Wolf Tracks in the Wasteland

The sun climbed above the treetops, and the snow in the dense forest began to melt.

Perhaps due to the lack of human and animal traffic, the bushes and grasses displayed their formidable reproductive capacity; the forest path, which had just been cleared three months ago, was once again covered by dense vegetation.

Art had no choice but to draw his short sword, hacking and clearing a path as he went.

The forest became even muddier after the snow melted, and by the time Art had crossed hills and streams, traversed winding forest paths, and could vaguely see the grassland at the edge of the dense forest, a whole morning had passed.

The forest path did not extend to the edge of the dense forest.

Art was concerned that his dwelling place might be discovered by enemies, so the entrance to the small path within the dense forest was deliberately hidden, even though he had never encountered any travelers passing through this area in three years.

From the remaining memories of the original owner and his own meager knowledge, Art knew that the world he was in did not completely overlap historically with his original world, but it didn't matter; he was equally unfamiliar with both histories anyway.

Relying on the original owner's memories, it was enough for him to generally understand the current world.

It is said that during the empire's heyday, this was an important trade route.

Goods such as grain, linen, wool, and velvet from the northern continent continuously passed through this dense forest at the northern end, through valleys and plains, and then south through winding, steep, and deep mountain ravines directly to the rich Southern European Plain.

Meanwhile, gold, jewels, spices, dyes, raw silk, and even oriental silk and porcelain from the southern continent flowed through this route to the entire northern continent.

However, over the centuries, the desolation of hundreds of years had transformed this place into a haven for mountain birds and wild beasts; the former prosperity and richness had become dense forests and grasslands over the soil.

After passing through this dense forest, sweat had soaked Art's inner shirt.

Standing on the vast wilderness before him, a cold wind swept over, making Art feel a chill, yet also a sense of ease and exhilaration.

He placed his heavy mountain goods on the grass, opened his bear fur coat, and a puff of white mist rose from his chest.

He took off his hunting bow, quiver, and short sword, sat down on the ground, and opened his deerskin water bladder.

He gulped down a mouthful of cold water too quickly, causing him to cough uncontrollably.

After a short rest, he managed to swallow a few bites of mixed grain bread with the cold water, then Art packed his belongings and set off again.

He needed to reach a small stream on the northern side of the wilderness before the sun set behind the mountains; that stream was the only water source in the entire wilderness...

.........

Night fell, and in the middle of a vast wilderness, a thin ribbon of water stretched across, beside which a small campfire crackled softly.

The wild boar meat sizzling on the fire emitted an enticing aroma, and the mixed grain bread skewered on dry branches had already roasted to a fragrant crisp.

The deerskin water bladder was placed a little further away, absorbing the residual warmth of the campfire, slowly becoming warm.

Art leaned against a pile of fur mountain goods, drew the wooden-handled single-edged hunting knife from his waist, reached out to cut off a piece of golden-brown pork, then carefully took out the salt packet, pinched a small pinch of salt grains, and sprinkled them evenly over the roasted meat.

Then, he enjoyed the satisfaction of his taste buds with the roasted bread.

A rather hearty dinner brought a surge of warmth to Art, and the surrounding cold was also largely dispelled by the small campfire.

Art got up and once again collected dry branches and bushes around the campsite.

There was a large bush forest upstream of the stream, and many dry branches and fallen leaves drifted down the stream to this spot, leaving a considerable amount on the riverbanks.

These dry branches and fallen leaves were barely enough to keep the campfire burning weakly all night.

One must know that on a snowy winter night in this wilderness, a night without a campfire would be hell.

It was already very late, and the day's journey made Art feel a little tired; his eyelids grew heavier and heavier...

"Howl~~~"

Art suddenly jolted awake!

"Howl~~~ Awoo~~~" The wolf howls grew closer and closer.

In a mere breath, Art had already fastened his short sword and hunting knife, several iron-tipped light arrows were held in his left hand gripping the bow, his right hand had already nocked an arrow and drawn the bow, his eyes fixed unmoving on the direction from which the sound came.

After a moment, he slowly lowered his hunting bow.

He carefully distinguished the wolf howls; these were not a pack of wolves, but only two or three wilderness wolves hunting in the wilderness.

He only relaxed slightly.

Art, relying on the original owner's instincts and three years of learning, immediately reacted—piling all the dry branches and fallen leaves onto the campfire.

Instantly, the campfire burned fiercely, sending up high flames that illuminated the surrounding wilderness.

Art quickly pulled a burning thick branch from the fire to use as a torch, constantly picking up dry branches, fallen leaves, and dry grass not soaked by melted snow from the riverbank near the campsite and adding them to the fire.

"I hope this bright fire will make the wolves afraid~" Art prayed.

Although Art continuously searched the surroundings for combustible firewood, vegetation was limited in this wilderness, and he dared not venture further in the dark to collect more.

The bonfire grew smaller and smaller, and without the protection of firelight, God knew if cunning wilderness wolves would suddenly appear from behind him.

He had lived in the forest for three years and knew the ferocity and cunning of wolves.

Even with ample preparation and the help of traps, Art had almost lost his life facing a forest wolf trapped for three days.

This was an exposed wilderness, a hunting ground dominated by wilderness wolves; at this moment, he had become the prey.

The crescent moon slowly descended, already nearing the mountain range at the end of the wilderness.

The cold grew thicker and thicker, and the embers of the campfire still glowed faintly red.

Art lay on his side by the fire, clutching his sword.

The extreme tension of most of the night had drained his energy, and waves of drowsiness washed over him.

In the first half of the night, after the campfire burned intensely, the wolf howls gradually receded.

In this wilderness, untouched by humans for many years, the deterrent effect of a bright fire on wolves was very obvious.

The surrounding silence and drowsiness gradually made Art lower his guard; his eyelids grew heavier and heavier ~ more and more sunken, and his consciousness began to slowly blur...

"Pop!"

"Ow! Damn it!"

Art jolted as a spark from an exploding piece of charcoal burned him.

He quickly brushed off the spark from his hand.

After brushing it off, Art subconsciously glanced at the position of the crescent moon.

That glance sent a shiver down his spine.

Between two small rocks less than ten paces from him, two eyes emitting a faint green light were staring at him...

A lone wilderness wolf, with hind legs slightly bent and front legs extended forward, was poised to pounce downwards.

Its pointed ears were not as straight as other wolves', its fur was dull grey, its teeth yellowed, and its body was lean.

Only its tail was snow-white, looking as if a section of it was missing in the moonlight's shadow, surely it hadn't eaten for many days.

Last night, the wilderness wolves, deterred by the firelight, eventually chose to leave after standing and watching from afar.

They were not afraid of bipedal creatures, but they feared the blazing flames.

Shortly after the wolves disappeared, an old, weak wolf reappeared in the shadows not far away.

In the snow-covered wilderness, the aged lone wolf could no longer keep up with the wilderness gazelles and larger prey.

It hadn't eaten its fill for a long time, and the scent of roasted food had drawn it near.

It feared the firelight but could not resist the temptation of food.

After quietly lurking for most of the night, the distant campfire was slowly growing weaker.

When Art's vigilance began to drop and he grew drowsy, the lone wolf's chance finally arrived.

It moved quietly and slowly towards the dying embers, its soft paws touching the ground and its body pressed close to the earth.

The prey drew closer step by step.

Just as the lone wolf was about to pounce on its prey, there was a crackle from the fire, and the lone wolf was startled, retreating a few steps and shrinking back into the shadows.

Silence, a deathly silence.

The lone wolf was intimidated by the cold glint of the sharp blade in Art's hand, and Art feared the lone wolf's green glowing eyes and bared fangs.

Man and wolf stood in a standoff like this.

"I can't keep this stalemate; I'll collapse first." Art's tense thoughts raced, constantly searching his memories for ways to deal with wild wolves, both his own and the original owner's.

He didn't want to die, at least he didn't want to die a disgusting death in the jaws of a scrawny, mangy old wolf.

The lone wolf seemed to have also sensed the fierce glint in the prey's eyes before its death throes.

It subtly retreated half a step, its body lowering, its nostrils twitching.

Art's eyes were fixed on the lone wolf, his right hand holding the sword, his left hand gently reaching for his waist, slowly drawing out the hunting knife.

His left foot took a slight half-step forward, his right leg slightly bent, and his body leaned slightly forward.

"Roar!" The lone wolf was half a step faster, rushing forward in an instant, leaping and pouncing on Art.

Art's legs paused, his body half-crouched, narrowly dodging the lone wolf's fatal bite.

The lone wolf fell to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust, then immediately turned and crouched, charging back.

Art had already lost half a step, and the lone wolf gave him no chance to catch his breath.

He had no choice but to half-crouch, turn, and face the lone wolf directly.

At this point, he was no longer trembling; a surge of ferocity welled up inside him.

He swung the sword in his right hand at the lone wolf, and the hunting knife in his left hand stabbed upwards from his waist and leg.

The lone wolf bit down on the short sword, but it couldn't dodge the hunting knife coming from its side and below.

"Awoo!" The lone wolf, pierced in its right flank, howled in pain and leaped a few steps away. Art seized the opportunity, flung the hunting knife in his left hand, and the handle struck the lone wolf's hind leg bone with a heavy thud. The lone wolf let out another "woo" in agony...

Instinctively, after facing a fatal threat, the lone wolf began to whimper and retreat. When Art let out a loud shout and feigned charging forward to swing his sword, the lone wolf finally recognized the strength of its prey and turned to retreat.

Art, having caught his breath, kept his eyes on the slowly retreating lone wolf. He quickly backed away to the campfire, dropped his short sword, swiftly squatted down, picked up his hunting bow, drew out a light arrow, and shot it rapidly at the lone wolf about ten steps away. The lone wolf crouched to dodge, and the arrow grazed its fur, embedding itself in the grass.

Watching the limping lone wolf gradually disappear, Art no longer had the strength to shoot a second arrow. The night's standoff and several rounds of struggle had drained all his energy. Seeing the lone wolf severely wounded and fleeing, disappearing over the horizon, he collapsed, slumping to the ground...

The next day, as dawn barely broke, Art had already swallowed a few bites of mixed grain bread with the leftover roasted meat from the night before. He hurriedly packed his sword and hunting bow, hoisted the organized furs and mountain goods, and quickly left the camp by the stream.

The thrill of the previous night filled him with lingering fear. If the bursting sparks hadn't woken him, giving him precious time to react; if the attackers had been those robust wasteland wolves instead of an old lone wolf; if he hadn't delivered that fatal thrust in the crisis... if any of these 'ifs' had become reality, he would now be a pile of shattered bones with rotting flesh.

Ignoring his dizzy head and aching, weak body, Art walked north across the wasteland from sunrise until midday.

He was very tired and exhausted, but he worried that the lone wolf would continue to pursue him, and even more so that the wasteland wolves that had left yesterday might return. If several wasteland wolves tracked him, there would be no more luck or 'ifs'.

At noon, Art didn't dare to make a fire and roast meat again. He made do by cutting a piece of smoked venison and eating a few bites in a Giant Stone Pile in the wasteland. After resting for a while in the shade, he got up and set off again as soon as the sun began to set.

When the sun dipped below the mountain peaks, Art was already nearing the northern edge of the wasteland. At the end of the wild grass, a large, sparse Birch Forest appeared. About half a day's journey north of the Birch Forest was a manor village named Ryan, which was one of Bazel Kris's manors.

Art quickened his pace. Since last spring, sporadic bandits had begun to appear on this road leading north. To be safe, he planned to rest in the Birch Forest tonight, where there was an abandoned hunter's cabin.

By the time he reached the abandoned wooden cabin, it was completely dark. Art fumbled in the dark, gathering a pile of dry wood and branches, and lit a fire in the cabin's hearth. After a simple meal and drink, the cabin was soon filled with the sound of snoring, and the night passed without incident.

By noon the next day, Art could already see signs of human activity—a large expanse of leveled farmland. Winter wheat had already been planted, and the farmers only needed to wait for the spring breeze to awaken the young sprouts.

Beyond the vast farmlands, there were several tall oak and Scots pine trees. Beneath them, sparsely distributed, were about twenty low-roofed huts built from stone, pine wood, and thatch. Smoke rose from the rooftops, carried by the cold wind towards the center of the village. There, a circular fortress, about two hundred feet long and fifty feet high, constructed of wood and stone, stood. The top of the circular fort featured a circular parapet and a simple wooden watchtower. A large oak door, studded with copper rivets, was set into the base of the circular fort, with several small square windows arranged vertically above the door—that was Bazel's manor castle, but Bazel did not live there. This was merely a small manor under his name, overseen by his retainer and steward.

As Art walked into the village, some farmers emerged from the huts lining the muddy road. They were wrapped in worn linen, their clothes bulging with stuffed dry grass. They stooped over, scrutinizing Art with dull yet wary eyes.

They had seen Art, who came from the south, on an evening late last summer. However, Art had not lingered in the village, so by the time the steward arrived with two manor guards, he had already left Ryan Village. At the time, the steward, adhering to the principle of avoiding trouble, had not dared to pursue this fellow, whom the villagers described as resembling a forest bandit.

At noon today, when the lame blacksmith reported to the steward that the fellow from last summer had returned to the village, the steward's heart tightened: "I'm afraid we've been targeted by bandits!"

"Jon, how many of them are there? Are there any more outside the village?" the steward immediately pressed.

"No... no one else... just that... one young hunter," the lame blacksmith replied.

The steward hesitated for a moment, then ordered a servant to tightly close the manor gate and instructed the only two manor guards to put on their leather armor and take their weapons to accompany him to investigate.

Meanwhile, Art was sitting cross-legged under an oak tree at the village entrance. Not far away, three to five farmers, holding farm tools and wooden sticks, stood with a somewhat hostile air. He regretted entering the village a little.

Before, he had always skirted around villages. Last year, when he was traveling with heavy goods and, to save time, dared to pass through the village, he saw that manor. Later, in a tavern in Tinietz, he learned that this small village named Ryan was Bazel's territory. Art then decided to bring his mountain goods over to try his luck. Bazel, known for his bravery and love of battle, would surely be interested in bear and wolf pelts, and perhaps he could make a hefty profit, selling them for a high price...

The steward had already arrived at the village entrance and whispered with the farmers for a while. After sending a quick-footed fellow to scout outside the village, he led the guards and a few farmers towards Art.

Art did not await Bazel; instead, he was met by a bald, big-eared, pot-bellied fellow. That fellow stood slightly behind, using the farmers' bodies to shield himself, peeking at Art.

"Where are you from, bandit? Do you know this is Bazel's manor?" the steward yelled, then ducked his head back.

Art looked at this outwardly strong but inwardly weak fellow and couldn't help but feel disdain. Releasing his grip on his sword hilt, Art bowed slightly and said:

"Respected sir, please allow me to extend my highest regards to the valiant Bazel. As you can see, I am not a forest bandit; I am merely a hunter from the south."

"Just a hunter?" The steward moved out from behind the farmer, scrutinizing Art for a few moments, then glancing at the large pack of mountain goods and furs behind Art.

The scout from outside the village returned and whispered a few words into the steward's ear, and the steward's expression immediately changed.

"You'd better not have poached on the territory of my lord Baron, or you'll be in for it!" After confirming the newcomer's identity, the steward tilted his head back, paced behind Art, kicked the pile of furs with his short leg, and turned to signal everyone to relax.

"What all do you have?"

"Respected sir, here are bear hides, wolf hides, deer hides, antlers, fox hides, mink hides, and some other animal furs. They are all good quality," Art listed them off like family treasures.

"Deer hide? That's a good one, not easy to come by."

The fact that it wasn't a bandit attack greatly relieved the steward. Art's repeated use of "sir" made the fat steward, who had been a servant all his life, feel quite pleased. This fellow in front of him seemed quite agreeable, and he had already decided to only charge this agreeable fellow one deer hide as a transit tax.

The steward gathered his robes, squatted down, opened the pack, and picked out a well-presented deer hide. As he turned to leave, he also casually pulled out two rabbit hides and tossed them to the two guards. Watching the calm figure walk away, Art suddenly understood—this was outright theft!!!

"Sir, the two rabbit hides are for you, but the deer hide in your hand is worth sixty copper fenny," Art chased a few steps forward.

The steward stopped, slowly turned around, and stared at Art as if he had seen a monster.

"Fellow, do you think you are an envoy of God? Every inch of land you stand on is the sacred territory of the lord Baron. You have brought a large pile of game of unknown origin onto the lord Baron's territory, shouldn't you pay something for it?"

"I ask you, you say you came from the south, do you have a sealed document? I now suspect that all these furs were poached from the Earl of Salas's forest to the east!!" The steward glared, his walrus mustache trembling, a fierce expression on his face.

"Well, fellow, is this deer hide still worth anything now?"

Watching the smug and cunning figure walk away, Art suppressed the urge to draw his sword and cut him down. He gathered the furs scattered on the ground and left indignantly.

"I'll swallow this insult for now," Art spat on the ground.