Eight 2: The Way of the Hunter, A LitRPG Adventure
Eight 2: Chapter 38

The stink from the hellmouth’s body worsened as the morning grew warmer, reminiscent of rotten kale with a healthy dose of putrefied pig offal mixed in. Going anywhere near it caused me to gag, and the poor wolves with their keen sense of smell must’ve suffered even more.

Moving to the far side of the Glen helped, but there was no escape when the wind shifted. The wolves’ fur shivered whenever it did, giving me a split-second’s warning, but I wasn’t always fast enough to hold my breath. It was better than doing nothing though.

By the time I’d fully healed Scout and Mouser, the names I gave the wolves based on their talents, Ikfael had finished the ritual for Moonlight. The wolf rose, and there was a presence in his posture that’d been missing before. His fur was a thick, rich silver-platinum with a white blaze on his chest. His eyes were alive.

There were two wolves left to heal, but Ikfael and I were both completely out of mana. I closed my eyes to meditate, but Ikfael put a paw on my shoulder.

“I’ll finish healing the wolves. You haul that body away.”

“It’s not good to let the wolves suffer longer than necessary,” I said.

Ikfael’s response was to point at the hellmouth’s body. Behind her, the wolves seemed to agree, even the injured ones.

“Tsk. All right. I said I’d do it, and I will. The poison’s gone for sure, right?”

Ikfael confirmed it was safe, so I wrapped a wet cloth around my nose and mouth and approached the body. Holy hells, but the smell was worse than the dragon dung—so bad my eyes watered.

The configuration of the hellmouth’s body was such that even if I could separate the half-open sprout from the base, it couldn’t easily be rolled. The only way to get rid of the body was to chop it into smaller pieces, stack them onto a travois, and haul them away. Thankfully, I had a proper ax now.

I got to work, and with every swing, the hellmouth’s body thunked or squelched. It was going to be a long day.

I’d hauled away the base and was halfway through the sprout when I spotted the shine of silverlight within the decomposing body. I reached inside to pull it free, but ribbons of plant fibers clung to the golf-ball-sized lump, almost as if they didn’t want to let go.

I shaved the fibers away with a knife, then pried the silverlight open to make sure there wasn’t any darklight hidden within; the nugget was big enough that I worried the silverlight might’ve encapsulated some of the darklight. And in fact, there was a piece as big as a pea hidden inside one of the silverlight chunks. I waited for it to dissipate before wrapping what was left in cloth and walking over to Ikfael.

The wolves retreated at my approach, and Ikfael waved me off. “Wash! Wash first!”

But even after I’d bathed, the otter and wolves wrinkled their noses when I came closer. By that point, my own sense of smell had been completely overwhelmed and I couldn’t smell a damn thing. I’d also been working hard all day—they could suffer a little along with me.

“I have the hellmouth’s silverlight,” I said to Ikfael. “Let’s go into the cave to deal with it.”

The wolves had been behaving, and I didn’t think they’d start any trouble over the silverlight, but I also didn’t want to tempt them either by showing off just how much silverlight there was. Ikfael must’ve agreed with me, because her expression turned serious. She nodded and followed after, moving to stay upwind of me.

Inside the cave, Ikfael used her knife to separate the silverlight into two equal portions. “Do you disagree?”

“No, no,” I said. “That’s fair. Just to make sure, though, the wolves don’t get any?”

Ikfael shook her head. “Their aid was not part of our exchange, and their involvement in the fight was minimal. It would be rude of them to lay a claim.”

“Well, no need to hesitate, then. Bottoms up.” I grabbed my portion of the silverlight.

“A moment.” Ikfael held up a paw to stop me. “You are strong enough now to consider using the silverlight in different ways.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can grow stronger,” Ikfael signed, “or you can feed the silverlight to your weapons and armor. Or give a larger portion to Yuki. Or start feeding it to the blynx. There is no one Path to Perfection, and each step is made of many smaller choices.”

My brow furrowed. “But my goal’s always been to get stronger. I was taught that Level 5 is an important milestone. The Path to Perfection truly starts there—when the body begins to transform at dawn or dusk. Are you recommending I do something different?”

“Not at all,” Ikfael said. “What I recommend is that you think and decide for yourself. To do otherwise is to walk another person’s path.”

“Ah, okay.” I stared at the nodules in my hand and considered the options.

Magic weapons were staple in fantasy stories and games, and I certainly wished for them. The new armor I’d commissioned was a step in that direction. My bow had already absorbed some silverlight, but that had been an accident. I could make it intentional in the future though. A bow that kept pace with the power curve would be nice.

Yuki was already dawn, and the blynx was still a variable. I didn’t think I was being greedy by not considering either for the silverlight.

I’m not being selfish, am I? I asked Yuki.

Mostly, Yuki said, amusement flickering through their qi. There’s selfishness underlying your thoughts, but we don’t believe your reasoning is wrong.

Oh. I frowned. If you want—

We will take our usual share, but no more, Yuki said. You are not the only one who would like you to become dawn. We will reconsider the amount we take once you catch up to us.

I nodded. That made sense. The body took its first steps transforming into something superhuman at Level 5, and as tempting as a stronger bow or sharper spear were, they couldn’t compare to an evolution.

I smiled and thanked Ikfael and Yuki for their counsel. Then, I reached for the silverlight.

The energy whipped through me like the hellmouth’s vines. The world faded and became dark, filled only with death—a creeping decay, an endless hunger. There was a desire to grasp the quick and the living and bring them to eternal stillness.

When I regained my senses, I shivered, and my blood ran cold. Across from me, Ikfael’s fur stood on end and her face scrunched up like she’d tasted something bitter. The silverlight in front of her was gone.

“Unpleasant,” she signed.

“And yet the hellmouth served its purpose,” I said. “Like any other creature.”

Ikfael nodded. “True.”

Ah, there’s a notification blinking.

What? Is that from the silverlight?

Under the new skill, I found memories of old biology and chemistry classes, as well as more recent ones of hunting the chishiaxpe. There were also Otwei’s meditations on poison’s uses and Inleio’s lectures of the forest’s dangers. And behind all that, like a shadow clinging to the memories, was the feeling of a cold, slow death.

“Can… can a person learn a skill from silverlight?”

Ikfael quirked her head. “Memories are memories. Experiences are experiences. They build connections to the World Spirit no matter where they come from. A foundation is necessary—the groundwork done—but yes, it can happen.”

“And there are memories and experiences in silverlight?”

Ikfael’s expression became confused. “You’re not insensitive. Surely you’ve felt them. You must have.”

“I have,” I said, clarifying. “I just—” How had System-Eight described silverlight? “My understanding is that the cores are the remnants of life’s processes, the crusty stuff left over.”

“Yes? And?”

“The hellmouth’s silverlight felt more potent than that.”

Understanding dawned on Ikfael’s face. “Ah, you worry that you are somehow consuming the hellmouth’s essence? Then let me put you at ease: you are. But your understanding is also correct, silverlight is the ‘crusty stuff’ left over. It is both: an echo of a memory, but because it is made of silverlight, also a memory itself. Silverlight is the stuff from which the gods make life. How could it be otherwise?”

I took a breath to calm myself, then turned my attention inward to examine my other skills for remnants of silverlight. What I found was a lingering quickness hidden within Qi Body Arts. A closer look identified the sharp eyes of Kaad Keelsson, the bandit I’d killed when rescuing Billisha and Aluali.

I gulped, unnerved, but kept looking. Inside Aeromancy was the unideer’s icy touch and the giant eagle’s deft maneuvers. Within Survival Forest was the bishkawi. And there were even false ones hiding inside Camouflage. None of these traces were obvious until I went looking.

Ikfael must’ve noticed my discomfort. “Skills are constructed from individual strands of memories, experiences, and practices. With mastery, though, these individual strands unify into a coherent whole.”

I grew alarmed. “Until then, a person must contain multitudes as they rise in levels and skill. Doesn’t it dilute their sense of self? How can they stand it?”

Ikfael lobbed a question back. “Are you already whole? Aligned and perfect? If so, then let me honor you who has achieved this feat within so few years.” She bowed, but her movements were exaggerated, almost clownish.

“Stop that. I’m just disturbed is all.”

Amusement flickered across Ikfael’s face. “My point is that, even without silverlight, people are disjointed. As you say, they contain multitudes—the voices of their families, peers, leaders, and ancestors, as well as the stories told to them and the things they experience in life. All leave their marks. So too, then, does the silverlight of those we’ve slain.”

“So perfection is weaving them together into, what, a single voice?”

“A voice, a song, a tapestry, a dance—there’ve been many ways to describe Perfection.” Ikfael’s smiled turned gentle. “But not everything should be included. The remnants of these voices within us must be purified, the silver taken and the dark left behind.”

“And how do I do that?” I asked.

“By living and choosing well. By making mistakes and learning from them. By practicing skills and following your path until you can see into the heart of the world and recognize yourself in it.”

“Just that? No big deal,” I said, taking a turn at being ironic.

Ikfael smiled. “If that is a task too great, you can also just make donuts and provide the Glen with fish, deer, and other delectable treats.”

“Well, I imagine it’s possible to attempt both.”

Her smile spread. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

The wolves departed peacefully once they were all healed. The residue left by the hellmouth’s body—the bits too liquid to haul away on a travois—were washed clear by Ikfael with a wave of water from the pool.

By then it was late afternoon, and I was starving. I had eaten a little after the silverlight break, but my mind had been whirling from Ikfael’s talk, so I’d barely noticed the food at the time.

After a long bath and a deep scrub, I checked the refrigerator. Inside were just a couple of lonely squirrels, skinned and ready for the fire. The last of the eagle meat had gone to Bihei and the kids, and Ikfael liked to raid the refrigerator during my visits to the village. I mentally adjusted my schedule so that I could devote the next day to hunting and fishing.

I threw some salt on the squirrels and speared them with wooden stakes for a simple barbecue.

How many squirrels had I eaten in my previous life? There’d been summers as a kid when all I had done was read books and hunt squirrels. I had skinned them—the squirrels, not the books—and sold the pelts at the local flea market. The meat, I had ground up for burgers. Ah, maybe I can use a mortar and pestle to make burgers? That sounds delicious.

To answer your question, it was 173 squirrels, Yuki said.

“That many?”

Over the course of five years. The high point was when you were thirteen. You shot fifty-two squirrels that year.

“And why—”

We found the memory of when Helen had laughed the hardest, and it was the time you told her about Peter Wilson. Since the story involved squirrels, we became curious about your history with them.

I started to chuckle. “Oh, poor Peter.”

In 1967, Nancy Soder was the reigning most popular girl at Sherwood Middle School. Her position was firmly entrenched thanks to the relentless march of biology—she’d developed early, drawing followers like bees to flowers.

Me? I stayed away. My family had lived in the U.S. for six years by then, and that was enough to teach me that I never stood a chance—until she forgot her lunch one day and didn’t have pocket money for the cafeteria.

I didn’t know why she picked me. My guess was that I was the closest, and maybe the burger I’d brought from home looked good. It was squirrel meat, because while my father had finally found work, things were still tight at home. I didn’t dare tell Nancy though. I just stared in awe as she happily ate my lunch. I didn’t even think to consider all the other kids watching.

I managed to avoid the beating waiting for me after school—too slow, suckers!—but I couldn’t avoid the harassment during school. I avoided the bathrooms, of course, but the stairwell was murder. I got through the rest of the week though, and hoped things would soon settle down and the other kids would forget me, like they usually did.

Except that Nancy must’ve talked to her boyfriend Peter about how delicious the burger was, because he sat down next me one day and demanded I hand my lunch over to him. What could I do? He had his gang with him, and they were screening us from the teacher on lunch duty. Even if the teacher saw, I doubted she’d do anything. He was Peter of the baseball team, and I was this little Mexican kid.

I was mad. Of course I was. And I got madder every day as he continued to confiscate my lunch. It wasn’t always burgers, but it didn’t matter to Peter. My lunch was his lunch. It got so bad I complained to my homeroom teacher, but all she said was, “Things are tough for Peter at home. He’s probably not getting enough to eat. Let it go, dear. Think of it as helping the team.”

Well, that ticked me off, and I wanted to get back at Peter. I’d promised my grandfather, though, that I wouldn’t use the skills he’d taught me against another person unless the matter was serious, and… well… even as a kid I knew that burgers weren’t serious. So I kept my promise.

Then I had an idea for a special burger, just for Peter.

Over the next weekend, I spent every moment hunting squirrels. Not all of them were boys, but enough to be able to insert at least one special treat in the burgers I’d make from their meat. Peter was so pleased too. The burgers were delicious, after all. He just didn’t know that he was eating a squirrel penis with each one.

I certainly wasn’t going to tell him either. The knowledge was for me to enjoy.

Peter began to ask specifically for squirrel burgers after that. Apparently, he’d been playing really well whenever he ate one, and he came to see the burgers as a good luck charm.

I couldn’t keep up with the demand—I didn’t have the time, and the local squirrel population couldn’t handle it—but it happened enough that I earned some fame that year. And oddly enough, some protection. Peter told the other boys to lay off his squirrel-penis supplier. Well, to him they were just burgers.

After baseball season, Peter moved away and Nancy was… not heartbroken, but she did pout for a week. I learned later that Peter really did have a hard time at home, and I felt bad for him. But never for feeding him squirrel penises.

Is squirrel penis delicious? Yuki asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried one.”

We should. As an experiment.

“Some things are not meant to be tampered with,” I said, my voice flat.

Yuki pouted. That was the feeling I got from their qi, anyway. At first, it felt like Nancy Soder, but then it shifted to Helen’s pout, Alex’s, and Daniel’s, all in a sequence.

“You okay there?”

Yes, yes. Just playing with language.

The squirrels smelled like they were done cooking. I pulled the stakes up, then called Ikfael over for dinner. I put aside the middle school drama, the thoughts about silverlight, and everything else to focus on enjoying my meal.

Ah, the taste of squirrel—it sure was nostalgic.

The next morning saw the kittens gamboling in the Glen. Breakfast for them consisted of milk and a hare their mother had caught overnight. I slept so soundly, I hadn’t heard her leave or return.

Ikfael floated in the pool on her back, sometimes disappearing in the spray from the waterfall. Her breakfast had to wait until I caught it.

I grabbed my fishing spear and headed out. There was a beaver dam not too far downstream. I decided to try my luck there today. So what have you found? I asked Yuki while on my way.

The blynx is a patient hunter, and her night vision is exceptional. Her Camouflage uses a blend of body power and qi, different from the Hunter’s Lodge’s version, but we believe we can learn from it.

“You’re teasing me,” I said. “The Blink spell—”

Is out of reach. At least for now. The qi and mana components of the spell aren’t a problem—we’ve filled out the last of the patterns after observing her hunt. The body power portion eludes us, though, and requires time to understand how her biology and instinct operate together to Blink her through space. Yuki paused to mull over the problem.

“Is there any way to emulate the effects of body power with either qi or mana?”

I felt them rooting around in my memories. Like when you managed to play old Commodore 64 games on your PC?

“Yes, that’s right.”

Maybe. We’d prefer that over changing your biology. Neither of us understand the consequences enough to make that course of action wise or safe.

“Yeah, let’s not go there if we can help it. Then, the other thing we have to talk about is—”

The lightning qi. There was the scent of it when we shot our last arrow at the hellmouth.

“Any idea how that happened? We’ve tried so many times to control it, maybe one of the early attempts was slow to bear fruit?”

Maybe. Possibly. We don’t think so. Or perhaps we didn’t go far enough… Yuki trailed off, their qi turning in on itself in thought.

Far enough, eh? Likely they meant in altering our consciousness. Releasing the last arrow against the hellmouth had been a transcendental moment; it hadn’t been the first time I’d had one, but it had definitely been one of the most intense. The world felt like it had stopped, and it was just me and my prey. The arrow had arced between us—

There! That thought—it smelled like the leading edge of an epiphany, but I didn’t give chase. That’d be the fastest way to drive it back into my subconscious. Instead, I rolled up my pant legs and waded into the pond created by the beaver dam.

I lightly held my spear and watched for the fish to settle down, to get used to the feet that had suddenly joined them in the water. Slowly, they returned to the shallows where I waited. They swam unaware that death loomed over them.

With a flash, I speared a beautiful trout, its blood spilling into the water. One moment life, and then death. One moment the spear was in the air, the next in the water. Seemingly instant, but not really—no matter how fast the spearhead traveled, there was a path in between, an attraction. A movement from what was to what would be, with the briefest flicker of the present in between. A change from state to state.

Inside my heart, a spark lit and disappeared. It didn’t stay, but no matter—I’d caught my prey’s scent. Now, all I had to do was follow its trail to lightning qi.