with charcoal to neutralize any scents that sharp-nosed predators might track. To pull that off, however, I had to chisel into the solid stone bedrock.

Will a pickaxe even make a dent?

The cave floor was a mixture of packed earth and dense bedrock. Without heavy masonry tools, excavating it would be a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠grueling slog. Besides, my left arm was still resting in a splint, so for now, I could only survey the ground and scout a viable spot.

Right about here should do.

I found a relatively soft patch of stone and scratched a rough marker onto the surface. Once my left arm finished mending—sometime after lunch—I could begin the renovation in earnest.

"Nom, nom! Munch, chomp!"

"Aigoo, Wonmo, take it easy."

I watched the little owlbear gorge himself on bananas. At that rate, he was going to end up with a furious case of diarrhea. Just how sweet were those fruits that he didn't even bother peeling them? The little glutton had already polished off four whole bananas in one sitting. In the end, I had to step in and stash the remaining fruit out of reach, ignoring his indignant flailing and whimpers.

Guess that takes care of the immediate chores... right?

The cave was tidy, and excavation was slated for the afternoon. A glance at the clock showed it was barely eleven in the morning. Thanks to Chief Gorilla barging in at the crack of dawn, I had plenty of daylight to spare.

Time to get the stone oven going, then head upriver to check the fish traps.

Even with a splint bound to my arm, a man had to eat. I pushed myself up from the floor, only to pause as a sudden thought crossed my mind. What on earth was I supposed to feed Fast Tree Sloth? Up until now, the creature had sustained itself almost exclusively on Inedia Pills, leaving me completely in the dark about its natural diet.

"Hey, Ppareumbo. What do you actually eat? We're completely out of Inedia Pills, you know."

"......"

Without a sound, the sloth raised an agonizingly slow claw and pointed toward the corner of the cavern. I followed the gesture.

Splash! Sploosh!

It was the iron bucket containing our live catch. Did this overgrown tree-hugger actually eat fish? When I leveled a dubious stare at him, he offered a tranquil, measured nod.

Come to think of it, didn't he try to swipe my fish the very first day we met?

The memory was still crystal clear. Back then, he had crept toward my drying rack with glacial stealth, only to freeze when our eyes locked. The sheer absurdity of catching a giant sloth red-handed had left me utterly speechless. Looking back, of course, the fact that he didn't decapitate me on the spot was pure mercy on his part.

First the gorillas, now this guy... Why are all the top predators in this forest so obsessed with fish?

Maybe fish were the local equivalent of a steaming bowl of pork soup and rice—a hearty comfort food so universally beloved that even apex beasts couldn't resist. It made sense when I thought about it; hunting fish in these rivers was practically suicide for most land beasts, considering the hyper-lethal Golden Poison Frogs lurking along the banks. Without specialized woven traps, catching them was a fool's errand.

"Alright, fine. I'll share the fish with you for a while. You eat them raw like Wonmo, right?"

"......"

Another serene, sluggish nod. That solved the immediate culinary crisis. With Ppareumbo clinging lazily to my back and Wonmo trotting dutifully at my heels, I made my way up toward the riverbanks.

Upon inspecting the submerged wicker traps, I found two fat, thrashing river fish caught inside.

Three this morning, two at noon. Not bad at all.

Factoring in the spares swimming in the bucket back at camp, we ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had three or four fish in reserve. Still, with Ppareumbo now added to the feeding roster, rationing was essential. If push came to shove, I'd have to break into my stash of smoked jerky.

The day is steadily approaching when I'll have to be entirely self-sufficient.

As bizarre, unpredictable crises kept cropping up, my reliance on the Gallery had begun to taper off. Or perhaps that was an ungrateful way to look at it; without the community's guidance and tools, I would have perished a dozen times over already.

Crouching by the water's edge, I scaled and gutted the catch, deftly slicing open the viscera to extract the inner spirit core.

Slice.

"Hm?"

The moment the glowing pearl of condensed mana slid free, a shaggy, clawed hand drifted into my peripheral vision. The palm lay flat and open, a silent yet unmistakable demand.

I glanced back and forth between the sloth's calm, impassive face and his outstretched claws, then asked incredulously, "You want the spirit core?"

A single, deliberate nod answered me.

I shook my head with a dry chuckle, but quickly weighed the proposal. To be fair, spirit cores were the one resource I had in staggering abundance. Every single river beast yielded one, and my stockpile was growing faster than I could ever consume them. Feeding them to Ppareumbo was far better than letting them gather dust.

"Here you go."

"......"

The moment I dropped the luminous bead into his palm, Ppareumbo popped it directly into his maw. He was clearly treating the concentrated essence like a crunchy replacement for Inedia Pills. A subtle grimace rippled across his furry features, suggesting the taste left much to be desired compared to the refined martial medicine, but he swallowed it regardless. In terms of sheer caloric and magical value, a raw beast core packed far more pure mana than an Inedia Pill ever could.

Snacking on raw spirit cores like peanuts...

It was a staggering sight. Just how absurdly high was this creature's combat tier? Stealing several bemused side-glances at my sloth companion, I finished cleaning the remaining fish and carried the haul back to camp.

Even with my left arm tethered in a splint, tending the fire and sliding the seasoned meat into the stone oven proved manageable enough.

Thank goodness those damn gorillas didn't smash the oven to pieces.

Once my stomach was thoroughly satisfied, it was time to circulate my internal energy. Under normal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠circumstances, I would have begun ingesting the spirit cores today, but with my fractured arm, I had pushed the cultivation breakthrough to the evening. My physical ascension was only a matter of hours away.

Speaking of which... the arm feels practically healed.

The limb that had received a concentrated syringe of high-grade elixir felt shockingly stable. Still, I had zero intention of venturing out into the woods today; I planned to hole up safely inside the camp until tomorrow dawn. I gave my forearm a few tentative thumps and nodded in satisfaction. If anything, the regenerated bone felt denser and sturdier than before.

First things first: let's dig out the hidden vault.

It was crucial to secure the elixirs and irreplaceable treasures out of plain sight. Even if Chief Gorilla held no hostile intent, wild beasts were unpredictable. With their heightened intelligence, some greedy rogue ape might easily wander in to loot the place.

Opening the Gallery interface, I browsed the trade listings and purchased a sturdy, medium-sized pickaxe.

When you think about it, mandatory military service taught me some bizarrely useful skills.

I had learned proper shoveling in the military, and my pickaxe technique was forged in the exact same grueling drainage trenches. Back then, I used to curse under my breath, wondering what earthly purpose swinging a pickaxe would serve in civilian life, yet here I was, using those exact muscle memories to survive in a death realm. Life truly was a string of unpredictable ironies. With a wry chuckle, I hefted the iron tool and stepped toward my designated spot.

Swing with the natural centrifugal arc. Don't force it with raw muscle; let the tool's own mass do the biting.

Slamming the pickaxe down with brute force was a one-way ticket to blown lumbar discs and shredded palms—a harsh truth beaten into me during basic training. I had milked a few days of light duty from a pulled wrist back then, but out here, injuries offered no sick leave.

Clearing my mind, I swung the pickaxe in a fluid overhead arc, channeling a whisper of Aura through the steel head to prevent the point from dulling against the bedrock.

Clang! Clink! Thwack!

The shimmering blade of Aura sheared smoothly into the stone. To my relief, the top layer of bedrock was relatively brittle, fracturing into manageable chunks beneath the rhythmic strikes.

I need enough clearance to drop a whole storage crate down here, so it has to be reasonably deep.

Wide, too. It had to accommodate not just the elixirs, but emergency rations and spare artifacts as well. Finding an easy rhythm, I drove the pickaxe into the earth with relentless mechanical precision, tossing aside loose rubble as the pit gradually expanded.

Clang! Clink! Tchk!

Then, without warning, the pickaxe stopped dead.

The hollow crunch of splintering stone was replaced by a dull, ringing shock that reverberated violently up my forearms. I had clearly hit a drastically different geological stratum. Still, rock was rock; with enough persistence, even solid granite yielded.

I drew a steady breath, adjusted my grip, and swung again.

CLANG!

"Wait, what?"

CLINK!

"Why the hell—?!"

CLAAAAANG!!!

"Why won't it break?!"

Enraged, I hurled the pickaxe against the far wall. How absurdly dense did a rock have to be to completely resist an iron pickaxe coated in genuine sword Aura? Nursing my throbbing palms, I glared down at the shallow crater, which had barely reached half my intended depth.

I dropped to my knees and shoved aside the loose gravel by hand.

Shimmer. Gleam.

Beneath the layer of fractured slate lay an arresting, brilliant emerald sheen.

No, calling it a simple stone was wrong. It bore the unmistakable metallic luster of raw ore—a visual quality I recognized instantly after encountering Orichalcum.

"What is this crap now?"

First it was divine beasts, and now the very ground beneath my feet was refusing to cooperate. It felt as though the gods themselves were conspiring to make my life miserable. Grumbling under my breath, I leaned closer. What kind of insane mineral could shrug off Aura-enhanced strikes without suffering so much as a scratch?

Pulling up the Gallery interface, I snapped a crisp photo of the glowing vein and fired off a new post.

Wait. It was actually real?