Night Raid (1)

The crabs I brought back were devoured down to the last morsel alongside my animal companions.

Perhaps because they were grilled over open coals rather than steamed, they turned out deliciously crisp—shell and all. Wonmo in particular took his role as camp garbage disposal very seriously, leaving behind practically zero waste. Even if scraps had remained, I would have ground them into a fine powder and dumped them into the river anyway.

"Whew. I'm stuffed."

"Kyuu."

"……"

With our stomachs thoroughly packed, an all-consuming lethargy overtook the entire camp. Wonmo rubbed his round, taut belly and flopped flat on his back, while Fast Tree Sloth simply collapsed onto his stomach. The three of us—one human and two beasts—had split the feast evenly enough that none of us were paralyzed by gluttony, though Wonmo had definitely eaten the lion's share.

I looked down at the little creature sprawled across the dirt. His swollen belly was undeniably adorable. When I poked it gently with a finger, he gave a tiny, contented squirm. How could every single thing this little guy did be so painfully endearing?

"Wonmo, don't sleep out here. Go inside the cave."

"Kyuu……"

His muffled whine made it clear: he was far too full to take another step. Well, considering he had chewed through thick shells and all, I could hardly blame him. Scooping up his plump, round body, I carried him into the cave and set him gently on the sleeping mat. The moment his back hit the padding, he spread his stubby limbs wide into a full starfish posture and drifted straight into a nap. A creature truly blessed with the easiest life in existence.

He's not going to turn into a butterball, is he?

He was in the middle of a growth spurt, so hopefully the calories would go straight toward size and muscle, but a lingering seed of anxiety remained. Even if not a full expedition, taking him on short strolls around the perimeter wouldn't hurt. He needed to learn early on that the world beyond the cave mouth was dangerous.

Then again… wouldn't he already know danger from following his mother around?

The ironic twist, of course, was that I was the one who sent his mother to the afterlife. If Wonmo ever found out, how would he look at me? He wouldn't suddenly shout, 'You killed my mother!' and plunge a dagger into my throat, would he?

Shaking off the absurd train of thought, I turned to finish the chores. I planned to use the charcoal left behind by the firewood to tackle the laundry.

Charcoal was an absolute godsend in the wild. It functioned as soap, doubled as a deodorizer, and could even impart a subtle, savory smoke to roasted dishes. It was flawless in every practical respect. If I had to name a single downside, it was that residual warmth might lure stray snakes into camp, but with the repellent constantly slathered around our perimeter, that was hardly a concern.

Thwack! Thump!

Hooking up the intake hose, I went to work on the clothes. Having rolled through dirt and river muck, murky brown water poured out in endless sheets. The laundry mallet I had purchased off the auction house proved delightfully effective for beating the grime into submission.

Once the garments were rinsed clean, I hung them across the makeshift drying rack. Two sturdy branches planted into the earth with a cord strung between them—simple, efficient, and complete.

I feel like I've adapted way too well to this place.

I had never harbored the slightest ambition of living like a wild primitive, yet here I was, thriving against all odds. The Gallery kept boredom at bay, while Wonmo and Ppareumbo chased away the gnawing ache of isolation. Whenever spare moments presented themselves, I diligently practiced my internal cultivation method. All things considered, it was a surprisingly busy, productive life.

Look at me, getting comfortable.

Yet the desire to escape this forest had not diminished in the slightest. The place remained far too lethal. One could never predict when or where a catastrophic predator might surface. The image of that skyscraper-sized crustacean looming over the lake still haunted my thoughts; even from a vast distance, the sheer scale of the beast had made me feel utterly powerless.

Let's steer clear of the lake for a while. Even if I go back, it'll strictly be a grab-and-run for crab meat.

That shore was swarming with giant crabs. Grabbing just enough to supply the gnome merchant and retreating immediately was the only sensible approach. If a pack of those behemoths gave chase… well, I would just have to run until my lungs burst.

I need to mark waypoints along the route. Starting with the point where the lower river begins.

Taking the river as an absolute reference line was essential. In a forest where magnetic compasses spun uselessly, running water was the only reliable landmark. Otherwise, I would have to erect artificial trail markers myself. It would demand labor, but anything was better than getting lost. Losing one's bearings here didn't just hurt your survival odds—it hurled them straight into the abyss.

This cave had only been secured through sheer, miraculous luck, and only after bludgeoning its original owner to death. Finding another sanctuary like this was virtually impossible.

Pulling out my map, I sketched the winding path of the river, capping its terminus with a rough oval representing the lake. Not knowing the body of water's true dimensions, I drew it as conservatively small as possible. After all, rumors claimed the Forest of the Four Seasons spanned the breadth of an entire kingdom.

Cartography done. Time for internal cultivation.

Before circulating my energy, I opened Cheonma's past messages. Not the casual greetings, but the instructional texts pinned near the top—the fundamental principles that served as the roots of the technique. Every single time I prepared to cultivate, I read through them with absolute devotion.

Even if foundational martial arts are floating around the Gallery, it's best to heed the direct words of someone truly trustworthy.

As Cheonma had mentioned, the bare basics were widely distributed across various martial communities on the network, but most of those guides were tainted by individual hubris and idiosyncratic shortcuts. Cheonma's teachings, by contrast, were unadorned, pure, and rigorously orthodox. The terminology was dense and classical, yet every sentence aligned with absolute standard theory.

When circulating the mind method, the crucial step is feeling the flow of internal energy—mana—traversing the Conception and Governing vessels.

Blindly forcing the circulation was a recipe for catastrophe. I closed my eyes, breathing at a deliberate pace. The goal was to grasp the profound subtlety of the technique and accept it naturally. To breathe while letting the flow circulate without conscious micromanagement. And ultimately, to reach a stage where ordinary, subconscious respiration produced the identical benefits of deep meditation.

Cheonma had advised advancing through these three distinct milestones one step at a time. Every word resonated with crystalline logic.

I'm still struggling with the second stage.

My breath and the circulation of qi felt distinctly segregated. Cheonma had instructed that respiration and internal circulation should merge seamlessly into an unconscious rhythm. She assured me that even someone of ordinary aptitude could achieve it through consistent diligence. To ensure her expectations were never betrayed, I poured every ounce of focus into regulating my dantian with each meditation session.

"Whew."

Yet I was no prodigy, nor was I native to a world governed by mystical energies. Despite steadying my breath over and over, tangible progress remained stubbornly elusive.

Breathing… would expanding my lung capacity improve cultivation efficiency?

Since the foundation rested entirely upon the breath, respiratory stamina had to play a significant role. Unfortunately, the only training available in this camp consisted of bodyweight strength exercises. Aerobic cardio? Running aimlessly through this lethal woodland was the fastest ticket to suicide. For now, the only viable alternative was practicing deep, sustained inhalations followed by long, controlled exhalations.

Just as Sword Master advised.

That particular tip had come straight from Sword Master. Lengthening the breathing intervals rather than taking short, shallow gasps, alongside basic insights into mana manipulation. Through the complementary counsel of Cheonma and Sword Master, I was advancing step by painstaking step. Even at a tortoise's crawl, there was no reason to rush.

Time to set the fish traps. And harvest some Golden Poison Frogs while I'm at it.

With meditation concluded, practical chores called. I slung the crossbow across my back and whistled for the sloth.

"Hey. Stop lounging around and get on."

"……"

Responding to my prompt, Fast Tree Sloth ambled over at a glacial pace and climbed onto my shoulders, securing himself comfortably so as not to obstruct the crossbow's draw string. All that remained was retrieving the trap.

"Why does this thing have to be so damn huge?"

Every time I looked at it, the sheer scale of the cage startled me. It could easily swallow two or three of those massive river fish whole. The thought of wrestling it into the current made my back ache in advance, but there was no dodging it. Reliable food security ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was the bedrock of survival, and once the traps were yielding regular catches, the Inedia Pills could be reserved exclusively for Ppareumbo's rations.

Rumbleeee!

Reaching the riverbank, a heavy sigh escaped my chest. Setting this monstrosity up was going to be an ordeal. Worse, there was the constant menace of the Golden Poison Frogs lurking in the shallows. Neutralizing that hazard came first.

"All right, slide down. Time to work."

"……"

Ppareumbo descended with unhurried grace. Stepping near the waterline, I splashed my hand through the surface to lure the amphibians out.

Splash! Splash!

"Croak."

"Ribbit. Croak."

Right on cue, a cluster of vibrant yellow frogs launched themselves onto the muddy bank. From there, the routine was simple.

Thwip! Thunk!

While Ppareumbo drew their aggro, I picked them off methodically with the crossbow. The first attempt had been nerve-wracking, but the second go-around was practically second nature. A smooth, trivial hunt.

His reflexes are genuinely terrifying.

Watching Ppareumbo dodge was nothing short of miraculous. A single droplet of that golden secretion was enough to send an adult human straight to the morgue, yet he stood right in the line of fire, casually tilting his head and weaving past every jet of venom. I was far too faint-hearted to attempt such madness; that was a stunt only a mythical sloth could pull off.

Plop! Splash!

Before long, the surviving frogs retreated beneath the current. Unlike earlier encounters, they didn't continue firing venom when ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠their comrades were skewered. It seemed their toxic supply wasn't infinite; it required time to replenish.

Creatures like that accumulate toxins by digesting poisonous plants and insects.

Deprived of venomous prey, they were probably no more hazardous than garden toads. Regardless, with the amphibious snipers cleared out, the path was open. I needed to widen the depression near our water intake pipe and wedge the massive trap securely into the bed. Clearing the frogs beforehand had been essential since I had to wade directly into the shallows. Wearing slip-on waterproof sandals, I stepped gingerly into the cool stream.

A giant river predator isn't going to lunge out of the depths and swallow me whole, right?

Paranoia kept my neck on a constant swivel. In an environment this vicious, letting your guard down was an invitation to an early grave. Thankfully, no leviathan emerged from the murk to turn me into lunch.

With the trap anchored, I pulled up my interface and initiated a trade request with Allfather. Fortunately, he was browsing the Gallery and accepted almost immediately.

My hypothesis had been spot-on. Which also meant that somewhere in the immediate vicinity lurked creatures carrying horrific toxins—most likely poisonous insects.

Better keep reapplying that bug repellent religiously.

Concluding the transaction, I trekked back to the cave without further incident. Checking the timestamp on the Gallery interface, I saw the afternoon had slipped away; hauling and anchoring that massive wicker cage had eaten up more time than expected, pushing past three o'clock.

Swordsmanship practice until dusk… and dinner will be Inedia Pills, I suppose.

In hindsight, perhaps I should have carried one more crab back from the lake. Regret lingered, but what was done was done, and I had no desire to sprint back to that terrifying shore today. Any future expeditions to the lake would have to wait until Allfather delivered my customized boots. Proper footgear was non-negotiable if I wanted to avoid catastrophic accidents.

While idling through the feed, an eye-catching thread title arrested my scrolling.

"Wait, what?"

A post claiming someone had transmigrated into the Forest of the Four Seasons? My heart hammered against my ribs as I tapped into the thread at breakneck speed.

"……"

I stared blankly at the screen. Well… at least someone managed to escape their personal death zone today.

Night in the primordial forest was draped in profound stillness. Aside from the high-pitched trill of nocturnal insects and the faint, distant howls of wolves rippling across the valley, it was the perfect atmosphere to close one's eyes and surrender to slumber.

Yet night in the wild was equally fraught with unspeakable terror. An impenetrable, suffocating blackness swallowed the canopy, concealing predators that could leap from any shadow without warning. Herbivores in this realm rarely enjoyed true, uninterrupted rest; they spent their nights in trembling vigilance, straining against the certainty of approaching death.

Snap.

The faint crack of a dry branch snapping underfoot echoed through the brush. In an instant, the shrill chorus of cicadas and tree crickets fell dead silent. It was a miniscule shift in the auditory landscape, but even insects possessed the instinct to recognize the prowl of an apex carnivore.

The beast stalked toward the mouth of a rocky cavern where the dying embers of an outdoor fire pit still glowed faintly. Even a smoldering cinder in an abyss of total darkness was as glaring as the midday sun. Drawing the hungry gaze of a nocturnal stalker was almost inevitable.

"Grrrr……"

A low, guttural vibration rumbled deep in the beast's throat as it crossed the outer boundary. Subdued as the sound was, there existed a creature whose senses tuned into the disturbance instantly—not the deeply unconscious human, nor the baby owlbear slumbering under heavy blankets of meat-induced coma.

"……"

A tree sloth, perpetually walking the razor's edge between survival and becoming prey, slowly parted his eyelids. The aura wafting in from the clearing was foul and hostile. Fast Tree Sloth—Ppareumbo—pushed his limbs against the dirt and rose with uncharacteristic purpose.

Crack!

"……"

This time there was no mistaking it. A heavy branch had shattered under immense mass. Ppareumbo swiveled his head toward the back of the cave. The human was still wandering deep in dreamland, mouth agape, devoid of a shred of survival tension. For a fleeting instant, profound exasperation rippled through the sloth's mind, yet a companion was still a companion.

Raising ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one thick, furred arm high, Ppareumbo brought it down with pinpoint accuracy.

Smack!

"Guhk!"

Taking a sudden, concussive slap across the cheek, I vaulted upright with a strangled gasp. Even when plunged into the deepest REM sleep, the body instinctively registered sharp pain. Clutching my throbbing face, I blinked through blurry, disoriented vision.

"W-What? What's going on?!"

"……"

Without a word, Ppareumbo pointed one elongated claw toward the cavern entrance. Still groggy, I turned my head in the indicated direction, squinting into the dark.

"Grrrrrr……"

"……!"

My brain stalled. What had I just heard? A stunned blankness washed over my features, but it took less than a fraction of a second for cold survival adrenaline to pierce the haze. That low, vibrating rasp wasn't the wind. It belonged to an animal—a massive, aggressive predator.

Holy shit…!

Swallowing a frantic curse, I scrambled into my combat ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠harness and snatched up the loaded crossbow. Danger. Absolute, lethal danger. Every alarm in my nervous system shrieked in unison.

Fully geared in a matter of seconds, I edged toward the cave mouth, each step measured and silent. Ppareumbo glided onto my upper back, locking his limbs in place so his claws were poised for immediate combat.

Stepping past the rocky lip, my gaze swept the perimeter until two burning points of illumination seized my focus.

Flicker!

Emerging from the suffocating curtain of pitch-black night, a pair of blood-chilling, predatory eyes stared unblinkingly into my own.