As the night deepened, the campfire crackled merrily, flickering and casting long shadows. Farkas and Gray took turns keeping watch, while Yeats lay back against a log, the warmth of the fire mingling with the cool autumn air.
The next morning, Yeats woke to find the snowy owl still perched atop a nearby tree, its eyes heavy with sleep. As the owl's eyelids drooped, they suddenly popped wide open again, as if it had caught a second wind.
"Looks like you were right…" Gray said, confusion written across her face. "This owl's sleep schedule is... very different from the others."
Yeats couldn't help but chuckle.
"We're kindred spirits. We both love staying up late!"
Gray raised an eyebrow, her voice tinged with mischief. "Do you really stay up late just to... cook? Because that's one way to burn off the midnight oil."
Yeats smirked. "Cooking's my form of self-care. You wouldn't understand, I'm a pro chef in a past life," he quipped, referencing his once-venerable rank in the game Phantom Wings.
With a sly grin, Gray asked, "By the way, before we leave, I was thinking of hunting some game. Is that alright?"
After two days of munching on monster meat, which admittedly tasted quite good, Gray had decided it was time to switch things up. She wasn't going to become the carnivore of the week.
"Sure, but..." Yeats raised an eyebrow. "You do realize that hunting on this land could technically get us in hot water, right? I mean, the local lord will probably not be too happy about you poaching his wild game."
In this world, meat was a luxury. Wild game in forests belonged to the nobility, and poaching was a serious crime.
Gray, however, seemed unfazed. "I checked the map. There's a small patch of forest that's not technically within the lord's legal domain. Seems like it's left unmarked because the lord can't be bothered to hunt monsters there himself."
Yeats couldn't help but admire her confidence. "Alright, alright. But Farkas, you're with her. Keep an eye on her."
"Of course, master. Please remain in the camp and stay safe," Farkas replied, his voice serious as ever.
Once Gray and Farkas left, Yeats glanced up at the sleepy snowy owl, which seemed to be a natural companion for their nocturnal adventures.
Gray was right about one thing—having an owl meant Yeats could count on a night watch partner.
The reason they chose to camp here was simple: a nearby freshwater source and wild berry bushes. The bushes were nearly barren, plundered by birds and creatures passing through, but there were still wild lemons hanging from the trees—plump and ripe.
Yeats couldn't resist.
He picked a handful of wild lemons, washed them carefully, and sliced them up. With a kettle of water boiling over the fire, he added the lemon slices into the mix.
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Wild Lemon Hot Tea – ★1
Made from wild lemons and high-quality black tea, this warm, zesty drink restores a small amount of energy and mental clarity.
As the brisk autumn air nipped at his skin, Yeats cupped the warm mug in his hands, savoring the balance between the zesty lemon and the rich, smooth taste of the tea. The warm liquid did wonders, setting his mind at ease as the chill of morning began to bite.
The aroma from the tea wafted in the air, the fragrance mingling with the fresh, crisp air of the wilderness.
Suddenly, a shadow fluttered over him. The snowy owl, disturbed by the fragrant steam, fluttered down to his side, peering curiously at the tea.
"Do you want some too?" Yeats asked, surprised.
The owl made a little "hoot!" and tilted its head, a little "whistling" sound that seemed almost... playful.
Yeats couldn't hold back his laughter. "You're as much a tea enthusiast as I am, aren't you?"
He poured some of the warm tea into a small cup and set it down for the owl. The owl cautiously approached, its yellow eyes twinkling with curiosity as it watched Yeats carefully sip the tea. With a dramatic flair, it blew softly at the steam rising from the cup.
Whoosh.
To Yeats's amazement, a blast of cold air surged from the owl's beak, and in an instant, the warm tea transformed into chilled lemon iced tea.
Yeats blinked, rubbing his face.
"Apologies, my lord... I've missed you like I miss my morning coffee," Yeats thought to himself, unable to stop himself from grinning at the absurdity of the situation.
What could he say? Self-cooling—that's some wild wilderness magic for you!
Yeats and the owl leisurely sipped their tea, each lost in the serenity of the moment.
It wasn't long before Gray and Farkas returned, and Gray, holding a snow hare by its long ears, grinned. "Not the best luck, but I managed to catch a snow hare."
Yeats's eyes lit up. "Perfect! That'll make a lovely dinner. Let's make snow hare soup tonight."
"Snow hare soup?! That's exactly what I was hoping for!" Gray nearly burst into tears from happiness.
"By the way," Farkas asked, "where did all these lemons come from? They look different from what we usually see."
"They're wild lemons I picked while you were out," Yeats explained nonchalantly.
Gray eyed the large pile of lemons suspiciously. "That's more than just a few..."
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As they continued their journey, the snowy owl flapped its wings and kept pace with the wagon, flying alongside the horses.
Yeats leaned out of the window, feeling a surge of inspiration. He extended his arm toward the bird.
The snowy owl, observing the extended arm, slowly descended and perched on Yeats's arm, its talons digging gently into his skin.
The owl folded its wings and stood still, its eyes wide as it took in the rapidly passing scenery.
Gray smiled at the exchange, noticing the bond forming between the two.
As they ventured further into the borderlands, where the influence of nobles was weaker, the risk of encountering danger increased.
As dusk approached, they passed by an abandoned slaughterhouse, and a group of skeletal sheep with four legs blocked their path.
"Farkas, speed up and charge through them!" Yeats shouted.
"Master, there's something stuck under the wagon!" Farkas called back.
"There's something climbing onto the wagon—ahh!"
Gray, armed with her spear, jabbed at the severed hands crawling up the wagon. "Crawling Claws—disgusting undead monsters!"
Yeats looked down at the grotesque sight with a hiss. Severed hands, bloodied and torn, were clawing at the ground and trying to grab onto Gray.
"Farkas, untie Radish's reins and let it deal with the skeletons!" Yeats ordered.
"Understood!" Farkas quickly untied the reins.
Without the wagon holding it back, Radish, the purebred warhorse, reared up and neighed triumphantly.
The name of the Roland Knight was legendary, and a Roland warhorse started at the first ring. Radish's combat abilities were formidable, and in a blur of speed, several skeletons were immediately knocked apart by a single charge!
"Your Radish is pretty strong…" Gray said, dumbfounded.
"Well, that's because Radish handles the damage," Yeats replied. "Now focus on finishing off the Crawling Claws!"
As the wagon halted, three more Crawling Claws appeared, slowly creeping closer.
Farkas drew his sword and entered the fray.
Yeats had a sudden idea and turned toward the snowy owl perched on top of the wagon.
"Take care of these monsters, and I'll cook something special for you!"
Gray: "Do you think it can understand us?"
The snowy owl: "Hoot!"
Yeats: "I think it says it understands!"
With a powerful flap of its wings, the snowy owl unleashed an icy wind that chilled the Crawling Claws and slowed their movements significantly.
Farkas and Gray took advantage of the slowed enemies, finishing them off one by one. With Radish's help, the skeletons were soon reduced to pieces.
The danger passed.
As they surveyed the abandoned slaughterhouse, Gray frowned. "The map said this was a safe zone. Why are there so many undead here?"
Farkas, with a grave expression, explained, "Necromancers often turn the dead's severed hands into Crawling Claws for training. We've likely encountered a necromancer's attack here."
Gray shivered, a sense of unease settling in. Yeats, meanwhile, reached out and petted the snowy owl's soft feathers. It blinked up at him, content.
"This owl did well," Yeats mused aloud.
"Well, it's a magical creature capable of spells," Farkas commented, impressed.
Yeats smiled. "Now, let's get the Crawling Claws collected. We'll be leaving soon."
"Understood, master." Farkas hesitated. "But these Crawling Claws aren't worth much, just a few copper coins."
"Who said we're selling them?" Yeats smiled. "Tonight, I'm going to cook with them."
Gray and Farkas froze, their faces wide-eyed.
"We're eating… crawling hands?!" Gray asked, her voice trembling.
"Well, this one has four claws. Given the location, any guesses what it is?"
"You don't mean… chicken claws?" Farkas asked, incredulously.
"Exactly," Yeats said calmly. "Chicken claws."
Gray and Farkas: "???"
Yeats laughed to himself. "Even if it's turned into a Crawling Claw, it's essentially still edible with the right preparation."
Yeats smiled as he prepared the dish. "Don't worry, I'll make it delicious for everyone."
Gray and Farkas exchanged glances, their faces a mix of disbelief and apprehension. Would it really be edible?