"What the hell was that?" someone muttered, still pale.
"That's just… what the hell?" another echoed, voice half in awe, half in fear.
I think they are still processing what they just saw.
Vance took a second before speaking, his tone steady, deliberate, anchoring them. "John. Glad to have you with us. Let's make the return light and quick."
He turned back to his people, voice sharp. "Stretchers. Now. Dorian, stabilize them enough to move. Lysa, I want light on every step of the path out—we don't trip with them in our arms."
Dorian was already kneeling by the survivors, hands glowing with pale green light. "They won't last long in this state. Small sips of water. Nothing solid. I'll keep them steady, but every delay makes it worse."
"Understood," Vance said. He scanned the group, meeting eyes one by one. "Pairs. Rotate if you have to, but no one drops them. If you tire, you shout and we switch. Clear?"
"Clear," they answered, firmer now, discipline locking in place.
I caught sight of the bodies on the stretchers—two gaunt figures, pale skin tight against bone, spider-webs clinging to them like shrouds. My chest tightened.
"There are survivors?" My voice cracked before I could stop it. For a moment, I didn't believe it myself. "It's a miracle they're still alive."
Dorian's jaw tightened as he worked. "Yes. No wounds or venom, but they haven't eaten or drank anything in days. We need to be delicate with them or they'll die from the shock. My spells can stabilize them, but they need a proper infirmary soon."
His healing spells continued, but I can see him straining more and more the longer I stay here. The longer I stay in one place, the more chaotic the mana in the proximity becomes. I haven't been here long, but the fact that he can still cast external spells with me standing right next to him is outstanding. So I made a decision.
"I won't be coming back with you, Captain."
The cavern hushed, work continuing but quieter, heads turning my way. Whispers rippled again—still not about my decision, but about me. About what I'd just done.
"John?" Vance asked, calm.
"I see you have everything handled. Now they just need gentle and steady hands to get them back to civilization." I forced a smile. Unspoken was that I will just be a liability in keeping them stable. Besides, I got what I came for. I have this giant spider corpse to work with.
Vance studied me for a long moment, then nodded once. "I appreciate the help, John. I hope you get what you came for."
"I hope so too."
"We'll be coming back in a day at most. No more survivors, but there are still bodies in there. Least we could do is give them a proper burial."
"I understand."
He extended his hand. I took it, his grip strong, grounding. "Good to see the stories about you were true."
"Well, I am pretty mighty." I grinned, throwing his earlier words back at him.
Still with a straight face, Vance replied while looking straight into my eyes. "I'm not talking about your fists. I'm talking about your heart."
That froze me. I wanted to thank him, but all I managed was a nod.
"See you around, John. Men—move out!"
I stood there watching as they organized, the stretchers lifted, two faintly stirring forms carried toward light and safety. The sight of them gaining consciousness was enough to make me smile, just a little.
Then I remembered.
"Wait up!" I jogged toward Dorian, who was still casting even as he walked, sweat beading his brow.
He looked up, surprised, and I tugged some strands of hair free with a sharp sting. I held it out to him.
He blinked. "…You're giving me your hair?"
"I don't have much in the way of belongings," I said, shrugging. "Everything I own gets destroyed sooner or later. So, there's no better proof of my identity than this."
Confusion shifted into dawning realization.
"You've got phenomenal mana control, Dorian. You're one of the rare few who can keep casting with me right next to them. There's a magic academy down south—Remedy. Only the best get accepted. Pretty exclusive club." I pressed the hair into his palm. "Their headmaster, Naevys, knows me personally. If you hand them this, they'll give you consideration. At the very least."
"I know of Remedy." He finally replied after processing my words.
Murmurs spread through the group again, sharper now—respectful, hushed.
"Anyway," I said, grinning as I backed away. "I've taken enough of your time. Ciao!"
I turned back toward the carcass, the shadows, the silence. Their torchlight receded, carrying the fragile hope of two lives with it.
"Now. How the hell do I bring this back?"
The cave was a labyrinth—the kind that wanted you to lose track of where you were, and maybe even who you were. Lucky for me, I've always been pretty good at ignoring places that don't want me around.
The big one wasn't alone. I figured as much when I saw the webs stretching in every direction like the world's worst interior design project. Dozens of smaller spiders had made this their home, and judging from the broken husks, the expedition had already hacked through a good number of them before I even showed up. I made the rounds anyway—knuckles still sore, mood still wired—and pulled every spider body in a pile upstairs.
"Nothing says a good night out like looting dead bugs," I muttered, tossing another cluster into the growing pile.
The silk was different. Strange. This was how the big one traveled—through its own threads. It definitely looked like spatial manipulation. That's the trick. So I cut, pulled, rolled, until I had a ball of the stuff the size of a boulder.
The deeper I went, the worse it got. Webs everywhere—clinging, sticky. And not just webs. Dried bodies. People, animals, things I didn't even recognize. Most reduced to skin and bones, curled up like discarded dolls.
I stopped.
I moved carefully, cutting them free one at a time. Whenever I could, I carried them slowly up to the surface. Laid them side by side near the mouth of the cave, away from the reek of silk and venom. Then went back for the next. And the next. As many as I could find.
By the time I dragged the last one free, the horizon was starting to glow faintly.
That's when I went back to the big prize. The main event. The one I'd punched hard enough to split the cave's echoes in half.
Up close, it was even worse—jaws like serrated bear traps, eyes still glassy with that alien shine, legs thick as saplings. I ran a hand over the cracked abdomen, when I noticed them: eggs. Most were ruined, leaking, broken from the impact of my fist. But some… intact.
I crouched, pried one loose carefully. It was heavy, slick, pulsing faintly. Still alive.
"Well," I said, tucking it carefully aside. "Nothing creepy about bringing spider babies back. That's completely normal. Totally sane."
It took me until dawn to finish. Spider bodies stacked, that grotesque yarn ball of silk waiting like a monument. And the eggs—those, I wrapped with special care.
Finally, I staggered up into the morning light. The horizon was bleeding gold. It had been a good night's work. I sat down next to the people I'd brought out, closing their eyes with care.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here to save you earlier," I whispered, wishing I had a cigarette. "Least I can do is let you see the sun one last time."
While resting, I tried to think of a way to haul all these spider parts back to Alimony, but came up empty. Unlike before, I'm about a week away from the city. No trees anywhere near big enough to drag these things like I did with the Zoomponies. And even if I could, by the time I got there, they'd be rotten mush. Not exactly prime merchandise.
I was still brainstorming that morning when I spotted a line of dust rising in the distance.
"Huh. They're back."
Sure enough, Vance's group was rolling in with wagons and horses, looking like my salvation. Not everyone was there—no sign of Vance or Dorian—but I recognized the rest. They saw me, too, waving from afar. I waved back, trying not to look too desperate.
The first to greet me was a burly guy with twin axes strapped across his back. What was his name again? Rob? Oz? Ox? Wait, he's getting closer. What do I call him?
"Hey, Roblox!" …ah, crap.
"Hi, John." He grinned.
"Wait… your name is really Roblox?"
"Yes. Why? Surprised you remembered. Most people just call me Ox."
This world and their weird names, man.
"I'm good with names." I lied through my teeth and smiled.
"Anyway," he said, "I wanted to thank you for the help last night. The men are still talking about it."
"It's what I do."
He shook his head. "Not me. I wouldn't lift a finger without coin."
"Well, I once heard from a spiderboy: 'With great power comes great responsibility.' And I've got some pretty great powers."
He squinted. "You… have a thing with spiders?"
"No, why?"
"Well, you just quoted a spiderboy—which, how do you even know they were a boy?—and then you uprooted an entire spider nest." He jabbed a thumb behind me, at the grotesque pile of silk and legs I'd stacked.
I broke into a sweat. "Just a coincidence." Damn you, Peter Parker.
Ox's gaze softened as it drifted past me. "I also see you brought up the dead."
I glanced back. The bodies were laid neatly in a line, the best I could manage.
"Yeah. Figured they shouldn't stay down there in that pit."
"Many thanks, John." He patted my shoulder, rough but genuine. "So… the spider parts. What's your plan?"
"I'm still working on that." I scratched my head. "I need to get them to a city called Alimony. Don't know if you've heard of it."
"I've heard of it. Everyone in my line of work has. That place is at least a month away, probably more."
"That's the problem. I have to bring them fresh."
That's when Lysa cut in, voice sharp as always. "I know how."
We both turned to her.
"These parts could fetch good coin, so we were already planning to bring some ourselves. But—" she gestured to the mountain of spider junk—"not all of this. Our bag of holding can't even come close."
I leaned closer. "So…?"
"So," she smirked, "let us fill our bag. Then I'll introduce you to Marta."
"Who's Marta?"
"A merchant. The merchant."
Turns out, Marta isn't just some back-alley dealer with a cart of sausages. She's one of the biggest meat transport merchants on the entire south side of the continent. Bags of holding might work for tools, gems, or gold—but food? Food still rots. Which is why Marta runs massive caravans lined with preservation spells, hauling perishable goods across impossible distances.
And what better way to transport monster meat than with someone who already deals in meat?
Which is why I'm staring at Marta right now. Or, more accurately, why she's staring at me—and my mounds of admittedly disgusting spider meat.
"So tell me, John Delinger," she said, voice calm but cutting. "Why would I want to haul your meat all the way to Alimony?"
"Uh… money?" I offered weakly. I did have some coin stashed away. Not like I'd been able to spend much of it.
"That's true," she said, almost amused. "But it's not just about money." She turned on her heel, walking slowly, deliberately.
"I don't make trips to Alimony. It's too far, too dangerous. And more importantly—" she glanced back at me, still with a professional smile—"there's nothing there worth bringing back."
She pointed toward the wagons outside, lined up like soldiers. "Every driver, every vehicle, is booked solid. We work on schedules. Regular routes. Deadlines. That's how my business survives. If I take this job, I don't just shuffle a few things around—I gut a large amount of my operation. The size of your cargo, the time to travel there and back? I'd need multiple vehicles tied up for over a month. Do you know what that means, John? It means dozens of customers furious that I broke their contracts. And let me tell you, I don't risk that. Not for a one-time profit."
She makes a good point.
"Uh… it's for a good cause?" I tried, weak as paper.
Her lips curled into a smile. "Bringing food to remote communities is a good cause," she said smoothly. Then her tone sharpened. "But I'm not saying all this to refuse you, John. Quite the opposite. You've done good work, and helping you could be good business. Word spreads fast—imagine the value of being known as the merchant the strongest man in the world trusted with his cargo."
She let that hang in the air for a beat.
"I say this so you understand why my price will be 560 platinum coins."
Ah, so that's where she was going.
"Five hundred of those will go toward building a brand-new storage wagon—lined with industrial-grade preservation wards. That's three weeks of construction, so you won't see it in time for this trip. But when it's finished, it'll let me catch up on deliveries and keep my customers happy. They'll have to forgive a small delay."
She tapped her fingers lightly against the table, each word deliberate. "While that's being built, I'll assign three of my best drivers and their wagons to haul your spider cargo to Alimony. Two months there and back, minimum. The remaining sixty platinum covers their wages… and the business I'll lose keeping them off their regular routes."
Finally, she leaned back. "So. That's the cost. Do we have a deal, John?"
"Deal," I said without hesitation. She could've skipped the whole song and dance—I wasn't planning to haggle anyway—but I appreciated the explanation. Truth was, I had plenty of coin lying around and nowhere to spend it. Not infinite, sure, so I couldn't make a habit of deals like this… but that was a problem for another day.
The World's Strongest Man has options when it comes to money.
The next few hours were a blur of Marta barking orders, scratching new lines across her maps, and shuffling schedules around like she was playing a game of cards only she knew the rules to. Her people listened sharp and quick—no backtalk, no hesitation. Clearly, she was respected.
When the dust settled, she brought me over to meet the six drivers. Each wagon had two men—shift partners for the long haul. The wagons themselves were a sight. No horses, no oxen. Just hulking shapes of wood and iron, closer to the trucks back home than anything I'd seen in this world. Only these ran on magic cores, humming faintly with stored power.
"Those are impressive," I said, leaning back on a bench with a cup of coffee.
"I know," replied Branrick, the oldest-looking of the bunch. His face was lined, but his eyes were sharp. "Newest model. Fast and steady."
"Sorry, I don't really know much about trucks."
He squinted at me. "What are trucks?"
"Oh. That's what we call these back where I'm from."
"Trucks," he repeated, like he was testing the word. "Fascinating. So… is it true what they say about you?"
"You gotta be more specific, man." I said, thinking about the hundred stories about me.
"That you came from a Dungeon Warp. That you're from another world." He dropped his voice, like it was a dangerous secret. It was not.
"Yep." I said it like I was confirming the weather.
"You'll have to tell me about it on the road."
"Won't be coming with you."
His face fell. "That's a letdown. I'd have liked to hear those stories. Must've been quite a life."
Flashbacks hit me like a sucker punch—ten years, a hundred fights, a thousand bad nights. Yeah. Quite a life.
"Yes, it was." I smiled. "It's not that I don't want to ride along. Trust me, nothing would make me feel better than guarding that cargo all the way. But one of the other rumors you've heard about me? That one's true too."
He raised a brow, lips twitching. "You gotta be more specific, man."
I laughed. "My aura. Magebane. If I hang around too long, your shiny new trucks stop being shiny. And moving." I pushed myself up, brushing crumbs off my coat. "Speaking of, I should get going before I mess anything up."
He raised his mug in a little salute. "See you around, John."
"See you in Alimony, Bran."
And that's how I spent the rest of the day: watching the trucks from a safe distance and drinking bad coffee.
I had plenty of time before those meat wagons reached Alimony. A week's trip for me, give or take, which left three—maybe four—weeks to either chase the next rumor or prep for it.
That little detour to the fishing village showed me some flaws in my so-called invincible build. Turns out, I can't hold my breath for long, and I swim about as gracefully as a sack of rocks. So, training it is. That's how I got this strong in the first place—grinding every day, pushing past what I thought was my limit until my body made the new limit its baseline. Weights, boulders, you name it. Problem is, boulders break when you throw them around too much. Giants and dragons don't—so sparring with them became my go-to. Eventually, I outgrew a good lot of them. Still good exercise, but the returns started thinning out. Only a handful of creatures can push me now, and let's just say they're not exactly thrilled to see me on their doorstep.
The swim in the ocean gave me an idea. The deep sea is basically nature's weight room. Water resistance, crushing pressure—perfect. So I headed for the southern coast and dove right in. The marine life there was wild—bright, colorful, curious. Pretty much everything stared at me like "what's this idiot doing down here?"
It felt great, actually struggling again. The deeper I went, the harder my body had to fight. Only problem: lungs. I can only hold my breath so long. But even that started improving, bit by bit.
So that's how I spent my weeks. Diving deeper. Exploring. Making friends with orcas. Punching things underwater. (Turns out, the ocean is very punchable.) That's when I discovered something interesting—if I really wind up and throw a punch at depth, the impact flashes, like a spark underwater. Freaked the fish out. Probably fried a few eardrums too. Pretty fun, honestly. Gets hot, too. I'm calling it the Shrimp Punch, in honor of the OG—mantis shrimp, the heavyweight champ of ocean smackdowns.
It was… peaceful, I'll admit. Until my second week in, when I remembered I should probably go rumor-chasing again. And by the sea, there are plenty. The ocean's vast, superstition runs deep, and fishermen love telling tall tales. Which brings me to right now: listening to one such fisherman spin me a yarn about space-warping horrors. This first rumor is not going great.
"I'm tellin ya lad! Sometimes, out past the shoals, ye'll hear a bell tollin' under the water. Not from no shipwreck, mind ye. The sound comes closer the longer ye listen. They say the bell's callin' 'em somewhere… down."
"How is this related to a space monster… sir?"
"Was it supposed to be?" He looked confused.
Nor is the second rumor.
"My brother died!" A woman cried in my arms.
"I'm sorry to hear that mam. How did he die?"
"He got killed by his crazy wife!" She continued sobbing.
Again, how is this related to a space monster?
"I think we should report this to the authorities, mam. I'm sorry for your loss." I feel bad, but I'm not a policeman.
Or even the third rumor.
"There's this abandoned lighthouse just northeast of here. They say lots of people have been lured there by voices telling them to go visit. Once inside however, people can never seem to find their way back."
Wait, scratch that. This actually might be worth investigating.
"Tell me more."
"I d-don't know much more than that, sir." The man I'm investigating seems to be clearly uncomfortable with someone interrogating them. "I just tell what I know from the rumors. People have tried to investigate, but they never come back."
"Can you take me there? I have coin."
"I-I'm sorry sir. I have things to prepare." He left, flustered.
I wanted to ask more, but this is enough. An island that never lets its victims leave? It's possible that it's a space monster that confuses the victims so they can never step out. A few questions with some of the locals and they managed to point me at the abandoned lighthouse. It's some distance away, but I managed to get to the island with no trouble.
The lighthouse loomed against the grey sea, windows black, stone pitted with salt and storms. Inside, it smelled of mildew and ash. Empty rooms, rotted planks, collapsed rafters. Abandoned, just like the villager had said.
The runes, however, were intact. Lucky them. I'm no expert in wards, but I know they need upkeep. That was the weirdest part — not a trace of spatial anomalies, not a sniff of creatures. Just mold, wrecked furniture, and a foundation begging to collapse.
I was about to head upstairs when I heard footsteps behind me. He didn't enter — he emerged, like he'd stepped out of the shadows. Mask, black leather uniform, faint red insignia stitched at the breast. Assassin.
Oh. It was them. Annoying. This whole thing was a setup, then. The rumors were bait.
I frowned. "Figures. Guess this'll be a waste of my day. Let's get this over with, yeah? I know you guys aren't much for conversation."
The man didn't answer. Just gestured. The runes along the wall hummed, spun, and locked into a lattice of blinding light. I could've interfered, but I let it play out.
It was summoning something. Multiple somethings.
The ground shuddered. The air warped. With a thunderous crack, a frost giant appeared, swinging its club into the wall. The floor buckled. Outside, the sea boiled as a scaled wing tore stone apart — dragon. A second giant landed, roaring confusion. A green shadow passed overhead.
For a heartbeat, the lighthouse runes glowed like a beacon — then sputtered and died, snuffed out by my aura. Too bad for them it only works once around me. Impressive work, though.
I cracked my knuckles. "Guess I'm feasting on Benjamin's family tonight."
And then everything came at once.
The frost giant's club swept low, shattering stone. The fire giant's blade followed, meant to cleave me in half. I dodged backward — straight through the lighthouse wall. "Sorry 'bout that. I swear I'll pay for it."
The dragon's fire reduced the rest of the lighthouse to slag. "Now that I'm not gonna pay for."
The fire giant blazed bright, flame erupting at his feet, launching him like a rocket. "Alright, let's see how strong you are." I met his swing with a fist. Shockwave. We both went flying. He rocketed skyward like a malfunctioning firework; I skipped across the ocean.
The frost giant froze the sea solid, turning it into his skating rink. Ice crept up my body. Before he could slap me like a puck, I slammed my palms down and burst free, leaving a crater in the ice.
Dragon and fire giant were already swooping back in. The fire giant struck first. His swing connected like a cricket bat, launching me skyward. The dragon reared, fire building in its throat. Smart — pin me in the air. Unfortunately for them, I already learned this trick from Benjamin.
I warped. Dropped like a meteor. The fire missed. Before they could track me, I warped again — straight into the fire giant's face. One kick sent him crashing, shockwave ripping the ice apart. I followed with a punch that folded his body in half, then another that caved his skull. Dead.
"Who's ne—" The frost giant's strike smashed into me before I finished. Pain exploded as I hit the sea, spitting blood and teeth. Good thing I can regrow them. The ice kept spreading, freezing the ocean. Without my aura, this place would already be a glacier. Can you imagine the biodiversity nightmare?
I broke the surface like a dolphin — straight into dragonfire. My clothes disintegrated. Instead of dodging, I charged through the flames, swung blind, and connected with its jaw. That shut it up.
Skin gone. Again. I've felt worse, but regrowing nerves is still top-tier agony. The frost giant roared, club swinging. I caught it with a hand of exposed muscle and bone, ripped it free, and rammed the weapon through his chest, pinning him to the ice.
Two down. One left.
The dragon staggered upright, ready to go another round. I bent my knees to launch when pain stabbed my foot. My body seized.
I looked down. The assassin, lurking under the ice, had finally made his move. Poison blade. Clever bastard.
I smashed through the ice, grabbed his throat, and crushed it. Dead. Job done. But he achieved his purpose. These assassin types are all the same. Quiet, just doing their job, ready to die.
The dragon's breath came again. I was slower than usual from the poison. Good thing I can make myself faster. I warped, and I turned into a streak of light towards the dragon. My first strike hit its jaw, drove it into the sea. We crashed together.
Underwater, it thrashed, biting, burning, but I drove it deeper with each punch. My veins boiled from the poison. I need to finish this now. When it reared back to breathe fire again, I kicked its throat shut.
"My turn to cook you."
I latched on, fists hammering. Each blow carved bubbles into the ocean, collapsing into shockwaves and light hotter than the surface of the sun. My Shrimp Punch. Ten haymakers later, the dragon's insides were pulp.
Benjamin's cousin, served.
I floated up, gasping, poison ripping through my body, hoping my healing can pull me through. Honestly, those assassin types bring a stronger poison each attempt. Best one so far.
So I laid there on the ice, gritting my teeth. And that's how I spent the rest of my day. I could use the tan, I guess.