Chapter 5: Playing Chicken

If I'm going to become the Demon King, then I'll first need to understand how weak I am. A villager NPC isn't going to be super strong, so I'll obviously have to improve my stats. With the Hero not present, I have no idea if the leveling system applies to me or not. The Hero and his allies defeat monsters, gain experience points, and level up like that. They can become powerful simply through practical experience.

I don't think I can do things like that. I don’t hear the jingles of the game, and I can move in all directions, which means I might actually have to train this body myself. How unfortunate.

The surefire way to figure out my combat abilities is to actually enter a battle, but I think I would rather avoid the poisonous monsters of the Logswoop Marsh. Even the surrounding areas of the Tilde Plateau have enemies that’ll never stop calling for backup. Getting swarmed might honestly be worse than getting poisoned. From what I recall, Dadirdtoun doesn’t have any combat NPCs either. That means the only option I have left is… my chickens.

Chickens in The Tears of Nephelai are brutal. If you bother them too much, they’ll initiate a battle and pick you apart in an instant. In the early game, encounters with chickens are quite weak, but the sheer numbers they appear in during later encounters can be a problem, and Namida even has elemental variations of these things. Supposedly, the director of the game had some past troubles with chickens, and wanted others to feel some of his frustration.

I have no problems fighting if I need to, but is it even wise to fight my chickens? These little fellas seem to be my only source of income and my primary source of food. Poor little “Village Girl A” only has stale bread in her cupboard. And actually, forget getting stronger, will I even be able to live with just a diet of eggs and bread? I guess I’ll have to make do for now. People say that struggle makes the body stronger or something anyways, so I’m sure I’ll be fine.

I haven’t really been paying attention to my chickens all too much. Most of the caretaking I’ve done for them so far has been the result of this weird, half-baked instinct I have towards them. It’s a different type of feeling from the chilling dread that I get when the Hero is near. Maybe it’s because I’ve already inherited this body, but certain little things like that come a little easier.

I know when to feed the chickens, I know how much they eat, and I even know which chicken sleeps where. Other things about this girl’s life also come by instinct. I’ve never dealt with long hair in my life, but my mind tells me I can manage it just fine. The apron dresses that this girl keeps in her closet are familiar to me. I can tie my bandanna pretty smoothly as well. Overall, the little habits and routines this girl used to have are ingrained into her body like some type of magical muscle memory, even with someone like me taking control.

Despite that, my consciousness has a disconnect with my body, so it’s not all perfect. I commonly pull on knots in my hair, my bandanna commonly gets misplaced, and I ripped a dress or two by putting it on wrong. The chickens also seem to respect me less and less every day for some reason.

What I’m about to do isn’t going to help with that.

As I scan my army of 22 chickens, I make sure to observe which one looks the easiest to fight. There’s a huge grumpy rooster, coated in jet-black feathers, but he scares me. There’s a hen I recognize, that’s the one who likes to sit on my face.

Hmm… most of these chickens are either too intimidating or too weak. Do I really have to go to Mr. Grumpy over there? I feel like I’d lose an eye if I so much as looked at him wrong. When I try to walk towards him, my body starts trembling. This girl and that rooster clearly had some history.

“Bgaaawkk!!”

Oh? Right, there’s a young cockerel! He’s got muted orange feathers, and his wings are a glossy green. If I recall correctly, this spunky guy is quite active, always running around and making noise. Does he need something? I don’t think I’ve seen him this forceful! Ow! Hey! Stop growling! Stop pecking me! Is… he aware of my intentions? The strangest feeling that was deeply rooted in my body is surfacing. It’s telling me that screaming was a challenge.

I will gladly answer that challenge.

I’ve never fought in my life. Not as the old me, not as the current me. I just put up my fists in a vaguely combative stance. Mr. Grumpy Rooster in the corner of the coop lets out a few crowing sounds and instantly, all the other chickens move out of the way.

So, he’s endorsing the fight? It’s almost as if Mr. Grumpy and the other chickens made space for a proper turn-based RPG battle. There’s enough room now for both of us to jump at each other. Unfortunately, I don’t see any battle menus, and my body doesn’t seem to be locked into an idle animation. The most I can do is hum the in-game chicken battle theme and pep myself up.

I guess I’m the coop’s entertainment for today. I wonder for just a second why the game director made these chickens so intelligent if he was scared of them, but I barely have the time to think as I watch as the young cockerel jump up to me. He’s flapping his wings with a weird sense of pride, as if he needs to prove himself. The sunlight gleams off of his glossy green wing feathers as the young cockerel extends its talons towards my face.

Hey, please wait a moment. My name is Talon, not yours. Please get those things away from me. In surprise, I topple over a bucket of water and trip backwards. But, the young cockerel doesn’t let up and goes in for multiple pecks. I shield my face with my arms, trying to ignore the constant sharp kisses. Yeah, battles are definitely not turn-based. As the young cockerel leans back for an especially dangerous looking peck, I grab his leg and attempt to swing him around.

But then, he starts flapping his wings in a panic, and all of a sudden we’re both spinning around all over the coop, scattering the spectating chickens in a panic. The young cockerel is forcefully guiding me into the walls of my house, and my face keeps banging against the wall with dull thuds. Over and over, he keeps slamming me, and I’m afraid to let go of his leg because of the insane momentum he’s building. How the heck can a mere village chicken pull my entire weight?!

I need to use the opportunity of the wall slam to even the situation out. As I hit the wall for the umpteenth time, I make sure to grab the young cockerel’s other leg. The momentary close proximity from the wall slam meant I could comfortably reach out my hand without fear of losing more balance.

With my two hands on his two legs, I squat low and jump upwards, attempting to disorient the young cockerel. The quick up-and-down motion should throw him off, especially with the frantic flapping of his wings. I’m in the air for just a bit longer than I expected due to his strong wings though, so we both end up tumbling into the dirt. I wipe my forehead. This has already worked up a sweat.

The young cockerel lets out a specific cry, and my body falters as I get up.

Oi.

What was that cry just now? Surely, that’s not what I thought that was? My instinct knows that sound. This time, it isn’t just the girl’s body that’s causing me to shake in fear. I’m actually scared.

The other chickens, with the exception of Mr. Grumpy, start to gather behind the young cockerel. Ah. At this point I’ve already lost. There’s a certain sound effect in The Tears of Nephelai that all players come to recognize. That chicken cry is my swan song. I’m paralyzed as I watch 21 chickens leap into the air and descend upon me. Who gave the young cockerel permission to use its ultimate move?! That’s not tournament legal!

Scratches, pecks, and loud screeching invade my senses as the chickens tackle me. The young cockerel shows no mercy, lets out another cry, and scratches my cheek pretty badly.

Just as I think everything’s hopeless, everything ends with a quick cluck from Mr. Grumpy. All the chickens disperse. The only one left is the young cockerel, who somehow manages to look down upon me with a smug expression.

Sprawled out on the floor, I’m forced to acknowledge that I lost.