The Thief (1)

I stared down at the massive red fish wedging the waterway shut.

I had ringed the trench with stones to regulate the current, but since I had dug it out on the fly with a shovel, the channel wasn't particularly deep. The poor creature had likely wandered into the ditch by sheer bad luck and gotten stuck. Given how violently the water churned and how snugly its bulk fit the cut, wriggling free was practically impossible.

Why the hell is it so huge?

It was big enough to plug the entire channel. When I first spotted it, I mistook it for a giant catfish. Take away the vivid crimson hide, however, and it looked like an ordinary freshwater fish. Most fish had slender, compressed bodies, but this one was remarkably thick across the flanks. Lifting it would take both arms, without question. I wasn't an ichthyologist by any stretch, but I was dead certain it wasn't a catfish.

I can eat this, right?

The fish thrashed relentlessly, spraying water into the air. It fought with all its might to throw itself clear, but the water was simply too shallow. Its snout breached the surface, mouth gaping open and closed in desperate gasps.

Flap! Splash! Flap!

"Feisty bastard, aren't you?"

I reached down and wrapped both arms around the wildly thrashing creature, hoisting it from ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the shallows. The thing was nearly the size of my own torso, making it a nightmare to balance. If it slipped from my grasp, it would flop straight back into the river, so I scrambled as far from the bank as possible. The plan was to lug it back to the cave and keep it submerged in a metal tub.

Better jog, just in case.

Running into a predator with my arms full of fish was the last thing I needed. If anything leaped out, I'd toss the fish as bait and haul ass.

Fortunately, nothing crossed my path, and I made it back to the cave in one piece.

"Kyu?"

"No. You already ate."

The moment I crossed the threshold, Wonmo waddled over, his round eyes gleaming with undisguised curiosity. I nudged the cub back with my foot, dumped the fish into the metal washbasin, and quickly filled it with fresh water. Submerged at last, the red fish settled down, resting quietly at the bottom.

Seen like this, its sheer scale was breathtaking. It took up almost the entire tub—the very basin Wonmo and I used for our baths.

An inner core. Wasn't that similar to how an oyster produced a pearl? I didn't know the exact mechanics, but it probably functioned like a condensed elixir. Not that I actually believed this fish was a mythical beast. And even if it were, it made no difference—lunch had already been decided.

Whatever the gallery had to say about it, this creature was slated to be lunch. With that settled, clearing timber and fortifying the perimeter seemed like a smarter morning task than wandering off into the wild. Besides, leaving the fish unattended invited trouble; Wonmo was currently staring at the metal tub, drool practically pooling on the dirt floor as he looked for an opening to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠strike.

"Tsk!"

Wonmo flinched as I clicked my tongue, pulling his paw back. He looked up at me with enormous, round eyes, radiating utter innocence as if asking what on earth he had done wrong. The sheer guilelessness of his face only made him harder to scold.

"Don't touch that. Be a good boy, and I'll give you honey after lunch."

"Kyuu."

"Good. That's my boy."

I gave his fuzzy head a few affectionate pats before turning toward the entrance. If I wanted to erect a defensive palisade, clearing the perimeter trees was an absolute prerequisite. Just looking at the dense grove made my chest feel tight. How in the world was I going to fell all of them?

Every grain of sand makes a mountain. Just keep swinging.

Muttering silent complaints, I approached a massive trunk. The wood was absurdly thick, but my body felt surprisingly limber today. Gripping the axe with both hands, I planted my boots and swung with everything I had. Having swung the tool hundreds of times already, my form had smoothed out, naturally channeling torque from my hips through my core.

THWACK!

"Huh?"

A startled grunt slipped past my lips the moment the iron bit into the bark. The feedback reverberating up my arms felt completely different from yesterday. Before, it had taken dozens of desperate chops just to bite a few inches deep, but today, the blade sank effortlessly into the heartwood with a dull, heavy thud. Even the sound was different.

What gives? Is this tree softer than the others?

It wasn't as if someone had swapped my axe while I slept. Perhaps the wood was brittle, or my stamina was simply peaking today. Even though the question lingered, the result worked entirely in my favor, so I brushed it aside.

Good results are good results. Who cares?

CHOP! CRACK! CRUNCH!

Three more strikes tore a massive wedge from the trunk. Looking closely, the core of the tree was already hollowed out. A few swings from the opposite side would bring it down.

Already?

Yesterday, felling a single tree took an entire day of relentless, bone-grinding labor—an ordeal that culminated in an Owlbear ambushing me on the verge of exhaustion. Passing this off as simply finding a softer tree or feeling well-rested defied logic. Yet one possibility stood out above the rest. Only one thing had fundamentally changed since yesterday.

Is it really because of the breathing technique?

It almost certainly was. There was no other variable. And having extra physical strength was hardly a disadvantage; in a death trap like this, raw physical power was the ultimate currency of survival.

I should practice it even harder.

Cutting manual labor down to a fraction of the time with just a breathing technique felt like something out of a fairy tale. Then again, this was a world where high fantasy and wuxia coexisted, where superhumans pulverized mountain peaks with bare hands. Ironically, those very same monsters laughed off my claims that Earth had bombs capable of vaporizing entire cities in seconds. They didn't seem to realize that their own existence was no different from a walking nuclear warhead.

I really want to see what the outside world looks like.

The snapshot provided by the gallery was narrow and thoroughly biased—though universal disdain for Alfheim, the elven kingdom, seemed to transcend all dimensional borders.

Shaking the idle thoughts from my head, I rounded to the far side of the trunk. Hitting it here would dictate the angle of its fall.

CHOP! CRACK! GROAN!

After half a dozen rhythmic blows, the canopy swayed precariously. Checking the clearance path, I drove the flat of my boot against the bark. With a sickening splintering roar, the towering trunk leaned, snapped, and peeled away from its stump.

CRASH!

Less than ten minutes to fell a massive tree. The efficiency was downright terrifying. I leaned against the fallen timber and monitored my pulse. My breathing had quickened slightly, but I wasn't even close to needing a breather.

Might as well do one more before resting.

After taking down a second tree, a faint edge of fatigue finally crept into my shoulders. But it was merely the mild burn of a decent workout; chopping down a third would pose no real challenge.

By the time I felled three full-sized trees and registered the timber onto the auction house, the area surrounding the cave entrance looked noticeably hollowed out.

It's finally opening up.

Four trees cleared in total had created a respectable clearing around my doorstep. A warm swell of accomplishment nudged my lips into a grin, but rather than pushing my luck, I headed inside to rest.

Ssshhh... ssshhh...

Inside the cave, Wonmo lay curled into a fuzzy ball, snoring softly. As I'd noted before, he was still just a newborn cub. Sleeping away most of the day was only natural for his age.

Fish is still there, too.

The crimson catch floated serenely in the washbasin, having exhausted its frantic energy. Setting down the axe, I pulled up the gallery interface to see if anything noteworthy had happened while I worked. Most of the feed was unremarkable, but one strange pattern caught my attention.

The Juddak hasn't posted in a while.

Our orange-tag head moderator was unusually absent. Normally, the Juddak enforced ironclad discipline, swiftly swinging the ban hammer on anyone posting explicit nudes, gore, or extreme toxicity.

Posts like these had been sitting on the front page for well over ten minutes untouched. Usually, they were wiped within seconds. Seeing an administrative vacuum, the degenerates had seized the opportunity to indulge their basest impulses without fear of repercussion.

"......"

Trying not to look guilty, I discreetly clicked on one of the threads. Trapped in a barren wilderness, browsing the forum was my solitary form of entertainment. It wasn't like I had urgent matters that required pure focus every second; a quick glance at some eye candy never hurt anybody. Not that I had the luxury to indulge in anything further while living hand-to-mouth.

After refreshing the feed a few times, a specific thread title jumped out at me.

Allfather?

Under normal circumstances, I would have skimmed past it, but the author was a familiar fixed-nick handle. I immediately opened the post.

The medicine he mentioned earlier was ready. The concoction synthesized from the Golden Poison Frog. He had promised it would confer permanent immunity to poison, making it an indispensable asset for my survival in this forest.

Acquiring poison immunity would skyrocket my odds of staying alive. To make that happen, hunting more golden frogs had to be my top priority.

Having caught my breath, I picked up the crossbow leaning against the cave wall. The bolts I had embedded into the Owlbear's skull were resting neatly in my quiver, completely unscathed.

Still weird how that works.

Back then, in a sheer panic, I had listed the entire Owlbear carcass on the auction house while the ammunition was still embedded in its head. The system apparently didn't recognize lodged projectiles as part of the listing, automatically spitting them back into my inventory. Had it not done so, I would have lost my hard-won bolts and harpoons for good.

SKRRRRK—

I gripped the cocking stirrup and hauled back on the crossbow string. It yielded with shocking ease. What once required my entire body weight and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠veins popping along my neck now required nothing more than a brief clench of my jaw.

My strength really has increased.

That settled it. I hadn't just gotten lucky with brittle timber. My raw muscular power had spiked purely from practicing that breathing method. The change was so dramatic that bewilderment outpaced celebration. Sometime soon, I'd need to create a thread asking the Heavenly Demon or Sword Master for guidance on how to handle this newfound power.

Preparations are complete...

I glanced back at Wonmo, who was dead to the world, and then at the tranquil crimson fish in the washbasin. Everything was in order. All that remained was tracking down another golden frog. Just to be safe, I strapped on the sword and shield, slipping a few Inedia Pills into my pocket for emergency rations.

Stepping out into the sunlight, a stray thought crossed my mind.

It's not like a thief is gonna break in, right?

Chuckling at the absurd idea, I set off down the path toward the river.

Shortly after Grylls departed for the riverbanks, silence settled over the cave, broken only by the occasional splash of the fish and the soft snuffles of the sleeping owlbear cub. Aside from distant birdsong drifting through the canopy, the clearing was dead quiet.

Rustle—

A soft scraping sound whispered from the dense foliage at the forest's edge. At first, it sounded like a passing breeze, but the motion was deliberate and steady.

Shift.

Parting the thick undergrowth, an animal crept into view. It possessed stubby hind legs paired with disproportionately long, powerful arms, tipped with wicked, curved claws extending like iron sickles. A shaggy coat of dense brown fur draped its entire frame as it advanced with agonizing, glacial slowness. Knuckle-walking forward like a lanky gorilla, its destination was unmistakable.

Splash! Flop!

The metal washbasin holding the fish.

Though its march was agonizingly sluggish, not a single guard stood watch. Given enough time, it would inevitably reach the prize. Wearing a blank, serenely tranquil expression, the creature trundled forward at its own unhurried pace.

"What the hell?"

Or at least, it would have—had Grylls not realized he'd left his antidote behind and jogged back to the cave.

Having nearly reached the rim of the basin, the beast paused upon hearing the human voice. It slowly, agonizingly rotated its head to look back over its shoulder.

Face to face with an uninvited burglar in broad daylight, Grylls blinked in stunned disbelief, muttering under his breath.

"...A sloth?"