The Pleasures of Life (2)

Every human soul bears the weight of a grueling life.

It matters not if one appears to dwell upon the highest pedestal, sits upon a mountain of worry-free wealth, or seems blessed with everything the world has to offer. Each carries their own private agonies, which makes finding a way to unwind an absolute necessity. To endure, everyone needs some small pleasure in life—a reason to keep going. If not for that primal urge, humanity would never have invented entertainment in the first place.

In that sense, before I tumbled into the Forest of the Four Seasons, my own pleasures had been thoroughly unremarkable. After toiling away all day, I would clock out and play a round of video games with a buddy, or perhaps gather with friends over drinks on a day off. Circumstances had kept me from attending college, but those humble moments were my modest joy.

"Pheeew..."

Returning to the here and now, it seemed that as of today, smoking was slated to become my brand-new pleasure in life.

A cool, refreshing aroma seeped deep into my lungs with a single crisp draw. As if putting a tender close to an exhausting day, wisps of fragrant smoke billowed softly into the air, soothing my frayed nerves.

...Man, that tastes good.

I didn't smoke the cigar all the way to the stub. Long ago, I had sworn a solemn vow to my late father that I would never touch a cigarette as long as I lived. Yet this hellish death world had driven me to break even that promise.

Still... it wasn't bad. At the very least, my heart found peace.

Father in heaven, I'm truly sorry your unfilial son couldn't keep his word. Please let it slide just this once. Your boy is having a really, really rough time down here.

Was it clamping a cigar between my lips for the first time that made me so sentimental? A quiet chuckle slipped past my lips.

Life sure is bitter.

A drink would have made this moment perfection itself, but I reined myself in. If I started swigging liquor on top of this, I'd probably degenerate into an incorrigible drunkard no better than Passing Dwarf. Besides, I had chores to attend to, meaning booze had to take a back seat. If a predator ambushed me while I was half-cut, I'd be dead meat. Sticking to tobacco was far safer.

First things first, let's finish the trade with the dwarf.

I popped open the wooden cigar box to make use of its built-in ashtray. After tapping off the loose ash, I trimmed the charred end cleanly with my dagger. Cigars weren't meant to be burned down in a single sitting; you savored them across several sessions. One of my old pals had been an avid cigar aficionado, so I happened to know that much.

Who would've thought that guy's trivia would actually come in handy?

Useful knowledge was useful knowledge, regardless of where it came from. With a mind far clearer than before, I opened up the Gallery—or rather, I stopped myself just in time. Cleaning the writhing crabs in my pack took priority.

To put a crab out of its misery, you slipped a dagger into its mouthparts and gave it a sharp, key-like twist. Once it was dead, there would be no issue trading it through the system.

The fish were already decapitated, so they passed, but will crabs work?

Due to the Gallery's trade restrictions, living creatures could not be exchanged. That was the sole reason I always processed the fish to a certain degree before sending them off. Even after you wrenched a crab's mouth open, however, it took a little while for the creature to completely stop twitching. To be safe, it seemed best to pierce their mouths in advance and submerge them in a bucket. Plunging them into fresh water would cause them to purge their entrails through their mouths, making the butchering process that much cleaner.

Crack!

I firmly wedged the dagger into the squirming crustacean's mouth and twisted. The moment a muddy brownish liquid began to seep out, I dumped it straight into the bucket. I subjected the second crab to the exact same treatment before tossing it in beside the first.

While they're puking up their blood and guts, I'll consult the dwarf.

Consult him on what, exactly? As I had planned earlier, I needed to learn proper sword maintenance. He was a master blacksmith—and a dwarf, to boot—so he was bound to have a treasure trove of expert tips.

I glanced into the iron pail to check on the crabs, then tapped into the Gallery.

Naturally, I planned to maintain it properly. Neglecting a divine weapon like that would be sheer ingratitude.

Leaving the Heavenly Demon's Sword at that, I inquired about my other gear—specifically, the adamantine-whatever shield gifted to me by Praise the Sun, which I had mistakenly thought was made of pure gold.

From there, I asked about the rest of my everyday kit: the crossbow, the woodcutter's axe, the iron arrows, and so on. For the most part, his answer boiled down to keeping them oiled so they wouldn't degrade. The crossbow's bowstring would eventually need replacement, but he volunteered to handle that himself whenever the time came.

Chatting back and forth like that, twenty minutes flew by in an instant. I peered down into the iron bucket to check on the crabs. Not a single twitch disturbed the murky water. By the looks of it, every last drop of blood and bile had drained completely. All that remained was to finalize the trade.

The transaction wrapped up in a flash.

I took inventory of the supplies received from the dwarf. While the previous shipment had arrived in an ordinary wooden crate, this batch was neatly packed inside a sturdy metal toolbox. The whetstones, however, had been packaged separately—and he had sent several varieties.

One of these looks just like a vertical millstone.

One was a rotating grindstone wheel, while the other was a standard rectangular honing block. Storing these inside the cave seemed like a bad idea; the screech of grinding steel would likely wake Wonmo and create unnecessary trouble, so keeping them outdoors was the wiser choice.

And this is the oil... Why did he send so damn much?

It wasn't even stored in a proper container. Anyone with eyes would have pegged it for an amber ale bottle. Seeing thick, viscous mineral oil sloshing inside an old booze jug gave me a strange sense of deja vu.

Reminds me of my mom pouring homemade soy sauce into an empty Coke bottle back home.

It was practically the same vibe. Were all dwarves like this, or was this particular dwarf just an oddball? Either way, he had provided more than enough volume, so I had no complaints. Next, I inspected the sheets of paper. Upon closer look, they weren't pre-waxed or oiled at all; they were just coarse, absorbent sheets. He must have intended ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for me to soak the oil into them myself.

Shall we give it a shot?

Since the supplies were already in hand, I decided to polish the Heavenly Demon's Sword right then and there. It wasn't as if I had anything better to do. Following the dwarf's step-by-step instructions, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I began servicing the peerless blade.

The Heavenly Demon's Sword was an incomparable masterpiece, gliding through flesh, hide, and dense bone like a hot knife through butter. Yet because its wielder was a complete novice, grime and dried residue clung to several patches along the steel. On top of that, I had slain the subterranean Earth Guardian this morning and decimated a whole pack of them around midday.

Come to think of it, I didn't clean it once after putting down the Mad Dog, did I?

Because of that continuous neglect, the blade looked quite grubby. Had the Heavenly Demon herself laid eyes on it, she probably would have flown into a thunderous rage. Shaking off useless thoughts, I set to work wiping away the dried blood and foreign grime. I dribbled a measure of oil down the flat of the blade and gently smoothed it along the surface with the paper—

"Ouch! Damn it!!"

The instant the edge touched my fingers, the paper parted like mist and my skin split right along with it. The blade cleaved through the thick sheet the split second it made contact. Staring blankly at the bright red droplets welling up from my fingertip, I reached for an Elixir without a word.

I really need to watch that edge.

One false move and it would take my whole hand off. What was truly terrifying was that I had been wearing the World Tree Silk Gloves the entire time. While the incident allowed me to witness the gloves' self-repairing magic firsthand, it drove home just ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠how absurdly sharp the Heavenly Demon's Sword really was.

You really do have to treat it like a temperamental lover.

A little—no, an overwhelmingly demanding one. Even the standard-issue K2 rifle I handled during my military service hadn't required this much coddling. Pouring every ounce of focus into the task, I meticulously cleaned every inch of the blade. Because the razor-thin edge bit into anything that grazed it, the process proved agonizingly slow, but I managed to finish it in the end. A hefty stack of paper had to be sacrificed in the process, but there was no helping it.

I'll get the hang of it as I do it more often.

I propped the gleaming sword against the cave wall. According to the dwarf, the ideal spot was somewhere dry, cool, and well-ventilated.

Might as well grease the rest of the tools while I'm at it.

The golden shield, the combat dagger, the shovel, the woodcutting axe—anything that could take a coat of oil received one. Some might ask why I bothered when I could just buy replacements from the Gallery, but taking care of your gear prevented disastrous failures at critical moments.

Now that that's settled...

My eyes drifted across the cavern floor until they settled on Fast Tree Sloth. True to his nature, the beast wore his trademark, infuriatingly serene expression.

He tilted his head ever so slightly as our eyes met. Even that subtle tilt moved at an agonizing, glacial crawl. But it wasn't his tranquil face that commanded my attention.

"Hey, Ppareumbo."

"..."

"Want me to groom those claws of yours?"

Those monstrous talons of his were long overdue for some serious upkeep. I wasn't joking around; I meant it from the bottom of my heart. His claws had snatched my life from the jaws of death more times than I could count.

"C'mon over. It's for your own good."

"..."

Fast Tree Sloth eyed me with lingering suspicion for a few beats before shuffling over at his customary snail's pace. While he took his sweet time closing the distance, I set out the oil and fresh paper.

Wait a second. Do claws need trimming before oiling?

I had never raised a pet back on Earth, so I was completely out of my depth. For that matter, who on Earth would ever groom a tree sloth's claws? As I wracked my brain, my gaze fell upon the whetstones.

His talons were so preternaturally dense that they could carve through iron buckets like wet clay. Would an ordinary whetstone even put a dent in them?

...Probably not.

The difference in scale was far too great. More importantly, the gaps between his sickle-like claws were far too narrow to wedge a thick block between them. After wrestling with the dilemma, I resolved to consult the Gallery once more. With the sheer variety of weirdos congregating there, someone was bound to know how to groom a beast's claws.

This time, it was Praise the Sun who delivered the expertise. He explained that grooming techniques differed drastically depending on the anatomy of the claws. Great predators like lions or tigers possessed vascular tissue extending deep into their claws, demanding extreme caution to avoid severing blood vessels. Tree sloths, however, had no such complications, meaning one could file away without fear.

And so, armed with strips of sandpaper, I set to work on Fast Tree Sloth's talons. As if sensing that I was sprucing him up, Ppareumbo quietly extended his limb and let me have my way with it.

Calling a claw a hand feels kind of weird.

Still, these were the very claws that had saved my skin on multiple occasions, so I poured my heart into the work. I wrapped up the session by thoroughly buffing the dark keratin with oiled paper.

Ppareumbo stared silently at his gleaming, lethally sharpened talons. Since his expression remained permanently frozen in an infuriatingly placid mask, I couldn't tell whether he was overjoyed or utterly indifferent.

"You like it?"

"..."

Slow nod... slow nod...

Even nodding his head took an eternity.