A Bizarre Adventure (1)
As of today, Fast Tree Sloth and Wonmo are officially declared Chaemes United supporters.
"Heh, heh, heh."
Keirin, princess of the Demon Realm of Mephisto, let out a thoroughly contented chuckle as she scrolled through Grylls's post. In public, she maintained the imperious, unapproachable dignity expected of royal blood, but that was strictly reserved for the waking world. Here, sheltered beneath the total anonymity of the Gallery, she was no different from any other spectator venting their rawest sentiments.
"He truly is adorable. Just look at that plump little belly."
Even a high demon possessed no defense against pure, concentrated cuteness. In truth, hardly anyone on the forum ever dared speak ill of Wonmo. To insult Wonmo was to invite a merciless avalanche of cross-dimensional vitriol upon oneself. Things had reached such an extreme that certain users routinely flooded threads demanding Grylls step out of the frame and upload pictures of the owlbear cub instead.
Well, at least he won't have to worry about clothing for a while.
Her reason for gifting the sportswear to Grylls had been simple enough. She possessed jerseys in such absurd surplus that they practically tripped her up in her wardrobes, and more importantly, Grylls intrigued her. Having lived her entire life steeped in court intrigue and showered in sugary sycophancy, she possessed an uncanny ear for discerning truth from fabrication. It had been an age since mere written words had conveyed such transparent sincerity.
Keirin had accumulated plenty of reasons to view Grylls favorably. For one, his support for her beloved Chaemes United appeared genuinely heartfelt, and his persistent drive to reciprocate every favor left quite an impression. When she had told him that no repayment was necessary, he had fidgeted like an anxious puppy that desperately needed to relieve itself. Every small action spoke well of him. Even behind the veil of online anonymity, Grylls remained polite, respectful, and surprisingly well-mannered.
Is he only courteous because failing to curry favor would endanger his life?
Perhaps that played a role. It was entirely possible that once he escaped the Forest of the Four Seasons, he would shut his mouth and feign ignorance of all past acquaintances. Even if that proved true, it hardly mattered now. As long as he remained trapped in that primordial nightmare, he would remain an agreeable soul.
Still, it is baffling. Could he truly have hailed from another world?
Separate from her goodwill, her curiosity refused to quiet. Long ago, Grylls had offhandedly mentioned coming from an entirely different world. At the time, everyone had brushed it off as an elaborate roleplay, and Keirin had assumed the same. After all, he possessed a shockingly detailed grasp of modern athletics. Yet the proposal he had floated back then was nothing short of astonishing.
A grand tournament not of clubs bound to local fiefs, but of teams representing entire territorial origins—held strictly once every four years.
The tournament Grylls had spoken of was the World Cup. That single concept lingered stubbornly in Keirin's thoughts. He had described it with the vivid, matter-of-fact clarity of someone reminiscing about an established institution. It had naturally captured her imagination.
The boundless pride of representing one's homeland. The supreme glory claimed by toppling rival nations' finest. The exquisite rarity of a four-year cycle. Every single element is intoxicatingly compelling.
Once, Mephisto had attempted to inaugurate a similar project: an inter-species athletic festival where each distinct race assembled its own representative delegation. The proposal had garnered enthusiastic acclaim initially, only to collapse beneath practical hurdles. The biological disparity between races was immense, but the psychological burden had proven far worse. The stakes had been absurdly lethal, and surviving the brutal qualifiers meant becoming hopelessly tangled in continental politics. It was a poisoned chalice disguised as sporting honor, and so the grand design had faded into obscurity.
Such an event would undoubtedly trigger explosive fervor among mankind as well.
Human beings possessed a baseline capability so low it scraped the dirt, yet their absolute zenith could puncture the heavens. This reality held true on the sporting pitch just as in warfare; countless human athletes currently competed across continental leagues. It was commonplace even within Mephisto for transferred human players to run wild and dominate matches. Their physical primes were tragically brief, curtailed by rapid biological aging, yet within that fleeting window, their brilliance was devastating enough to sweep every trophy available, bruising the pride of the demon clans year after year. Hadn't the recent continental club championship ended in an agonizing demon defeat at human hands? Where demons and elves endured long and thin, humanity burned short and furiously thick.
Is he truly an outsider to this realm?
The notion had initially sounded like nonsense, but too many inconsistencies gnawed at her logic. Accessing the Gallery network from within the Forest of the Four Seasons should have been impossible, to say nothing of the peculiar, unrecorded knowledge he routinely displayed.
Well, even if he is, it doesn't change the fact that he stands with Chae-U.
Shedding the spiraling train of thought, Keirin shook her head. While she would have loved a deeper discussion with him, his survival took precedence over idle intellectual curiosity. It would genuinely sour her mood if a fellow Chae-U supporter died pointlessly in the wilderness.
If only those fools in the Mercedes House paid more attention to him.
How wonderful would it be if Duke Mercedes's lineage provided Grylls with unconditional sponsorship? Grylls's chances of survival would skyrocket, and the promotional yield would be immense. But the Mercedes merchant lords were blind to everything save immediate profit; a ragged castaway in a lost forest would never register on their ledgers.
I would love nothing more than to lean on them diplomatically, but… damn politics.
Keirin clicked her tongue. To the casual observer, association football was light, breezy entertainment. Yet the moment one scratched beneath the surface, the sport descended into a cesspool of administrative filth and factional scheming. It was why Keirin made a conscious effort to remain purely a spectator. Even so, watching Chae-U take the pitch inevitably caused her blood pressure to spike—though that was a universal curse shared by every supporter on the continent. Boiling with helpless rage when one's chosen club played like complete garbage was a law of nature that transcended national borders and racial bloodlines alike.
Please, just don't get routed without putting up a fight. At least score one measly goal.
Keirin recalled the fixture scheduled in two days' time. Their opponents were none other than Leor, a team she despised down to the marrow of her bones. Leor had steadily consolidated into a tactical juggernaut, while Chae-U continued its dizzying freefall down the league table. The gulf in form was terrifyingly wide. Yet the beautiful game was notorious for defying logic, and so she clung to a threadbare sliver of hope.
I'll have to announce that I am entering mental cultivation two days from now.
There was one distinct advantage to being an obsessive sports fanatic: one never needed separate meditation sessions. If screaming at a broadcast crystal wasn't spiritual tempering, what was? Smirking faintly at the rationalization, Keirin turned the corner of the polished palace corridor.
"Hm?"
"Ah."
Her footsteps hitched as a towering figure rounded the corridor opposite her. Pale blue skin, obsidian sclera framing gleaming irises, sweeping horns cresting his brow, and an imposing visage that could only be described as magnificently handsome.
"Greetings, Royal Father." Keirin immediately inclined her head, adopting the flawless posture of imperial protocol.
Before her stood Asmode, the entity whispered across human nations as a catastrophic Maou, reigning monarch of the Demon Realm of Mephisto, and her biological father.
"At ease, Keirin. Has all been well?"
"Could anything untoward happen to me, Father? Each day passes precisely like the last."
"I see. And where were you heading?"
"I was preparing to make arrangements for my secluded spiritual tempering, scheduled two days hence."
I am going to lock myself away and watch Chae-U play, Keirin clarified silently in the privacy of her mind.
Asmode nodded slowly, his deep baritone carrying an edge of somber gravity. "It seems your days of mental cultivation have grown remarkably frequent of late. Does something weigh heavily upon your mind?"
"My trivial anxieties are utterly beneath notice when weighed against the burdens shouldered by Your Majesty, who steers the fate of Mephisto day and night."
Chae-U plays so atrociously it's giving me terminal ulcers, Father. I feel like I'm going to drop dead of stress.
Unaware of the silent screaming beneath his daughter's serene mask, Asmode offered a rare, softened murmur of comfort. "Do not push yourself beyond your limits. You are my beloved daughter before you are a princess of this realm. If you ever require assistance, speak without hesitation."
"Your benevolence honors me, Royal Father. However…"
Keirin peered carefully into Asmode's face. The harsh lines that usually hardened his expression were remarkably relaxed. In the past, his countenance had remained so unyielding that an icy chill followed him wherever he walked. Back then, he too had spent endless days sequestered in rigorous mental tempering.
"Has Royal Father attained an enlightenment of late? The frequency of your own secluded meditations appears to have diminished."
"Indeed. Affairs across Mephisto have progressed smoothly, and with good fortune following good fortune, my spirit has found profound tranquility."
"I am delighted to hear it."
I'm so jealous. I'm genuinely, terribly jealous.
While her insides were festering into necrotic rot over defensive blunders, her father had achieved spiritual transcendence. Yet she could not complain of unfairness. The guilt lay entirely with herself.
Being a Chae-U fan is my own damned sin.
She had no right to take her frustration out on an innocent bystander.
"Then I pray your upcoming tempering yields magnificent fruits," Asmode said warmly.
"I thank you, Royal Father. And what of your own schedule?"
"I, too, have an engagement two days hence. A martial exercise—perhaps the most critical training session of my recent years."
"If it is Your Majesty who undertakes it, a glorious outcome is already assured."
"I appreciate your kind words. Well then, I shall take my leave."
Asmode patted Keirin gently on the shoulder before sweeping past her, his obsidian cloak trailing silently across the marble. Keirin watched his broad back recede into the hall before resuming her stride, her stomach twisting into familiar knots.
If they get crushed again this week…
The mere thought made her shudder. The mockery on the Gallery would reach apocalyptic proportions. But what unsettled her most was Grylls. What if he witnessed Chae-U's pathetic performance and washed his hands of the club entirely? A vivid, horrifying phantom of a future thread flashed across her inner vision:
That, above all else, cannot be permitted!
How could she ensure Grylls's loyalty remained tethered to Chaemes United? Beneath her stone-faced royal demeanor, Keirin's mind raced frantically through contingencies. No matter how exalted one's lineage, an ultra remained an ultra to the core.
I will be watching you, Wild Grylls. Let us see if your allegiance falters.
Unbeknownst to the man struggling for his life in the primordial woods, a silent royal trial had been decreed upon his head.
Wait. What is this bizarre chill?
I snapped my head around, scanning the dense foliage. Everywhere I looked, there were only colossal, twisting tree trunks and thick undergrowth. Suspecting a predatory beast might be stalking me from the shadows, I scrutinized the perimeter, but caught neither scent nor movement. Fast Tree Sloth remained utterly limp and unbothered, meaning my nerves were likely playing tricks on me.
Whatever. Let's see how the smoking turned out.
More pressing matters demanded my attention. Approaching the makeshift wooden tripod I had erected based on Starlight Princess's alchemical-culinary advice, it was time to check on the meat suspended above the smoldering hardwood coals. Depending on heat and thickness, cold smoking took anywhere from hours to days, but because preservation was of the essence, I had opted for a hotter, accelerated smoke lasting around half a day.
"Whoa. Look at that gorgeous glaze."
The visual inspection passed with flying colors. The tiger meat had taken on a deep, rich mahogany hue, glistening beneath a fine veneer of rendered fat while giving off an intensely savory, wood-tinged aroma. To verify that the core had cooked through, I tore a thick strip in half. The interior was succulent and tender, steaming with trapped moisture.
Appearance and texture were flawless, but the ultimate metric was flavor. Evening was still a ways off, but a single bite wouldn't hurt.
"Nom."
I sank my teeth into the smoked tiger strip. People always claimed apex predators possessed a greasy, unpalatable musk, but the aromatic smoke had completely neutralized any lingering gaminess. Then again, considering my mutated, omnivorous constitution, I might just have lost the ability to taste foulness altogether. The flavor was remarkably hearty, brimming with rich juices that offered a satisfying, dense chew.
"Gaaah…! Pffft! Pfft!"
…The catch was that it was brutally, excruciatingly salty.
I had salted the slabs aggressively beforehand to ensure preservation, so this was an inevitable byproduct of wilderness curing.
Yeah, there's no way Wonmo can eat this.
Fresh raw meat was vastly healthier for the cub's digestion anyway. Taking the fully cured slabs, I carried them into the deeper recesses of the cave. The natural stone cavern was noticeably cooler than the humid forest outside, making it an ideal pantry.
Time to process the rest.
A massive pile of butchered game remained to be smoked. My hands and feet moved in a blur of ceaseless labor, trimming fat, stoking coals, and hanging fresh cuts. By the time I wiped the sweat from my brow, the sun had crested the western canopy and twilight was draping over the woods.
Dinner was straightforward: a single thick slab of the newly smoked meat. Given its dense caloric richness, one cut was more than enough to refuel my body.
"Wonmo! Dinner time!"
"Kyu-woo!"
The moment he heard the call, Wonmo trotted over, his dark eyes sparkling with unbridled excitement. Draped in the child-sized Chae-U athletic jersey, his cuteness had surpassed all reasonable biological thresholds. Just watching him waddle forward stirred an overwhelming urge to squeeze him into an affectionate headlock. For the first time in my life, I finally grasped why pet owners spent fortune after fortune dressing up their dogs and cats.
As for Fast Tree Sloth… yeah, never again.
The sloth had worn an expression of such murderous disgust that I had stripped the fabric off him within thirty seconds. Had I hesitated, his scythe-like claws would have shredded Princess Chaeng-gu's enchanted sportswear into expensive confetti.
Regardless, another grueling day had concluded productively. Tomorrow, I needed to hunt down giant river crabs for the trapped dwarf and resume scouring the forest quadrant by quadrant.
If I just keep pushing forward piece by piece, the path out of here has to reveal itself eventually, right?
Clinging to that faint, fragile strand of hope, I let my eyelids droop shut and drifted into slumber—completely unaware of the bizarre catastrophe awaiting me with the rising sun.