Cold sweat rolled down the warrior's neck. He had never imagined that the Silver-rank hunter would die that fast.
But he wasn't mocking him—he understood too well. Against that golem's terrifying strength, even he wouldn't have lasted long.
He stared at the hunter's mangled corpse, rage flashing briefly in his eyes, before fading into grim calculation. The coachman beside him trembled violently. He was only a common man—he'd seen strong adventurers before, sure, but never someone die right before his eyes.
And certainly not so brutally.
"I… I'm going back," the coachman stammered.
"Wait," the warrior said sharply, catching his arm. He watched Steve for a long moment, his mind spinning fast.
It didn't take him long to realize that the villager hadn't lied—the golem truly wasn't part of the village. They were close by, but clearly had no connection.
And that… gave him an idea.
In the Adventurers' Guild, if an adventurer died during a commission, their party wasn't compensated—the loss was theirs to bear. But death itself triggered another rule: the client owed a death indemnity, paid to the fallen's kin.
The warrior and the hunter weren't close. They'd shared drinks once or twice. That was it.
But he could claim the indemnity himself.
And on top of that—there was still the quest reward. The commission had been to "resolve the threat to the village." And that golem clearly wasn't hostile to the villagers, was it?
He could spin this.
And then there were the wolf corpses—piles of them. Judging from the villagers' tone, the golem had killed every single one. Those pelts, fangs, and hides could fetch a small fortune.
Yes… if he avoided dealing with the golem and only spoke to the villagers, he could walk away with three profits in one stroke.
The thought made him grin. He tugged the coachman close and whispered, "Wait here. I'll pay you triple for the ride back. Won't be long."
The coachman hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. Whatever feud existed between adventurers and strange monsters—it wasn't his business.
The warrior turned just in time to see the golem vanish into the ground—sliding into one of the holes it had dug. His heart leapt with opportunity.
He strode toward Jack, his boots squelching through the mud. "Time to settle our commission," he said coldly.
Jack froze, startled.
"We've calmed your golem down," the warrior continued. "Baltan died in the process. I think that deserves proper compensation."
Jack's face flushed red. He stammered wordlessly until the village chief stepped in, frowning.
"We're sorry," the old man said, "but that lord has never shown hostility toward us—or toward you."
"What's that supposed to mean? That we died for nothing?"
The warrior seized the chief's collar, snarling. "If you try to cheat me, I'll report it to the Guild. You'll lose your village's standing, and you'll pay for Baltan's death!"
The chief met his glare, silent for a long time. Then he snorted softly.
"The death indemnity, we'll pay," he said at last. "But as for the commission reward—you'll get only half. And it will go through the Guild's records."
"What?" The warrior's face darkened.
"Or," the chief added, gesturing toward the nearby hole, "you can wait for that lord to return and discuss it with him directly."
That broke the man's confidence. After a moment of hesitation, he relented. While the villagers scraped together coins, he quietly pocketed several of the wolf fangs lying around.
Then he loaded the hunter's body and the money onto the wagon and left without another word.
After he was gone, the village fell into a heavy silence. The air itself seemed subdued.
"Don't dwell on that poor fool," the chief finally said.
Jack frowned, confused.
"He's blinded by greed," the chief explained. "Men like that don't live long."
"But—" Jack began, anger still simmering. Some villagers murmured that the hunter's death was his own fault for attacking Steve.
"I'll write a letter," the chief said. "You'll deliver it to the Guild with the rest of the payment. I trust they'll judge fairly."
A faint, cold light flickered in his eyes before he smiled again.
"Besides," he said, turning toward the rows of wolf corpses, "that little bit of gold means nothing. If the lord chooses to share these spoils, we'll earn it back in no time."
The villagers followed his gaze—and understanding dawned.
"Do you think… he'll give them to us?" someone asked hesitantly.
"The lord isn't a monster," the chief said confidently. "We can talk to him."
Hope began to replace fear in their eyes. After all, even that arrogant adventurer had admitted the golem wasn't some wild creature. Perhaps it could be reasoned with.
Old Tom, especially, felt his worries fade. Knowing now that Steve wasn't made of human bone or flesh helped more than anything.
"Let's start with these bodies," he said. "We can help clean up—otherwise, it'll rot. That'd be disrespectful to him."
And so, under the chief's orders, the entire afternoon—and half the night—was spent processing the Wolves.
They dried pelts, salted meat, turned organs into bait, buried what they couldn't use, and gathered the fangs into neat piles.
By the time they were done, the moon hung high and cold.
One by one, they drifted to sleep beneath its light. Yet even in their dreams, some kept hearing faint, rhythmic thuds—like someone hammering wood.
Thuk. Thuk. Thuk.
It wasn't loud, but it kept them uneasy.
When dawn came, they stepped outside… and froze.
Where was the forest?
That sprawling forest beyond the fields—gone. Completely. In its place lay a vast clearing strewn with leaves, broken branches, and splinters of wood. There weren't even stumps—just raw, flattened earth.
And that wasn't all. The moat surrounding their village had widened, its bridges replaced by smooth, solid walkways of fitted logs—each perfectly cut into one-meter cubes.
The walls too had transformed, now built entirely of massive wooden blocks—each a full meter thick, towering and square. Not a soul doubted their strength.
Even the farmland had changed. The old, scraggly potato plants were gone, replaced by rows of delicate green sprouts, arranged with impossible precision. Straight lines, perfect symmetry.
"My heavens…" the chief whispered, jaw slack. "Is this… divine intervention?"
"No," someone gasped, pointing. "It's the lord!"
They turned—and there he was. Steve.
The square man was busy stacking logs along the new perimeter, his cuboid body bobbing as he placed each block with careful rhythm.
He squatted, shuffled a few steps, placed another log, and repeated—his faceless concentration oddly mesmerizing.
The villagers could only stare.
The blocks were strange things—harvested as thin, round logs barely thirty centimeters wide, yet when placed, they expanded into perfect cubes.
It defied reason, but Steve didn't care. It made construction so much easier. He'd already decided the village's defense was too weak; this rebuild was only the beginning.
He planned to make this place his base—a long-term outpost. Later, he'd add watchtowers and defensive platforms.
And that wide clearing beyond the walls? That was for a future iron farm.
After all, he'd spent the entire night mining down hundreds of blocks… and hadn't found a single piece of iron.
Not one.
He'd found gemstones instead—sparkling, probably valuable—so he kept them. But the lack of iron gnawed at him.
Placing the final log, Steve stood on the wall and surveyed his work from above.
The village gleamed in the early light, symmetrical, fortified, clean.
He felt… satisfied.
Maybe not as artistic as the Player's builds—but still, undeniably beautiful in its own way.