The sun climbed above the treetops, and the snow in the dense forest began to melt.
Perhaps due to the lack of human or animal traffic, the bushes and weeds displayed their incredible reproductive ability; the forest path, which had just been cleared three months prior, was once again covered by dense vegetation.
Art had no choice but to draw his short sword and hack his way through, barely clearing a path.
The jungle was even muddier after the snow melted, and by the time Art had crossed hills and streams, traversed winding forest paths, and could vaguely see the grassland at the edge of the dense forest, an entire morning had passed.
The forest path did not extend to the edge of the dense forest.
Art worried that his dwelling might be discovered by his enemies, so the entrance to the small path within the dense forest was deliberately hidden, even though he had never encountered any travelers passing through this area in three years.
From the residual memories of the original owner and his own limited knowledge, Art knew that this world was not entirely consistent with the history of his original world.
However, it didn't matter; he was equally unfamiliar with both histories, and relying on the original owner's memories to generally understand this world was already sufficient.
It is said that during the empire's peak, this was an important trade route.
Goods such as grain, linen, wool, and velvet from the northern continent continuously passed through this dense forest at the northern end, traversed valleys and plains, and then went south through winding, steep, and deep mountain ravines directly to the rich Southern European plains.
Conversely, gold, jewelry, spices, dyes, raw silk, and even Eastern silk and porcelain from the southern continent flowed through this route to the entire northern continent…
However, over the centuries, the desolation of several hundred years had transformed this place into a paradise for mountain birds and wild beasts; the former prosperity and richness had now become dense forests and grasslands on the soil.
After passing through this dense forest, sweat had already soaked Art's inner garment.
Standing on the vast wilderness before him, a cold wind swept over, making Art feel a chill but also a sense of ease and relief.
He placed his heavy mountain goods on the grass, unbuttoned his bear fur coat, and a plume of white mist rose from his chest.
He took off his hunting bow and quiver and short sword, sat down on the ground, and opened his deerskin water bladder.
A gulp of cold water drank too quickly made him cough incessantly.
After a short rest and managing to swallow a few bites of mixed grain bread with the cold water, Art packed his belongings and set off again.
He needed to reach a small stream on the northern side of the wilderness before the sun set behind the mountains; that stream was the only water source in the entire wilderness…
… … … …
Night fell, and in the midst of a vast wilderness, a thin ribbon of water stretched across the land.
Beside the water, a small bonfire crackled softly.
Wild boar meat sizzled invitingly over the fire, emitting a tempting aroma, and mixed grain bread skewered on dry branches had already roasted to a fragrant crisp.
The deerskin water bladder was placed a little farther away, absorbing the residual warmth of the bonfire and slowly becoming warm.
Art leaned against a pile of fur and mountain goods, drew the single-edged hunting knife from his waist, reached out to cut a piece of golden-brown pork, then carefully took out the salt packet, pinched a small handful of salt grains, and sprinkled them evenly over the roasted meat.
Then, he enjoyed the satisfaction of his taste buds with the roasted bread.
A rather hearty dinner made Art feel warm, and the surrounding chill was also significantly dispelled by the small bonfire.
Art got up and once again collected dry branches and shrubs around the camp.
There was a large bush forest upstream of the stream, and many dry branches and fallen leaves drifted down the stream, leaving a considerable amount on the riverbanks.
These dry branches and fallen leaves were barely enough to keep the bonfire weakly burning all night, and it was important to know that in the snowy wilderness of winter nights, a night without a bonfire would be hell.
The night was already very deep, and the day's journey made Art feel a little tired; his eyelids grew heavier and heavier…
“Howl~~~”
Art jolted awake!
“Howl~~~ Awoo~~~” The wolf howls grew closer and closer.
In a mere breath, Art had already fastened his short sword and hunting knife, several iron-tipped light arrows were clasped in his bow-holding left hand, his right hand had already drawn an arrow and nocked it on the bow, and his eyes were fixed unmoving on the direction from which the sound came.
After a long moment, he slowly lowered his hunting bow.
He carefully distinguished the wolf howls; these were not a pack of wolves, but only two or three wilderness wolves hunting in the wilderness.
He only relaxed slightly.
Art, relying on the original owner’s instincts and three years of learning, immediately reacted—piling all the dry branches and fallen leaves onto the bonfire.
Instantly, the bonfire burned fiercely, rising in high flames, illuminating the surrounding wilderness.
Art quickly pulled a burning thick branch from the fire to use as a torch, and continuously picked up dry branches, fallen leaves, and dry grass not soaked by melting snow from the riverbank near the camp, adding them to the fire.
“I hope this bright fire will make the wild wolves afraid~” Art prayed.
Although Art constantly searched for combustible firewood around him, vegetation was limited in this wilderness, and he dared not venture further in the dark to collect more.
The bonfire grew smaller and smaller, and without the protection of the firelight, heaven knew if cunning wilderness wolves would suddenly appear from behind him.
He had lived in the forest for three years and deeply understood the wolves' ferocity and cunning.
Even with ample preparation and the aid of traps, facing a jungle wolf trapped for three days, Art had almost lost his life.
This was an exposed wilderness, a hunting ground dominated by wilderness wolves; at this moment, he had become the prey.
The crescent moon slowly descended, already nearing the mountain range at the edge of the wilderness.
The cold grew increasingly intense, and the embers of the bonfire still glowed faintly red.
Art lay on his side by the fire, cradling his sword.
The extreme tension of the night had drained his energy, and waves of drowsiness washed over him.
In the first half of the night, after the bonfire burned fiercely, the wolf howls gradually receded.
In this wilderness, untouched by humans for many years, the deterrent effect of a bright fire on wolves was very obvious.
The surrounding silence and drowsiness gradually made Art lower his guard; his eyelids grew heavier and heavier~ more and more sunken, and his consciousness slowly began to blur…
“Snap!”
“Ow! Damn it!”
Art jolted as a spark from a popping piece of charcoal burned him.
He quickly shook the spark off his hand.
After brushing it off, Art subconsciously glanced at the position of the crescent moon.
That glance gave him a fright.
Between two small rocks less than ten paces from him, two eyes emitting a faint green light were staring at him…
A lone wilderness wolf had its hind legs slightly bent, its front legs extended forward, adopting a posture as if about to pounce downwards.
Its pointed ears were not stiffly upright like other wolves, its fur was dull grey, its teeth yellowed, and its body was lean.
Only its tail was snow-white, looking as if a section of it was missing in the moonlight's shadow, indicating it surely hadn't eaten for many days.
Last night, those few wilderness wolves, deterred by the firelight, eventually chose to leave after observing from afar.
They were not afraid of bipedal upright animals, but they feared the bright, blazing flames.
Shortly after those few wilderness wolves disappeared, an old, weak lone wolf appeared in the shadows not far away.
After the heavy snow, the old lone wolf in the wilderness could no longer keep up with the wilderness gazelles and larger prey.
It hadn't eaten its fill for a long time, and the scent of roasted food attracted it.
It feared the firelight but could not resist the temptation of food.
After silently lurking for most of the night, the distant bonfire was slowly becoming faint.
When Art's vigilance began to drop and he grew drowsy, the lone wolf's opportunity finally arrived.
It moved quietly and slowly towards the dying embers, its soft paws touching the ground, its body close to the earth.
The prey drew closer step by step, and just as the lone wolf was about to pounce on its prey, a crackling sound came from the fire, startling the lone wolf back a few steps, and it retreated into the shadows.
Silence, a deathly silence.
The lone wolf was intimidated by the cold glint of the sharp blade in Art’s hand, and Art feared the lone wolf’s green-glowing eyes and bared fangs.
One man and one wolf stood in a standoff like this.
“I can’t keep this stalemate going, I’ll collapse first,” Art’s tense thoughts raced, constantly searching his mind for memories of dealing with wild wolves, both his own and the original owner’s.
He didn’t want to die, at least he didn’t want to die disgustingly in the mouth of a skinny, mangy old wolf.
The lone wolf also seemed to sense the fierce glint in the prey's eyes before its death throes.
It gently retreated half a step backward, its body lowering, its nostrils flaring.
Art kept his eyes fixed on the lone wolf, holding the sword in his right hand, and gently reaching for his waist with his left hand, slowly drawing his hunting knife.
His left foot lightly stepped forward half a pace, his right foot slightly bent, and his body leaned slightly forward.
“Roar!” The lone wolf was half a step faster, and in an instant, it had rushed forward, leaping and pouncing on Art.
Art’s legs braced, his body half-crouched, narrowly dodging the lone wolf’s fatal bite.
The lone wolf crashed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust, then immediately turned and crouched, charging back.
Art had already lost half a step, and the lone wolf gave him no chance to catch his breath.
He had no choice but to half-crouch, turn, and face the lone wolf directly.
At this point, he was no longer trembling; a surge of ruthlessness welled up within him.
He swung the sword in his right hand at the lone wolf, while the hunting knife in his left hand stabbed upwards from his waist and leg.
The lone wolf bit down on the short sword, but it couldn't dodge the hunting knife coming from its lower side.
"Awoo~" The lone wolf, stabbed in the right rib, howled in pain and leaped a few steps away. Art seized the opportunity, flung the hunting knife in his left hand, and the hilt struck the lone wolf's hind leg bone hard. The lone wolf let out another mournful "woof"...
Instinctively, after being mortally threatened, the lone wolf began to whimper and retreat. When Art let out a loud shout, feigning a charge to swing his sword, the lone wolf finally recognized the strength of its prey and turned to retreat.
Art, having caught his breath, kept his eyes on the slowly retreating lone wolf. He quickly backed away to the campfire, dropped his short sword, swiftly crouched down, picked up his hunting bow, drew a light arrow, and shot it urgently at the lone wolf about ten steps away. The lone wolf dodged, and the arrow grazed its fur before embedding itself in the grass.
Watching the limping lone wolf gradually disappear, Art no longer had the strength to shoot a second arrow. The night's standoff and several rounds of struggle had drained all his energy. Seeing the severely wounded lone wolf flee and vanish on the horizon, his body went soft, and he collapsed onto the ground...
The next day, as dawn barely broke, Art had already swallowed a few bites of mixed grain bread with the leftover roasted meat from last night. He quickly packed his sword, hunting bow, and shouldered the organized furs and mountain goods, leaving the riverside camp in quick steps.
Last night's danger filled him with lingering fear. If the bursting sparks hadn't woken him, giving him crucial time to react; if it had been those robust wasteland wolves attacking him instead of an old lone wolf; if he hadn't delivered that fatal thrust at the critical moment... If any of those "ifs" had become reality, he would now be a pile of shattered bones with rotting flesh.
Ignoring his dizzy head and aching, soft limbs, Art walked north across the wasteland from sunrise until midday.
He was very tired and weary, but he worried about the lone wolf continuing to harass him, and even more about the few wasteland wolves that had left yesterday returning. If he were followed by several wasteland wolves, there would be no more luck or "ifs."
At noon, Art didn't dare to make a fire to roast meat again. He simply cut a piece of smoked venison and ate a few bites amidst a Giant Stone Pile in the wasteland. After lying down for a while in the shade, he got up and set off again as soon as the sun began to set.
When the sun dropped behind the mountains, Art was already approaching the northern edge of the wasteland. At the end of the wild grass plain, a large, sparse Birch Forest appeared. Half a day's journey north of the Birch Forest, there was a manor village named Ryan, which was one of Bazel Kris's manors.
Art quickened his pace. Since spring last year, sporadic bandits had begun to appear on this road leading north. To be safe, he planned to rest in the Birch Forest tonight, where there was an abandoned hunter's cabin.
By the time he reached the abandoned wooden cabin, it was completely dark. Art fumbled in the dark, gathering a pile of dead wood and branches, and started a fire in the cabin's hearth. After a simple meal and drink, the cabin was soon filled with snores, and the night passed without incident.
By noon the next day, Art could already see signs of human activity—a large expanse of leveled farmland. Winter wheat had already been planted, and the farmers only needed to wait for the spring breeze to awaken the sprouts.
Beyond the vast farmland, there were a few tall oak and Scots pine trees. Beneath them, sparsely distributed, were about twenty low-roofed cabins built from stone, pine wood, and thatch. Smoke rose from the roofs, blown by the cold wind towards the center of the village. There, a circular fortress, about two hundred feet long and fifty feet high, constructed from wood and stone, stood. The top of the circular fortress had a circular battlement and a simple wooden watchtower. A large oak door with copper buckles and rivets was embedded at the base of the circular fortress, with several small square windows arranged vertically above the door—that was Bazel's manor castle, but Bazel did not live there. This was just a small manor under his name, overseen by his household steward.
As Art walked into the village, some farmers emerged from the cabins lining the muddy road. They were wrapped in worn linen, stuffed full of dry grass, and their backs were hunched. They scrutinized Art with dull, wary eyes.
They had seen Art, who came from the south, on an evening late last summer. However, Art had not stayed in the village, so by the time the steward arrived with two manor guards, he had already left Ryan Village. At the time, the steward, adhering to the principle of avoiding trouble, did not dare to pursue this fellow, whom the villagers described as a forest bandit.
This afternoon, when the lame blacksmith reported to the steward that the fellow from last summer had returned to the village, the steward's heart tightened: "I'm afraid we've been targeted by bandits!"
"Jon, how many of them are there? Are there any more outside the village?" the steward immediately pressed.
"No~ no one else~ just that~ young hunter," the lame blacksmith replied.
The steward hesitated for a moment, then had the servants close the manor gates tightly, and ordered the only two manor guards to put on their leather armor and take their weapons to accompany him to investigate.
At this moment, Art was perched and sitting under an oak tree at the village entrance. Not far away, three to five farmers, holding farm tools and wooden sticks, stood somewhat hostilely. He regretted entering the village a little.
Previously, he had always skirted around villages from a distance. Last year, when he was carrying heavy goods and rushing, he boldly passed through the village to save time and saw that manor. Later, in a tavern in Tinietz, he learned that this small village named Ryan was Bazel's territory. Art then decided to bring his mountain goods over to try his luck. Bazel, known for his bravery and love of war, would surely be interested in bear and wolf furs, and perhaps he could make a killing and get a high price...
The steward had already arrived at the village entrance and whispered with the farmers for a while. After sending a nimble-footed fellow to scout outside the village, he led the guards and a few farmers towards Art.
Art did not await Bazel, but instead a bald, big-eared, pot-bellied fellow. That fellow stood slightly behind, using the farmers' bodies to shield himself, peeking at Art.
"Where are you from, bandit? Do you know this is Bazel's manor?" the steward roared, then pulled his head back.
Art looked at this outwardly strong but inwardly weak fellow, feeling a surge of disdain. Releasing his grip on the sword hilt, Art bowed slightly and said:
"Respected sir, please allow me to express my highest respect to the valiant Bazel. As you can see, I am not a forest bandit; I am merely a hunter from the south."
"Just a hunter?" The steward moved out from behind the farmers, scrutinizing Art for a few moments, then glanced at the large bundle of mountain furs behind Art.
The scout from outside the village returned and whispered a few words into the steward's ear, and the steward's expression immediately changed.
"You'd better not have poached on my lord Baron's land, or you'll be in for it!" After confirming the newcomer's identity, the steward tilted his head back, paced over behind Art, kicked the pile of furs with his short leg, and then turned to signal everyone to relax.
"What all do you have?"
"Respected sir, here are bear hides, wolf hides, deer hides, antlers, fox furs, mink furs, and some other animal furs. They are all good quality," Art listed them off as if counting his own family's treasures.
"Deer hide? That is a good item, not easy to come by."
The fact that it wasn't a bandit attack greatly relieved the steward. Art's repeated use of "sir" made the fat steward, who had been a servant his whole life, feel very pleased. This fellow in front of him seemed quite agreeable, and he had already decided to only charge this agreeable fellow one deer hide as a transit tax.
The steward gathered his robes, squatted down, opened the bundle, and picked out a well-presented deer hide. As he turned to leave, he casually pulled two rabbit hides and threw them to the two guards. Watching the calm figure walk away, Art suddenly understood—this was outright taking!!!
"Sir, the two rabbit hides are a gift for you, but the deer hide in your hand is worth sixty copper fenny!" Art chased a few steps forward.
The steward stopped, slowly turned around, and stared at Art as if he had seen a monster.
"Fellow, do you think you are an emissary of God? Every inch of land you stand on is the sacred territory of the Baron. You've brought a large pile of game of unknown origin onto the Baron's land. Shouldn't you pay something for that?"
"I ask you, you say you are from the south, but do you have a sealed document? I now suspect that all these furs were poached from the Earl of Salas's forest to the east!!" The steward glared, twitching his walrus mustache, a fierce expression on his face.
"Well, fellow, is this deer hide still valuable now?"
Watching the smug, cunning figure walk away, Art suppressed the urge to draw his sword and cut him down. He gathered the scattered furs and left indignantly.
"This humiliation, I'll endure for now." Art spat on the ground.