Chapter 29
Written by Bayzo Albion
The two-meter sloth was gone. I had no idea where the damn thing went.
I stood alone in the forest, enveloped by shadows and a creeping dread that tightened my chest.
The battle had only just begun.
*If it's nowhere in sight, it's above,* the inner voice murmured.
I tilted my head slowly—and there it was. The sloth perched on a thick branch of an ancient oak, twenty meters up, statue-still. Its dark, almost human eyes bored into me, assessing like a predator sizing up prey, cold intelligence gleaming in their depths.
Then... it dropped.
Not a fall—a deliberate plunge. At the last second, it shoved off the trunk, transforming into a hurtling projectile. The impact shook the ground, leaves quivering on nearby bushes, a plume of dust billowing upward like smoke from a cannon. From the haze emerged a looming shadow, claws extended, eyes locked on me with unyielding hunger.
"Good thing I didn't go for the backstab," I exhaled, icy sweat trickling down my spine, soaking into my shirt.
Every muscle strained like a bowstring, the weight of potential error pressing on me. One slip, and my perfectionist creed would be buried with my corpse. "Zero deaths"—that was my mantra. A pristine, flawless number, mirroring my unyielding resolve.
But it vanished again.
Instinct overrode thought—I dove sideways, tumbling across the rough ground, the impact jarring my bones and knocking the wind from my lungs. Ears ringing, I hoped I'd evaded...
> Interface: [Received 121 damage]
> [-121 HP]
"Damn it! Time to bail!" I yelled inwardly, surging into a desperate sprint.
I zigzagged through the trees, using logs and trunks as barriers, the forest blurring into a green haze. Moments later, the woods gave way to a sun-drenched meadow—open, exposed, but easier to navigate without roots tripping me or branches snagging overhead.
My only edge: its magic needed recharging. Without it, the thing was just a lumbering brute on two legs. But if those muscles started glowing... better not dwell on that.
I ran without looking back, a grin tugging at my lips despite the burn in my lungs.
If someone had told me a month ago I'd be fleeing through a forest from a pissed-off sloth, I'd have slapped them for the absurdity. Now here I was, racing for my life and oddly grateful I still had all my limbs.
After a couple of minutes, I halted, gasping for air, heart hammering like a forge.
My clothes were shredded, as if I'd wrestled a tiger—ragged tears exposing skin. On my back, three long, parallel gashes stretched from shoulder to hip. Shallow, but weeping blood, the wounds itched more than ached, a nagging protest from my battered flesh.
"Interface, show status," I panted, swiping sweat from my brow.
A holographic projection of my body materialized, red highlights marking injuries. Below, my health bar flickered at around 30%. Survivable, but no room for complacency.
I surveyed my surroundings. Where the hell was I? The forest had receded, giving way to an endless plain stretching to the horizon. No landmarks in sight.
The trek back to the cave took nearly an hour, my pace brisk with minimal pauses. My body craved fuel, so I obliged—pulling out jerky and chewing mechanically, the salty toughness grounding me as energy trickled back in. Restoration came slow but steady, a quiet reassurance amid the uncertainty.
Suddenly, the interface blinked with a new prompt:
> Interface: [Spend 500 experience points on the "Construction" skill?]
"Seriously? Out of all the universe's magical abilities, upgrades, spells, and devastating attacks—you're offering me *building*?"
I jabbed at the air: "What else is available?"
The response hit like a wet plank to the face:
> Interface: [Access to other skills restricted.]
"Of course..."
Typical system BS. I'd just battled a monster, nearly died, and my reward? Carpentry skills. Might as well hand me nails and send me packing.
I sighed, confirming anyway. And then, it was like cement pouring into my skull.
It started with a faint tingle at my temples—then a flood of knowledge surged: optimal log angles, foundation depths, timber fitting techniques. I even learned the difference between beams and joists—stuff I'd previously assumed were dwarf names from some fantasy tale.
It dawned on me: my half-baked idea of slapping together a shack from sticks and mud wasn't just naive; it was an architectural travesty.
To build anything worthwhile, I'd need more than hands and an axe—logistics, surveying, engineering savvy, and ideally a crew of sturdy helpers.
"Fine," I grumbled, eyeing the terrain, "time for my personal construction epic."
As I mentally mapped out spots for the outhouse and sauna, a wry contrast bubbled up.
Working in paradise versus reality was like comparing passion to meditation: both satisfying, but one left you sweating from ecstasy, the other from strain.
Back on Earth, even your dream job was still *work*—fatigue, deadlines, morning meetings with zombie-eyed colleagues. Some higher-up barked "must," and you shuffled along, coffee-fueled automaton.
Here? In this realm? Digging a pit brought a smile. Hammering nails felt like bliss. Driving a stake was a boss-level triumph. No bosses, no "reports by six." Just you and creation.
You labored not out of obligation, but desire. Even sweat smelled like accomplishment.
"There it is," I chuckled. "The local IKEA experience."
With that thought, I approached the first tree, gazing at its trunk with mock reverence: "Sorry, buddy, but today you're becoming a door."
I methodically felled trees with my wooden sword—an odd choice for lumberjacking, sure. But it served my purposes.
First, I'm an experimenter at heart. I was dying to test how long this weapon could hold up under unconventional strain. Second, why not turn timber harvesting into training? Each swing honed precision, every motion etched into muscle memory, building not just a structure but my prowess.
The sword was already notched and cracked, but resilient. I noticed a quirk: at a specific angle, the blade sliced into wood with minimal resistance, gliding like butter.
*File that away for future fights,* I noted mentally, winding up for another chop.
Sweat streamed down my back, mingling with airborne pollen that shimmered like golden mist. Each felled tree came easier—either I'd found my groove, or the sword was "sharpening" itself against the bark.
In breaks, I inspected the hilt's durability. It creaked in protest but held, a testament to its upgrades.
*How many more trees before it splinters?* The question fueled my drive. A true master adapts—felling forests with a wooden sword if need be.
When my stamina flagged, I restored the blade by infusing it with monster blood. The edge smoothed, sturdy as new, gleaming under the dappled light.
"There you are! I've been searching everywhere!" a familiar voice called.
The Baroness emerged from the trees, her eyes reflecting a turbulent blend of relief and concern, like storm clouds parting.
"How did you survive the night alone in this forest?" she asked, stepping closer. "Did someone help? Save you?"
"Luck alone," I replied with a brief smirk, adjusting my torn sleeve. "And the madness that wouldn't let me quit."
"Only the truly strong endure here solo," she whispered, drawing nearer, her presence a mix of admiration and subtle intensity.
Her gaze roved over my ragged attire, lingering on the ripped seams. For a fleeting moment, her composed facade cracked, revealing worry she tried to mask. Gently, almost reverently, she traced her fingers over the healing scratches—light as a feather, as if handling a fragile artifact.
"Who... who did this to you?" Her voice trembled with genuine emotion, a vulnerability that tugged at something deep within me.
"A two-meter black sloth," I said, chuckling at the absurdity. "Looked like a clumsy oaf, but struck like lightning."
She shook her head, eyes darkening with confusion and a hint of frustration.
"Why risk it? With your power, you could rule the village like a king!" She advanced, her tone softening yet commanding. "The villagers would elect you leader. Guard you like a treasure, fulfill every whim. We'd accept any... quirks."
*Craft a poetic excuse to shake her off,* my inner voice suggested.
"I'd love to, but..." I paused, letting the silence stretch taut between us, heavy with unspoken tension.
"But what?" She tilted her head, eyes flashing with curiosity and defiance.
"You see... my power demands constant fuel," I said, closing my eyes as if confessing a dark secret. "Thrills, adrenaline, real danger. Without it, I'd wither."
"We can provide!" she exclaimed, gripping my hand tighter, her warmth seeping through. "Tournaments, monster hunts—whatever you crave! We'll quench that hunger."
"You don't get it," I smiled sadly, as if addressing a cherished but doomed soul. "It thrives on genuine peril—the kind that could end me."
She held my gaze, unyielding resolve igniting in her eyes. I knew then her words were no idle vow.
"We'll do whatever it takes," she said softly, steel threading her voice. "Just give us a chance."
"What do you really want?" I pressed, sensing the undercurrent, fists clenching instinctively.
"We want... to protect you," she replied, hands clasped behind her back in feigned innocence. "But first, I need to verify something."
Her motion was a blur. A white katana flashed in the sunlight, whistling predatorily through the air, aimed at my right wrist.
I jerked back, too late. The blade should have cleaved flesh and bone, but... it halted mid-strike, barely grazing my skin. No pain, no blood—as if the attack had never happened. For a heartbeat, the world froze — even the wind forgot how to move