The Thief (2)

A sloth.

True to its name, every single movement the creature makes is famously sluggish. In fact, people joke that zoologists who spent two whole years observing them nearly lost their minds from sheer frustration and gave up. From the outside, such a trait might seem like an immense disadvantage in the wild, but in reality, sloths are remarkably efficient creatures. It is the art of slowness: moving slowly means expending minimal energy.

Then again, this is the Forest of the Four Seasons.

I wasn't sure if that poetic art of slowness applied to a death world like this. Even now, after making direct eye contact with me, the little bastard was inching forward at an agonizing crawl. What it was after was undoubtedly the fish in my wooden bucket, though I had no idea whether sloths were omnivorous. Whenever questions like this popped up, there was only one place to turn: the Gallery.

Both the Heavenly Demon and Allfather were urging me to be cautious. The difference was that while Allfather’s warning stemmed from academic prudence regarding the unknown, the Heavenly Demon’s advice came entirely from gut instinct. Still, being told to watch out for an absurdly sluggish sloth sounded completely overblown.

Frankly, couldn't I just grab the damn thing?

All it would take was reaching out and picking it up. Even so, I had no desire to touch it barehanded. Doing so might expose me to some weird parasite or insect bite. Wonmo was clean because I scrubbed him thoroughly every single day, but this wild creature was a completely different story.

First, let's just shoo it away.

Since it had dared to target my fish, I had no intention of letting it off easy. Killing it felt like overkill, so a little intimidation should do the trick.

"Shoo. Shoo! Get lost."

"……"

I gently tapped it with the flat spine of my sword, and the sloth gradually took a few steps back. Even its retreat was so agonizingly slow that watching it made my chest tight. But this fish was my lunch. Sloth or not, I wasn't handing it over.

"Go eat some leaves. That's your natural diet anyway."

"……"

"What's with that face? Don't look at me like that. Go climb a tree. There's plenty to eat up there."

"……"

The perpetually serene expression on the sloth's face shifted ever so slightly. Its features tightened, taking on a look that felt faintly irritated—almost as if it were telling me with its eyes: You're the one who cut down my tree.

If that really was the case, I was sorry. But I still wasn't giving up my fish.

"Giving ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me that look won't change anything. Beat it."

"……"

"Tsk. Guess words aren't gonna work."

Now it wouldn't even budge when I tapped it with the sword's spine. Glancing around, I picked up a sturdy branch lying nearby.

Poke, poke—

I prodded it with the tip, commanding it to back off, and only then did the sloth begin to retreat again. If I could herd it all the way back toward the tree line, surely it would give up and wander away.

Grab!

"Huh?"

Life, however, rarely went as planned. The sloth reached out and caught the end of the branch in its grip. Shaking off my momentary surprise, I yanked back on the stick to pull it free.

Creeeak!

"What the hell is this grip...?"

It didn't budge. The sloth was remarkably strong. Then again, an animal that spent its entire life hanging from branches naturally possessed monstrous arm strength. In a situation like this, getting into a stubborn tug-of-war was pointless; finding another stick made far more sense.

Or should I just put on some work gloves and physically carry it away?

That sounded much better. I had a pair of thick leather gloves in my pocket. Slipping them on, I stepped behind the still-sluggish creature. It barely managed to turn around in the time it took me to flank it, remaining utterly motionless even as my hands gripped its sides.

"Hup!"

"……?"

As I hoisted it off the ground, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sloth's expression transformed into pure bewilderment. Even the shifting of its facial muscles occurred in excruciating slow motion. It was genuinely fascinating how such an inherently relaxed face could express ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠surprise so lethargically.

I carried the sloth over to the nearest tree trunk and set it down, finally putting an end to the nuisance. Now all that remained was to gather my antidotes and head out to hunt the Golden Poison Frog.

Wait... it wouldn't be coming back, would it?

With an uneasy feeling, I glanced back over my shoulder. And sure enough—

It was diligently waddling straight back toward my camp. Watching its determined little march almost made me pity it. What on earth was so special about a raw fish that it had to be this obsessed? A heavy sigh escaped my lips.

...This isn't working.

Gentle persuasion clearly had its limits. It was time for a more convincing threat. That sloth was trying to rob me of my precious, long-awaited proper meal. Raising my crossbow, I leveled it at the approaching intruder. Shooting to kill right away felt wrong, so I decided to plant a bolt into the dirt right in front of it to scare it off.

Scritch... scritch...

...Seriously, watching it move makes me lose my mind.

Wasting this much time on a single slowpoke was ridiculous. If I were a ruthless survivalist, I would have put a hole in its skull without a second thought. But the sloth hadn't actually harmed me. Every animal I had killed in this forest so far had been a lethal predator trying to end my life.

I adjusted my aim toward the soil and squeezed the trigger, making sure the trajectory was nowhere near the beast.

Thwip! Thunk!

The crossbow bolt whipped through the air and drove deep into the dirt. The sloth slowly lowered its head, gazed long and hard at the quivering bolt, and then raised its head right back up.

Step... step...

"You've gotta be kidding me."

What kind of rocks did this thing have for brains? Even after a shot like that, it showed zero intention of retreating. Overwhelmed by sheer frustration, I turned to the Gallery once again.

None of the comments offered genuinely practical advice. Most simply told me to put the creature down. Yet sloths tasted terrible, their pelts were useless garbage that wouldn't fetch a single copper, and while Wonmo might happily devour it, butchering and cleaning up after it felt like too much of a hassle.

Not that I'm handing over my fish either.

Judging by the sheer, unyielding obstinacy of this idiot, it would eventually steal my fish no matter how long it took. Giving up the chance to eat a real meal for the first time in ages? Out of the question. I notched another bolt into the crossbow and raised it toward the sloth.

This time, I wasn't aiming at the ground. I needed a shot that delivered a genuine threat. No matter how dim-witted the creature was, having a projectile scream past its ear had to trigger some sense of danger.

And if I accidentally kill it... well...

I might feel a tiny twinge of guilt, but that was all. I centered the crosshairs just beside the creeping sloth's head. The instant it dragged itself one step forward, I squeezed the trigger without hesitation.

Thwip!

The bolt grazed the air a hairsbreadth from the sloth's skull. Yet despite flirting with death, the expression on its face remained utterly tranquil. Did it genuinely not comprehend that it had nearly died, or was its brain simply operating on a delayed connection? The sheer audacity was so absurd it pulled a dry scoff from my throat.

Fine. That's it.

Scaring it off was officially off the table. A creature like this wouldn't come to its senses until it had a hole punched clean through its hide. I had to hunt the Golden Poison Frog today, and too much precious daylight had already slipped away. Hardening my resolve, I aimed squarely for the sloth's shoulder.

The bolt was already loaded. All that remained was to loose it.

Don't ever come back.

Muttering the words silently, I pulled the trigger. There was no hesitation left in me. I had granted it plenty of chances.

Twang!

The bolt rocketed forward like a streak of lightning, hurtling dead center toward the sloth's shoulder. This crossbow packed enough punch that even a massive Owlbear had thrashed in agony upon taking a hit. Against a hide thinner than an Owlbear's, the bolt was bound to punch straight through. Yes, if the world made any sense at all, that was exactly what should have happened.

Swish!

...Unless the sloth twisted its torso with lightning speed to dodge.

A fraction of a second before impact, it leaned aside, evading the bolt by a paper-thin margin. That was not the movement of a sluggish beast; it was an extraordinarily agile sidestep.

"...Huh?"

Watching the scene unfold before my very eyes, a dumb sound tumbled out of my mouth. What had I just witnessed? Did a sloth just dodge a point-blank crossbow bolt? Shocked disbelief froze me in place, but I scrambled to load another bolt. That had to be a fluke. It had moved so unpredictably slow that I must have miscalculated the trajectory.

Reassuring myself, I took aim once more. The sloth had already returned to its agonizingly slow, rhythmic crawl.

Thwack!

Another bolt shot forth.

Sssshk!

As if to prove my eyes weren't playing tricks on me, the sloth tilted its frame with fluid precision and let the projectile hiss harmlessly past. But as baffling as that evasion was, its subsequent behavior was even more infuriating: the instant the bolt cleared its body, it went right back to plodding forward with that dopey, lumbering gait.

...This thing is dangerous.

My eyes narrowed to slits as cold tension washed over me. This creature was not to be taken lightly. It had reacted to a fired projectile and dodged it effortlessly. Crossbow bolts traveled at blinding speeds; seeing one in flight and actively reacting to it was practically impossible for ordinary reflexes.

Even on the forum, the consensus was clear: it was near impossible. A regular human's vision simply couldn't track a loose projectile at close range. Naturally, when I claimed a sloth had performed such a feat, nobody believed me.

Hell, I wouldn't believe it either if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.

Meanwhile, the sloth was closing the distance. Eyeballing the gap, it was now roughly ten meters away. At this range, reacting visually to dodge was virtually impossible. I locked another bolt into the crossbow and trained it dead center on the intruder. Now that it had proven itself an outright anomaly, there was no room left for mercy.

Aim for the head this time.

Without a flicker of hesitation, my finger snapped the trigger.

The instant the latch released, a lethal iron bolt screamed through the air toward the center of the sloth's forehead. On paper, that skull was supposed to shatter, the projectile piercing straight through its brain to extinguish its life.

Except this was the Forest of the Four Seasons—a bizarre realm crawling with unfathomable flora and fauna.

Snatch!

"...Holy shit."

The sloth had caught the flying bolt barehanded right in front of its face.

Slowly, deliberately, it lowered the arm concealing its visage and stared me straight in the eyes. That endlessly placid, infuriatingly relaxed face seemed to be sending me a clear message:

Too slow.