Vol 2 Chapter 6 – Boyhood – Twelve Years Old, Winter

I thought the sound that echoed when I released the bowstring was the sound of a life extinguished.

The composite short bow—crafted from yew wood reinforced with animal sinew—demands great force to draw, yet it delivers powerful shots over a short stroke, making it extremely useful for hunting.

“Splendid!”

Margit, who had lent me her bow and arrows, clung to the trunk of the tree where I was hiding and murmured words of praise. Watching her cling to the tree solely by the strength of her legs and move about as casually as if she were walking on the ground, I realized anew, “Humans truly are a different kind of creature.”

“You’re getting the hang of it. If you can hit a target from this distance, that’s quite commendable—you should be proud.”

Without a sound, Margit leaped down from a perch above my head and, with an almost eerie swiftness, dashed off to retrieve the prey.

The arrow I released had pierced a rabbit that had been hiding some 20 meters away. It was a large rabbit known as “Brown Hair,” with a face that, unlike the pet rabbits of my previous life, looked rather rat-like and lacked charm.

It was a fine specimen indeed—about 70 cm in body length, perhaps? Its naturally camouflaged, brownish fur—common in these woods where it rarely snows even in winter—was stained with blood.

The arrow was lodged in its eye. I had aimed for its head, and it’s remarkable how cleanly it hit.

All of this was thanks to having developed my short bow technique to mastery. The steady honing of my dexterity, combined with my elegant finesse, made my dexterity checks succeed in an almost amusing fashion.

“This is big and looks delicious.”

“Isn’t it wonderful? It’ll make for a lavish dinner.”

I was now in the forest spreading out near the manor—the very protected woodland where I used to play as a child.

Here, while learning archery from Margit—and indeed, being taught by a veteran accelerates the buildup of skill—I was also saving up funds for my independence.

“Shall we butcher it first?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Though we were disassembling the rabbit for dinner, it actually had a bounty on it. It’s a sum of 25 As per rabbit—a small, child’s allowance-like amount—but it’s been officially decreed by the Heidelberg administration.

This is because the rabbit, in winter, resorts to eating tree buds and saplings to stave off hunger. Naturally, it doesn’t hesitate to nibble on even the saplings planted for forestry.

As a result, the forests—essential for the city’s development and maintenance—can’t be harvested on a regular cycle, which disrupts the supply of timber and firewood.

Thus, the government has placed bounties on rabbits and deer that cause such feeding damage.

And so, aiming for that bounty, I stuck close to Margit while hunting.

All of it was for the funds I needed to become independent.

It’s easy to say “leave home,” but the reality is far more difficult.

The day after the festival, I told my parents I wanted to become an adventurer, and—thanks in part to my older brother’s unusually enthusiastic backup—I managed to get their approval. (Though, truth be told, I probably could have managed without him.)

However, I learned then that my parents had already been pulling strings in various circles in preparation for my coming of age.

They’d earmarked several families within the manor who were eager to have me as a son-in-law, sent rather expensive letters to distant relatives to discuss adoption, and even arranged for me to be recommended to the local magistrate through the manor’s influential figures.

Even after I proposed scrapping all those plans, my parents accepted, saying, “If you want to pursue that rough-and-tumble life as an adventurer, then do as you please.”

I’ll never forget how their wholehearted “do as you wish”—far from a careless dismissal—wounded my heart so deeply that I ended up in tears.

But my parents aren’t the type to coddle a child who wants to be a musician and won’t work; instead, they set a challenge for me.

They told me that if I wanted to take on a job that required the vitality of an adventurer, I had to properly secure the funds for independence. If I couldn’t manage that, no matter how hard I struggled, I wouldn’t be able to make a living as an adventurer.

This challenge encompasses expenses on many fronts. Beyond travel costs and road money—and aside from the armor I’ve already secured—there’s a multitude of equipment I need. If I can gather it all by the time I come of age, I’ll be set to strike out on my own as an adventurer.

Isn’t that a blessing? They’ve given me an achievable challenge and even told me I don’t have to send any of my side-job earnings home.

So all I must do is tackle this challenge with all my might. That’s why I’m using these idle winter days to amass proficiency, gain experience, earn some pocket money, and secure dinner.

“However, Erich, you’ve improved quite a bit.”

“Really?”

As I was bagging the rabbit meat, Margit—trimming the excess fat from its fur—complimented me. That fur alone can fetch about 15 As, making it a valuable source of income. Considering that 10 As can secure a decent lodging, it’s a price that’s both cheap and steep…

“There are still many challenges, like how quickly you zero in on your target and the way you exude murderous intent—but in terms of precision, I have no complaints at all.”

As if she had nothing more to teach, she shrugged and stowed the tanned hide into her backpack.

“Even so, it’s all about the distance. If it were any farther…”

“Isn’t that beyond the range for aiming and shooting?”

Even as you say that, you nonchalantly scored a headshot on a deer from twice my distance—what on earth are you?

“You have to stealthily close in so that your target can’t escape, and finish it with one shot. That’s the key. This bow is pretty powerful, but when it comes to a large lion, it’s common to need several arrows.”

Indeed, one must never underestimate a beast’s hide. If struck at an awkward angle, an arrow might not even penetrate properly—such is the flexibility and toughness of their skin. Moreover, animals like wild boars, which engage in territorial brawls during mating season, have subcutaneous fat that hardens like armor in preparation for fights with their own kind. No wonder that even as hunting rifles become common, it’s hardly surprising that hunters still suffer fatal accidents—they are, by nature, endowed with formidable defenses.

And then there’s the nerve of a hunter who charges in with nothing but a bow and a short knife… Yeah, it’s really something.

“Well, I’ll do my best so my teacher won’t abandon me.”

“Oh, how commendable your spirit is! Then, shall we go look for our next target?”

After we finished cleaning up the blood and entrails, we roamed the forest in search of our next prey. While training with the bow was solely my task, when it came to spotting prey, I could never match the keen eyes of spider-person Margit, so I left the stalking entirely to her.

I had also invested a bit in Beast Lore and Beast Tracking, but I realized that reaching the level of seasoned proficiency that Margit had attained would require spending at least one-fifth of my savings—so I wisely gave up. I knew from the start that trying to do everything myself was a mistake.

That’s why I decided to invest my scouting skills in tracking humans instead. They’re larger and less cautious, making them much easier to spot than beasts. Besides, as an adventurer, it’s not uncommon to hunt down bandits lurking in the mountains.

Thanks to Margit’s spider-person traits and her uncanny ability to spot prey, we managed to bag three rabbits from morning until evening today.

Also, the highlight of the day was when she silently climbed a branch and ambushed a mountain bird that had perched there, catching it barehanded. Watching how she managed to fend off a counterattack from such a target gave me the confidence to believe that I, too, must be pretty strong.

“Well, it seems it’s about time now.”

The sun is beginning to set, and the forest is already growing dim. Although the protected woodland isn’t especially dense, the tall trees quickly sap the short winter sunlight of its strength, and before one can even savor its pale crimson hue, darkness will fall.

“Then, shall we prepare the camp?”

So today, we set up camp here.

This, too, is training for becoming an adventurer. It’s not unusual for adventurers to work across different territories; camping under the open sky is the norm on such journeys, and if you can’t catch a ride with a passing caravan, even solo camping is common. Thus, from now on, I’m getting accustomed to camping safely in the forest under the guidance of experienced campers.

From the pack I carried, I pulled out a rope and a tarp and quickly rigged a makeshift shelter between the trees—a precaution against sudden rain.

In the meantime, Margit gathered dry branches and used a firebox to start a campfire. By her very nature she has darkvision, and I too have the advantage of my “cat’s eye” trait when it comes to seeing in the dark—though not as well as she does, for she can see perfectly even on a new moon night.

The forest at night is truly dark. Not even the kind of darkvision that ordinary humans can muster will suffice.

Margit comes from a family of hunters and has been camping like this since childhood—whether being led by her parents, with her sisters, or on her own. Without her guidance, which earned her the right to hunt alone before reaching adulthood, I might very well have met my end.

Both this impenetrable darkness and the bitter cold—so much more severe than in the daytime—stand as grave threats to our fragile human kind.

By now, I had grown accustomed to setting up a campsite, yet the first time was still quite challenging. In part because Margit hadn’t fully grasped the scatterbrained nature of human vision, we ended up starting our preparations only after dusk had completely set in.

With even the moonlight blocked by the trees—making it hard to see even with my “cat’s eye” ability—there was a real commotion just trying to get the fire going. In my haste to shave wood into kindling, I cut my finger; and with the flint, I even managed to hit my own finger. What a series of mishaps—what would have happened if I had been alone!

Margit later apologized, but I wasn’t too troubled by it—I managed to safely experience a “bad example” of not preparing while it was still light.

In fact, it almost felt unfair to her, who can sleep soundly in the treetops, to have to share the ground with me.

We circled around the cheerful crackling fire and prepared a simple dinner. With no elaborate equipment, we just rubbed salt and herbs into the meat and seared it lightly—a modest campfire meal that, don’t be fooled, has a rustic, hearty flavor all its own.

“By the way, did you know?”

As she adjusted the meat’s position to prevent it from burning, Margit suddenly said:

“I hear that in the cities they’ve started using something called pepper—it’s apparently quite delicious.”

“Really, pepper, huh…”

So, in the cities, pepper is readily available. Indeed, given our still-undeveloped livestock techniques, pepper is essential for masking the gamey odor of meat. I’m used to it, but I can only imagine that if humans from my previous life suddenly joined us for a meal, the animal musk would knock them sideways.

“They say it’s imported from overseas, and one of the students at my school boasted about a dish made with it.”

“From across the sea, huh… It must be very expensive.”

“I even heard it costs one libra per peppercorn.”

I was taken aback by the high cost of maritime transport. I mean, if you’re hauling goods for months across the sea, it’s only natural that prices are steep. If these peppercorns are coming from something akin to a new continent, it’s quite an arduous journey.

“Don’t you think it’d be fun to be a merchant transporting those things?”

“I suppose so.”

We chatted idly while savoring the slowly roasted, fat-dripping meat. Animals at this time of year tend to gorge themselves in preparation for leaner times, making the meat extra fatty and delicious.

After the meal, Margit prepared a post-meal brew using finely ground black tea powder. I watched her as I began to get ready for bed.

Getting ready for sleep meant nothing more than laying out a heavy groundsheet—thick leather stuffed with cotton—and an oversized blanket. Then I piled up a generous stack of firewood, ensuring the flames would burn as long as possible.

“Are you all set?”

“Mm, finished.”

Margit, holding a cup of black tea, came over to hurry me along. I draped the blanket over my shoulders, sat down on the sheet, and leaned against a tree.

“Well then, I’ll be settling in.”

And, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I accepted Margit as she climbed onto my lap. It was as if I were the central pole of a makeshift tent fashioned from a blanket.

“Phew… warm…”

Though camping is usually a night of wakefulness, here there were hardly any dangerous beasts—only a few hunters out for game. With just the two of us, already asleep, there was little risk.

Well, if I doze off while remaining alert, my master-level presence-detection will let me know if someone approaches; and Margit, being a spider-person and naturally a short sleeper, can do the same—so we prioritize our sleep.

Accepting the cup, we exchanged quiet conversation.

It was just light chit-chat to while away the time until sleep—talking about how fun it would be to become a merchant, how one day we might go see the sea, or even, on a whim, venture across it—mere idle dreams.

Before we knew it, our casual banter had turned into a playful exchange of words—a game we used to play in order to master the intonation of courtly language by improvising and responding in verse. Without the burden of strict rules or seasonal topics, it was just a carefree “game.”

“O trees, conceal me; let the delight of sleep embrace me.”

I sang the verse quietly, and after a moment, she responded with her own:

“May the lamplight circle around; clear away the scorch, and melt the frost.”

Without any complicated rules, we could sing exactly what we felt. Perhaps the “two flames” refer to my arms—what does she think as she draws warmth from them?

No, perhaps it’s unbecoming at this hour. Since she’s been helping me with these trivial preparations for independence, I suppose I should understand. After all, the skills of our family trade—worth more than life itself—must be imparted for a reason.

“O flame, descend upon me; may the waning moon never find me.”

While singing, Margit grasped my clothes.

“The unseen shadows cling to the moon; even at my side, they remain unseen.”

Truly, she was like a gentle flame burning within me without casting any shadows. Even her normally cold spider-person body, in this biting chill, felt as warm as a portable heater.

With the aroma of coffee lingering and the gentle echoes of kind words still in the air, we fell asleep…………