Owlbear (3)

Now that the little guy had a name, all that remained was bonding with him.

I had driven his affection through the roof with the honey, but a cub was still a cub. He lacked even basic discretion, and with his mother dead, keeping him alive fell entirely on my shoulders. Yet that brought me face-to-face with the single most pressing dilemma.

How the hell do I raise this thing?

Back on Earth, I had never kept so much as a goldfish. I had my hands full just keeping my own head above water, so pets were an unimaginable luxury. Dogs or cats I might have fumbled through based on things I had seen on the internet, but an Owlbear was entirely uncharted territory. Aside from knowing they possessed ferocious tempers and bottomless appetites, I was completely in the dark.

The most important thing is getting him to recognize me as his master, but…

I watched Wonmo as he pattered around the cave on his stubby legs. Being so young, his curiosity knew no bounds.

"Sniff, sniff. Snuffle."

He lingered for a long time at the exact spot where his mother had fallen. Watching him nose at the stone, it seemed he still remembered her scent. But his mother had already crossed the Atlantic—or rather, crossed over to the auction house. Bids were still climbing steadily, promising a massive windfall in the near future.

Can this little ball of fluff really grow into a monster like that?

With only slight exaggeration, the mother Owlbear had been roughly the size of a suburban house. Yet look at Wonmo. Round, pudgy, and no bigger than a medium-sized dog. The pale tint of his fur lined up with what the Gallery users had said—he was a newborn, barely out of the womb.

"Kkwaaaek!"

"Whoa, hey!"

Curiosity was fine and good, but this little rascal had far too much of it. Why on earth did he have to go sticking his snout into the sack of Inedia Pills? With a nose that sharp, he must have caught their bitter, medicinal stench from a mile away.

"Kkwaaagh!"

Riiiip!

Baby or not, an apex predator was still an apex predator. A single swipe of Wonmo's unsheathed claws shredded the coarse fabric, sending a cascade of dark brown pills rattling across the stone floor. My jaw dropped in sheer horror.

"Hey! Park Wonmo! Stop that!"

"Ggyu? Ggyu-wu?"

"I don't care how awful they taste, you don't go trashing the pantry!"

Even as I scolded him, I scrambled to salvage the damage. I tipped the torn sack on its side to stop the remaining pills from rolling out, then hastily bought a fresh canvas sack from the auction house to transfer the stash. It baffled me to no end. Weren't Owlbears notorious for devouring rotting carrion without batting an eye? Just how foul did Inedia Pills taste if every single creature reacted with universal disgust? I had grown accustomed to them out of grim necessity, but the local wildlife clearly held higher culinary standards.

First, I need him to recognize this cave as home…

A nagging question crept into the back of my mind. Why had the mother Owlbear brought her newborn cub here in the first place? As intensely territorial beasts, Owlbears were hyper-sensitive about boundaries. They rarely trespassed into another apex predator's domain without cause, and even on a routine territorial patrol, a mother would never drag a fragile, newborn infant along with her.

Did someone drive her out of her original den?

No, that seemed unlikely. When the mother confronted me, she was in peak physical condition—uninjured, well-fed, and radiating menace. Moreover, she hadn't lunged to tear me to ribbons immediately; she had begun by carefully probing the perimeter. Was it simply a planned relocation? I couldn't be sure. To know for certain, I would have to track down their old nesting grounds.

Well, that's completely off the table right now.

I glanced down at the ball of fur staring up at me with wide, glassy, saucer-like eyes. He sat squarely in the middle of my woven straw mat, blinking innocently.

"Coojy-coo. Come here, little guy."

"Ggyu-wu."

It was criminal how adorable he was. How could a creature destined to become a man-eating juggernaut look so hopelessly precious? I leaned down and indulged myself, scratching his fuzzy chin and stroking the soft crown of his head. There was no way I could abandon him out here. And even if I wanted to explore, I couldn't leave the shelter unattended until he fully accepted this cave as his territory.

Which means fortifying the campsite is my top priority for now…

It felt a little restrictive, but it was far from a bad choice. Still, the most glaring problem remained water. I could manage my own hygiene through sheer grit and rationing, but an infant beast was another story entirely. There was no telling what parasites or pathogens he might carry in from the wild, making regular baths a necessity.

Washing him in the stream is out of the question.

It wasn't just the lingering dread of the Golden Poison Frog; there was no predicting where Wonmo might bolt. If he dashed across the stream, it would trigger an unmitigated disaster. And if the surrounding biome shifted the exact second he crossed over, it would turn into a fatal tragedy.

Isn't there a better way?

Watching Wonmo stare up at me with rapt attention, I sighed and gathered him into my arms. His coat was so delightfully plush that I felt a brief pang of regret for not naming him Fluffy. As if sensing my affection, the cub buried his beak against my chest, nuzzling vigorously.

Gurgle—

A peculiar sound echoed between us. It certainly hadn't come from my stomach. Lowering Wonmo slightly, I peered into his round face.

"Ggyu-wu…"

"Hungry already?"

Slurp.

He licked his dark chops while maintaining direct eye contact. That was profoundly unnerving. Before my prospective guard dog decided I looked like a walking drumstick, I urgently brought up the auction house interface. With its dizzying array of interdimensional listings, finding standard raw meat was trivial.

Wait, they even sell monster meat?

Orc, goblin, gnoll, troll… listings for butcher cuts of monstrous humanoids dotted the boards. I couldn't fathom why anyone would bother auctioning them off. Monster flesh was notoriously stringy, rank, and leathery—nobody ate it unless they were on the brink of starvation. Adventurers likely dumped it on the market simply because hauling it was a chore and disposing of it was worse. Naturally, the prices were dirt cheap.

"Here you go. Chow down."

"Sniff, sniff. Snuffle."

I bought a hefty slab of raw orc meat and set it before him. Wonmo eyed the cut with keen curiosity, took a cautious whiff, and then sank his sharp little teeth into the flesh with gusto.

"Nom, nom, nom."

"Tastes alright?"

"Chomp, tear! Crunch!"

He was devouring it with terrifying efficiency. Bear lineage or not, his predatory instincts were alive and kicking. Leaving a shallow wooden bowl of fresh water beside him, I turned and headed back out into the open air. Finishing off a portion that size would take him a while, giving me ample time to wrap up my lumberjacking.

Thwack! Chunk!

I laid into the trunk with my iron axe until the massive pine began to shudder with each impact. The hollow thud of fresh wood gave way to sharp, splintering cracks reminiscent of splitting seasoned kindling. Checking the fall line against the mouth of the cavern, I braced my shoulder and delivered a heavy kick to the notch.

With a slow, agonizing groan, the ancient timber tilted. Splinters shrieked as fibers gave way, and the behemoth crashed to the forest floor.

BOOM!

The sheer mass of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the trunk shook the dirt beneath my boots, kicking up a cloud of loose needles and loam. A nervous chill ran down my spine. Had the noise riled up some unseen beast deeper in the woods? Fortunately, the apex predator of this immediate vicinity had already been boxed up and shipped off to the dimensional market.

If I section this into thirds, will that do it?

I paced the length of the fallen timber, eyeballing its dimensions. At this girth, a single trunk could easily yield three or four sturdy palisade sections. The real headache, however, was the prospect of splitting, debarking, and planing raw, massive logs with hand tools.

…Why did I start this again?

One hurdle crossed, ten more in line. Work seemed to multiply the moment I lifted a finger. I should have waited until the Heavenly Demon passed down her Internal Cultivation Art before tackling heavy labor. Trying to stay productive out of sheer boredom had only dug me into a deeper hole.

Letting out a weary sigh, I began hacking away at the side branches. There were so many limbs that I wouldn't have to worry about firewood for the foreseeable future. Once the trunk was stripped bare, the real misery of sectioning would begin.

A sword won't cut it. I need to buy a proper two-man crosscut saw…

Just imagining the hours of manual sawing made my shoulders ache in advance. But quitting halfway through wasn't an option. Deciding to take a short breather before browsing the market for tools, I ducked back into the shelter.

"Zzz… snrrk…"

Curled atop the straw mat, Wonmo was fast asleep, having licked the stone clean of every scrap of orc meat. True to animal nature across any realm, babies spent ninety percent of their lives unconscious. Watching the cub tucked tightly into an adorable, fuzzy ball, I instinctively brought up the Gallery interface and snapped a quick picture.

The comment section was an avalanche of praise. Anyone whose heart didn't melt at that sight had ice in their veins. As I scrolled through the thread with a fond, paternal grin, one particular handle caught my attention.

It was Passing Dwarf, evidently nursing a massive hangover. How on earth could someone look at Wonmo and immediately think of a lunchbox? Just when I was writing him off as an irredeemable degenerate, the rest of the board chimed in to prove that degenerates travelled in packs.

I let out a dry, helpless chuckle. Yep, this was the Gallery alright. But since Passing Dwarf was online, I seized the opportunity to consult an expert craftsman.

As annoying as his attitude was, he wasn't wrong. Nothing in this forsaken forest came easy. My best bet was mastering the Mind Cultivation Method from the Heavenly Demon; if I could channel mana or internal energy into my swings, manual labor might actually become manageable. Until then, I had no choice but to grind it out through sheer, unadulterated elbow grease.

I had combed through the listings myself, and there was nothing fitting my needs. A few decorative garden fences showed up, but nothing resembling a fortified defensive perimeter.

I rubbed my temples. Fine, I couldn't blame them for doubting an interdimensional isekai story. But that wasn't the issue at hand.

I desperately wanted a drink myself right about now. If I had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠known carpentry required this much forethought, I would have posted a thread before swinging the axe. As the dwarf pointed out, liquidating the raw timber on the auction house made far more sense.

In that blocky sandbox game, you just tap a few buttons and craft whatever you want.

Turns out that block-world protagonist was a terrifyingly gifted demigod. Hand him three lumps of iron and two sticks, and he'd produce a flawless pickaxe in seconds. Why on earth was I dropped into this living hell without a single cheat skill? Still, as infuriating as my situation was, having the Gallery as a sounding board was a lifesaver.

Should I commission the dwarf directly?

His personality was abrasive, but when it came to craftsmanship, no one in my contact list held a candle to him. Chewing on my lip, I tapped out another reply.

That was a relief.

My head spun. What kind of chronic alcoholic starts their day chugging ale to cure a hangover? Still, despite the banter, Passing Dwarf was someone who took his trade seriously. I double-checked the exchange once more, confirming that nobody was selling heavy-duty defensive barriers. Defensive walls were static, long-term installations; people built them once and forgot about them, keeping demand low. And even if settlers needed timber walls, they usually logged the surrounding woods themselves rather than paying exorbitant interdimensional freight fees.

Let's get this timber listed first.

Targeting the felled trunk outside, I registered it directly into the auction house inventory. I had no baseline for lumber pricing, but I prayed the dwarf's assessment held true. If prime timber from the Forest of the Four Seasons commanded a premium, every tree on this bluff was practically an interest-bearing savings account.

Now I just have to wait on the barricade.

Passing Dwarf had promised to put together a prefabricated kit, so I could purchase it once he uploaded the private listing. In the meantime, I needed to clear the defensive perimeter around the cave entrance.

I don't plan on living here forever, but…

Safety came first. I walked the outer terrace, notching bark with my hand axe to mark the trees that needed felling to clear my sightlines. Once the palisade went up, I would dig a drainage ditch and a dry moat in front of it. After marking the final pine, I slipped back into the dim, cool shelter to catch my breath.

Wonmo was still deep in dreamland, soft, rhythmic snores puffing from his beak. The sight brought an instinctive warmth to my chest. Pulling up the interface again, I found a flurry of new replies on my thread, though one particular fixed nick immediately jumped out.

I wasn't entirely sure what he was getting at, but following the advice of seasoned handlers couldn't hurt. By the sound of it, Praise the Sun kept exotic beasts of his own.

Opening the auction interface, I bought a fine-toothed brass grooming comb and knelt down beside the sleeping cub. Being careful not to disturb his slumber, I gently parted the thick, downy undercoat along his flank and drew the teeth through the dense fur.

"…What the hell is this?"

My stomach dropped into my shoes. I instantly understood why Praise the Sun had sounded so urgent.

Trapped between the fine brass teeth were bloated, chitinous, wriggling horrors. Swollen, multi-legged vermin, engorged and grotesque, squirmed against the metal.

"T-Ticks…?"

A chill seized my spine. Water was no longer a long-term improvement project.

I needed a water line. Right now.