The Scammer (6)

Since it made its home inside a pit, dumping some lamp oil and setting it ablaze would roast the creature alive in seconds. Still, I had zero desire to expend that kind of effort. In fact, I didn't even want to look in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠its direction again.

Just imagine lifting a wooden cover only to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠find swarms of grotesque spiders seething in the dark. Developing psychological trauma from that wouldn't be surprising in the least.

Where the hell did that spider even crawl out from?

Barely a few hours had passed, yet it had already turned my dug-out pit into its personal nest. Nature truly was full of baffling mysteries—simultaneously making sense and completely defying reason.

In the end, I had no choice but to settle for another Inedia Pill for dinner. I could only pray that some fish would be caught in the wicker basket by tomorrow morning.

Should I smoke the fish instead?

It wasn't a bad idea. Smoked meat didn't spoil easily, nor did it attract insects. My only lingering concern was wild predators, though frankly, if any were lurking nearby, they would have shown up long ago. Given that no dangerous beasts had prowled near my perimeter so far, there had to be a reason.

Finding that Owlbear dung earlier was a reassuring sign, but still...

Wonmo's mother might have wandered into this area just to scout things out, much like I was doing. After all, she had torn into those Mad Dog carcasses, savoring every scrap. With the rivals who once divided her territory gone, she had simply dropped by their old den to investigate.

Consistent reconnaissance is my only viable option.

In the Forest of the Four Seasons, nothing was beyond the realm of possibility. Preparing for every worst-case scenario wasn't merely a choice; it was a matter of survival.

As dusk gradually blanketed the woods, I gathered several armfuls of firewood and stepped back inside the cave. There, newly awakened from his nap, Wonmo sat blinking blankly at me.

"Awake already? Hungry?"

"Kyuu!"

Cute little rascal. Opening the auction house, I purchased a hefty cut of raw meat. For the time being, money wasn't an issue in the slightest. Selling that Neidan had earned me an astronomical fortune, and the fact that the scammer hadn't managed to ingest a single speck of it before dying made the whole ordeal rather hilarious. True poetic justice.

Allfather will probably need more poison frogs by tomorrow, won't he?

My agenda for tomorrow took shape: explore downstream in the morning, head back before lunchtime, hunt a Golden Poison Frog to trade with Allfather, and hopefully receive the fish trap from Passing Dwarf. If I could secure that trap, my food concerns would essentially vanish for good. It was forged by a dwarven artisan, after all, so its durability would be beyond reproach.

The real dilemma is whether to venture upstream or downstream along the river...

Whenever someone was stranded in the wilderness, the most reliable path to survival was following the river downstream. Throughout history, civilizations almost always took root along waterways. Even if there were no full-fledged kingdoms around, a small hamlet or village was bound to exist.

The problem is that space itself here is completely warped, so the river might just cut off into nothingness.

A warped spatial dimension. The phrasing sounded bizarre, but it wasn't an exaggeration by any stretch. Just across the riverbank, the scenery shifted in real-time between snow-capped mountains and blazing deserts. Last time, the landscape across the water had morphed into a basin drenched in impenetrable mist, leaving me entirely speechless. If the terrain ahead ever broke off unnaturally, I fully intended to turn back without hesitation.

Nothing in this place ever comes easy.

I sighed softly. That unpredictable spatial distortion was the exact reason I prioritized adaptation over immediate escape. When the physical world fluctuated at random, attempting to break out was an exercise in futility.

At least having ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the map slowly expand offers some comfort.

I turned to glance at the cave wall. Sketched across a wide sheet of parchment was my rough map, centered on this very cave, with distinct anomalies marked in every cardinal direction: the river where the golden frogs spawned, the colony of Adult Mandrake Roots, the recently discovered Golden Mushroom Cave, and more. Even if a compass couldn't function properly in this domain, having these landmarks cataloged was a massive help.

Tomorrow, I'll follow the river downstream.

Tracking the water's edge meant I wouldn't lose my way. Once the sun sank entirely beneath the horizon, I ignited the fire pit, and pleasant warmth began to chase away the creeping chill of the cavern.

"Om-nom-nom."

Wonmo dug into his meat with gusto. I reached out and gently stroked the top of his head. He flinched at first before settling down, content to chew while leaning into my palm. He had clearly grown entirely comfortable with my touch.

If only he could quickly grow past the cub phase.

According to the forum regulars, an Owlbear took several years to reach full adulthood. Even so, they became capable of hunting independently long before that. I remembered reading that their frames bulked up significantly within just a single year.

Watching Wonmo happily devour the freshly butchered meat, I shifted my gaze toward the corner. Ppareumbo was staring intently back at me with his characteristically blank expression.

"You're an adult, right?"

"......"

"Yeah, thought so."

His slow, impassive stare seemed to say, Can't you tell just by looking? Of course, that was merely my own imagination.

After finishing a simple meal of an Inedia Pill, I stepped outside briefly. Washing up before turning in was vital for hygiene.

Why on earth does that sloth hate water so much?

Thankfully, he hadn't displayed any signs of illness or parasites so far, but you could never be too careful. Until I could convince him to take a bath, keeping my own body clean was my only defense. After a brisk wash, I ducked back inside the cave.

Ah, right. The scabbard.

The thought struck me the moment my eyes landed on the Heavenly Demon's Sword propped against the stone wall. With extensive scouting ahead of me, lugging around a bare blade in my bare hands was far from ideal. Opening the Gallery interface, I initiated a direct message with the Heavenly Demon.

Her reply came in under a second, catching me slightly off guard.

In truth, a sheath might not even be practical. The Heavenly Demon's Sword had already proven sharp enough to cleave a Mad Dog cleanly in two without breaking a sweat. Even so, trekking through rough terrain while holding a bare blade in hand was horribly inefficient.

Whenever I had to inspect objects or work with both hands, an unsheathed blade was an active hazard. Having a scabbard was far better than going without—a conclusion forged through my daily survival here.

In short, it was a masterwork among masterworks—and the Heavenly Demon had handed it over to me without a second thought. Even though I had repeatedly offered to return it, she had refused every single time.

My conversation with the Heavenly Demon concluded there. Now only one task remained: commissioning Passing Dwarf to craft a scabbard. Whether he would accept, however, was anyone's guess. Crafting a simple wicker fish trap in exchange for food was one thing, but a scabbard for a peerless divine blade was another entirely. Unless I could unearth high-grade ore, the odds of him rejecting the request were steep.

In the end, I need premium materials.

I would have to widen my search area. Setting out toward spatial anomalies like the opposite riverbank seemed like the best approach.

Though discovering such places won't be easy.

Still, I had to try. When attempting an escape, taking reckless gambles was par for the course. Snapping a photo of the crackling campfire, I uploaded a quick post to the Gallery.

Basking simultaneously in the encouragement of fixed nicks and the petty snark of anonymous trolls, I logged off from the Gallery. Now it was time to practice the Internal Cultivation Art before turning in.

Every time I cycle the breathing technique, my fatigue just melts away.

I was practically forcing myself into an early bedtime, but staying up had no benefit. Wandering out into the pitch-black woods was tantamount to suicide. Even if my kinetic vision granted me sight in the dark, the nocturnal wilderness was an entirely different beast from the daytime forest.

Wait, if that's the case...

An idea sparked in my head. If cultivating internal energy dispelled fatigue, why not just meditate until pure exhaustion finally dragged me under? I had nothing better to do anyway, so immersing myself in the technique was the best option available.

Keep at it long enough, and sleep will come naturally.

With that simple logic, I began circulating ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my cultivation method. The mana within my vessel shifted into motion, and with each rhythmic breath, the flow quickened like an accelerating pump.

Step by step, slow and steady from the foundational roots...

Time was the one resource I had in abundance. Sitting cross-legged in the flickering firelight, I steadily tended to the martial foundation the Heavenly Demon had bestowed upon me.

"......"

Bit by bit, I dissolved into the absolute stillness of the night.

While Grylls was fully immersed in his internal breathing, the Gallery was bustling with vibrant activity. The absence of a single fixed-nick user was nowhere near enough to halt the forum's momentum. Even so, the overwhelming majority of discussions revolved around him.

For quite some time, the Gallery blazed with spirited debate that was half-serious and half-jest. Unlike the prior days of mocking skepticism, the forum had taken on a far more eager, desperate edge.