"System, what percent is the Inner Strength Fragrance technique at?" Enopy asked in an expectant tone.
"50%," the system replied in a cold, lifeless voice.
He was still wary of the book, but he felt a bit of relief—there hadn't been any warnings from the system so far.
He wasn't even sure if the system could warn him of danger, but he trusted his instincts more than anything else.
It had been two days since he discovered the book and instructed the system to process it. Now, the caravan was about to enter a dangerous region people ominously called Windy Despair.
His anxiety grew with each passing hour—they were getting closer and closer to the dreaded place. Windy Despair was infamous. It was a stretch of flat land in the middle of Bandit Mountain, and yet, neither the wind wolves nor the bandits dared claim it. As far as anyone knew, bloodsuckers didn't frequent the area either. But Windy Despair was still dangerous—encounters with either bandits or hordes of wind wolves were almost guaranteed.
"That's what people call a safe area," Enopy thought sarcastically, tearing off a bite of his flavorless steamed chicken. "And after that... Bloody Ash Mountain."
That place was worse.
Named for the crimson-colored ash left behind by the bloodsuckers, Bloody Ash Mountain was a place of nightmares. The bloodsuckers burrowed beneath the soil, waiting to pierce the skin of their victims with root-like limbs, draining every drop of blood until the body collapsed into red-tinted dust.
"Huu..." Enopy sighed, frustrated. "Why is it taking so long to process?" he muttered in disappointment as he opened his eyes and stood from the rock he'd been sitting on. Turning around, he suddenly sent a sharp punch into the boulder, testing his strength on impulse.
As he thought about the journey ahead, unease gnawed at him. He wasn't sure where the sense of danger came from, or how this strange ability—this sixth sense—had stayed with him.
It reminded him of his past life.
"Every time I got into a life-threatening situation... I'd get this strange feeling—like I knew it was coming," he thought, chewing thoughtfully on his bland meal.
"Huuu... maybe in this life, that ability will help me again," he whispered to himself.
Suddenly, a shadow loomed.
"What ya doin'?" asked a deep, booming voice.
Enopy merely glanced up, then looked away.
He knew who it was—Layen Stiro - (lay, n, st, eye,ro ), son of an earl from the Beam Kingdom. A noble by birth, but an outcast by reputation.
To put it bluntly, Enopy thought, he's a dumbass.
He glanced around, hoping the towering 6'0, brown-haired, bowl-cut, blue-eyed 17-year-old wasn't speaking to him.
But the eyes of the other travelers—wide and curious—confirmed it.
Everyone was looking his way.
With a sharp breath, Enopy looked up again, this time glaring coldly at Layen, hoping to send him away with a chilling stare.
But Layen just gave him a goofy, naive smile and asked again, "What are you doing?"
Enopy stuffed the last piece of chicken into his mouth, stood up, and muttered with a full mouth, "F*** off."
Then, without another word, he turned and sprinted toward the trees. With a leap, he was off the ground and bounding from branch to branch like a shadow in motion.
Ten kilometers out, he finally stopped, panting slightly.
"That guy's so annoying," he thought, shaking his head. "Why couldn't he just leave me alone?"
Then his stomach growled.
"F***... I barely ate anything because of that annoyance."
Just then, something caught his eye—an ankle sheep. His mood immediately brightened.
"That's a delicacy," he whispered with a grin. "They call it an ankle sheep because all the wool and fat is around the ankles."
His eyes gleamed. The anger faded. He moved.
With a silent leap, the branch under him snapped as he descended like a dart. The sheep looked up just as Enopy drew his sword mid-air. One clean slash—and its head dropped. He landed on its lifeless one-meter body, already sheathing his blade as he hoisted the carcass onto his shoulder with one fluid motion.
Even with the weight, he sprinted toward open land, collecting mushrooms on the way—he didn't care if they were poisonous.
"If they are, that's fine," he thought. "I need to raise my poison tolerance anyway."
Soon, he found a clearing and started shaping a pot out of dry mud.
"Huh... lives up to the name," he muttered. "Famous for drying fast and getting as hard as metal."
He tossed the mushrooms, meat, and herbs into the pot and added water. Just as he struck the flint to light a fire, a shiver ran down his spine.
Someone—or something—was watching him.
He quickly scanned the trees... nothing.
But the sensation lingered. He didn't lower his guard. Instead, he focused on the fire and let time pass. It was now fully dark, and that only made the feeling worse.
He ladled some broth into his bowl, brought it close to his lips...
And then—
He dropped it.
Scalding soup splashed on his lap. He gritted his teeth to suppress a scream, then spun around, and sent his dagger behind him as he bit his lip to contain his scream and struggled through the pain, he turned his head to look at his target when he felt his dagger stop but his pupils shrunk when he saw who it was, but his shock was doubled by what he heard next
Thud.
It stopped—midair.
Enopy's pupils shrank as he saw who it was.
His heart skipped a beat.
But before he could speak, the figure tilted their head and said—
"That looks delicious. Can I get some?"