Chapter 19: Gangnam Style of the Looter

In the morning, I breathed in deep through my nose, letting the air fill my lungs. It smelled of nature—not a single specific scent, but that clean, crisp aroma you only find in the wild. Fresh air, damp earth, morning dew on the grass, and open skies. I sat with my coffee, savoring the aromas from my cup and the world around me, letting the serenity infuse my being. Waking up like that, in the middle of nowhere, with views that belonged on a postcard and the air cleaner than anything I had ever inhaled, was bliss. It was the kind of morning that made you stop and appreciate life.

After breakfast, I packed up camp, and we continued our journey. The day passed quietly, the landscape shifting around us as we walked. By evening, we emerged from the valley between two low mountains and spotted another river ahead, its surface catching the sunset, making it look as though it were dusted with gold. It was so peaceful. I picked a spot near the bank to set up camp, close enough to hear the water but far enough not to wake up soggy.

That night, we sat by the fire in comfortable silence. I didn’t play or talk to Stretch, so as not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere. The flames flickered, shadows danced across the rocks and trees, and the river’s steady murmur blended into the background like a lullaby. It was a quiet evening, exactly what I needed.

In the morning, the sky was painted with hues of orange and pink, promising a clear day ahead. I wanted to continue on the river, so I took out one of my canoes and tried to get Stretch into the boat.

He flat-out refused. Sat down like a sack of bricks, ears alert, tail still, making it clear he had no intention of moving. I tried everything: called him over, patted the seat, threw a steak into the boat. Nothing. Even cooked bacon didn’t do the trick. He sniffed the air, considered it for a second, then turned his head away like the whole thing bored him.

Eventually, I picked him up and carried him in. That’s when the mood shifted. The second his paws hit the canoe, his whole body stiffened. Legs locked, eyes wide, as if the water had suddenly turned to lava. He didn’t make a sound, but his stiff posture and the way he looked around wide-eyed didn’t bode well.

Before I could even get both hands on the paddle, he jumped out, swam to shore, and shook himself off. Then, he gave me a look of pure betrayal.

"Have it your way," I said, resigned to his stubbornness.

I got in the boat and paddled slowly, keeping close to the bank so he could follow along on foot. He didn’t. He sat on the bank and let out a long, drawn-out whine that echoed over the water, as if I’d abandoned him. Then he got up, shuffled his feet as if trying to tap-dance, and let loose a series of whiny barks in the most mournful tone imaginable.

I sighed, gave up, and stored the canoe. We continued on foot, following the river. Stretch trotted beside me, occasionally glancing up as if to check that I was still there.

On the third day, Stretch lost it over a bush—hackles raised, tail stiff, ears up like radar. He barked his head off, the sound sharp and frantic, his whole body locked into a tense, forward-leaning stance. I jogged over to see what the fuss was about and spotted the culprit: a giant porcupine.

It even looked normal. Like a porcupine from Earth, only super-sized. Same slow waddle, beady eyes, and million needles.

Stretch didn’t care. He lowered his body, legs twitching, ready to pounce.

“No!” I shouted, my voice cracking with panic.

Too late.

He jumped and let out a super-high-pitched yelp. He hit the ground whining, muzzle twitching, paws pawing at his face. His whole snout and neck were full of quills, eyes squeezed shut, tail glued to his belly. I swore under my breath, ran to him, and shove-swatted the porcupine away with my staff—maybe a little harder than necessary. It waddled off in a huff, its quills rattling like angry wind chimes.

I dropped to my knees and cast Anesthesia. Stretch went limp almost immediately, his breaths slowing, the tension draining from his muscles.

One by one, I pulled the quills. Each one came out with a faint pop, followed by a tiny spurt of blood. He whimpered softly at first, even under the spell, but by the tenth or so, his body had gone fully still.

When I finished, I stopped the spell. He didn’t wake. Just lay there, sprawled in the dirt, paws at odd angles, his face slack but peaceful, like someone who had passed out on a too-small couch and made it work.

I let him sleep it off. When he finally stirred, I fed him a mountain of meat and topped off the healing. He sniffed the food, then dove in like he hadn’t eaten in a week. His tail gave a weak wag, and when he finished, he looked up at me—ears low, eyes shining.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” I told him, shaking my head. “Hunt for food? Nooo. But when you see a walking pile of needles, you're suddenly Mr. Courageous. What were you thinking? You don’t pick a fight with a stack of knives!”

He wagged harder and licked my face, tail going thump-thump in the dirt.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too. But you’re still an idiot.”

Casting Healing Touch while maintaining Anesthesia was easier this time. The mental strain was still there, but it no longer felt like my mind was about to snap—more like lifting something a little too heavy, but still manageable.

While I worked, an idea for my looting spell began to form. I’d already figured out how to separate the pelt from the rest of the animal, but it kept flying off in random pieces. What if I split my mind—one part casting the separation, the other holding everything together? That could work.

I looked around, half-tempted to find something to test it on, but the sky had already darkened into a deep blue, and the stars were beginning to appear. Tomorrow, then.

While I packed up camp in the morning, I told Stretch, “We need more meat for you. Today, we’re going hunting.” He looked downright pleased. His tail wagged like crazy, and he bounced around me, practically vibrating with energy. I had a strong suspicion that his excitement stemmed from the fact that I would be doing the hunting, while he would be doing the eating.

After about two hours of walking, we reached a bend in the river. On the far bank, a vast, open grassland spread out toward the horizon, broken only by the occasional tree. It looked perfect. Precisely the kind of place I’d been looking for.

Now I just had to solve the Stretch problem.

I glanced at him, then at the water, then back at him. He sat on the bank, looking everywhere but at the canoe. I tried the same routine—gentle coaxing, encouraging words, and even tossing a juicy hamburger into the boat. He stared at it, his tail giving a single wag, then yawned and lay down with his head on his front paws.

I sat down too, elbows on my knees, staring at the river. The water moved slowly, making it easy to cross. Just not with a wolf who thought canoes were the devil incarnate. I let out a long breath, feeling the full weight of his mulish refusal.

“Fine,” I said, standing up and pulling my shirt off.

I stripped down, waded into the water, and dove forward, the coolness bracing but not too cold. A few vigorous strokes took me into the middle of the river, and I heard a splash behind me. I turned my head. Stretch was already in, heading toward me like a champ, his doggy paddle steady and confident, his head high, his tongue lolling as if he were on a joy swim.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

We reached the far bank, and he scrambled up ahead of me. Then, with a dramatic shake, he sprayed me with a solid burst of river water—his tail wagging as if he’d done me a favor.

“If you’re not afraid of water, what’s your problem with the boat?”

He shook again, harder this time, spraying my face and chest. I wiped my eyes, water dripping from my nose, and just shook my head, laughing under my breath.

After drying and dressing, I looked around, located the tallest tree, and angled toward it. Stretch trotted at my side, tail held high. The tree looked sturdy enough. The bark was rough under my palms, and the wood creaked faintly as I hauled myself higher. It swayed slightly under my weight, just enough to make it interesting. Once I reached the highest branch I dared to sit on, the view made the climb worth it.

Endless grassland stretched in every direction, golden-green in the morning light, rippling softly in the breeze. Through the binoculars, I could make out three separate herds grazing in the distance. One looked bigger than the others, and that was enough of a reason to head that way.

Two hours later, we finally reached it.

They looked like bison—same bulky bodies, humped shoulders, shaggy fur—but they were only cow-sized. Still, not small enough. I circled the herd slowly, keeping downwind, and eyed their size and the surrounding trees. Even if I managed to kill one, I didn’t like my odds of getting it strung up properly. And I doubted these branches would survive the attempt.

We moved on.

After lunch, we reached the second herd. Still mini-bison. Same problem—too big. I chewed on my lip and stared out across the plains. The third herd would probably be no different.

I found the tallest, sturdiest-looking tree nearby and climbed again. This one didn’t sway as much. From up there, I scanned the herd and picked out a bison grazing near the edge—a lower chance of spooking the entire herd if I missed.

I nocked an arrow, took a deep breath, and aimed for the eye. I wasn’t sure the arrow could punch through their hide. The shot landed dead on—bulls-eye. Or bison-eye. Hah. That was probably how the term started.

The herd exploded into motion, hooves thundering across the ground as they stampeded away, dust rising in their wake.

Stretch bounded toward the downed bison, dancing in excited circles around the carcass, tail wagging furiously. He knew what came next. I cut out the liver and heart and dropped them into a big bowl.

I grabbed the bison’s hind leg, dragged it to the base of the tree, and hung it without too much trouble. I didn’t even strain or feel winded. The tree, on the other hand, held—but just barely. The branch groaned, and the entire tree bowed under the weight.

Those stats are no joke!

Stretch sat by the bowl, ears perked, posture upright, gaze full of gleaming anticipation.

“What?” I asked.

He nosed the bowl toward me with a deliberate little shove.

“You want this cooked too?”

Tail wag.

“You had no problem with it raw before.”

Wag, wag. This time with the pleading eyes turned up to eleven.

“You’re getting spoiled, you know that?”

He trotted over, placed both front paws on my shoulders, and licked my face in one long, wet swipe.

“Okay, okay. I’ll cook it for you.”

Once he finished his cooked treats and the bison had finished draining, I tried out my new idea for the looting spell. I lowered the bison on the plastic sheet and split my mind. In one part, I held a firm mental picture of the pelt separated from the carcass. In the other, a firm picture of the pelt as a whole. The mental image felt pretty stable, so I infused mana into the carcass, focusing on the image and directing my mana with intention.

The pelt shot past me in a blur.

I turned around slowly and followed its trail through the grass until I found it: a large, misshapen lump of fur. It looked compressed, ball-shaped, with a horn protruding from it. I crouched and poked it—it felt solid. Tried to unroll it. No dice. The whole thing was fused together, like it had been sealed with magic glue.

I scratched my head. Why is it so hard?! What am I missing?

It wasn’t a total failure. The pelt had stayed in one piece this time—well, technically. It hadn’t shot off in strips or scattered like fur confetti. But still. I just wanted to loot a whole, intact pelt. Was that too much to ask?

With a sigh, I shifted focus and turned to the meat portion of the spell.

No exploding this time—that was the baseline goal. Less mana, more control. Keep it all neatly on the plastic sheet. Add that to the intention. Next, separate the meat from the bone. I could use the same technique I’d been refining for the pelt.

Cutting it into steaks? That part was trickier.

I concentrated and split my mind. One side: separate the meat from the bones, and for the love of all things holy, keep it from flying off. The other: a picture of clean, even steaks—something you’d be proud to throw on a grill. I held the image of a neat stack, like they’d come straight from a butcher’s counter.

I ran through the mental pictures a few times, ensuring both were solid, then started channeling mana.

At first, nothing.

Then—pop.

A heap of finely minced meat peeked out between the bison’s skeleton. The whole thing looked like a macabre sculpture. And it wasn’t steaks. Not even close. I blinked. Looked at the meat. Looked at my hands. Then let out a long, defeated sigh and sat there, shaking my head. At least most of it stayed on the plastic sheet.

Technically, it was progress. The pelt didn’t shoot off in strips, and the bison hadn’t exploded. But the dream of a clean, whole pelt and a perfect stack of steaks still felt like a distant, unachievable dream.

Now I had to figure out where the hell to store a giant pile of ground bison.

I took out the coolers with the fruits and vegetables and a bunch of baskets. One by one, I moved the fruits and vegetables into the baskets to make room. Then turned to the mountain of minced meat. I took out a shovel and cast Clean and Purify. Thought about it for a second, then cast Clean and Purify on the meat—just in case. After that, I shoveled it into the now-empty coolers, sighing and shaking my head the whole time. The motion became oddly meditative. Scoop, drop, sigh. Scoop, drop, sigh. Like a ritual for the mildly defeated.

Once I finished, I checked the remaining space in the now meat-packed coolers. Enough room for one more bison. But my mana was low—less than a thousand left. Not enough for another attempt.

I set up camp, buried the bones and the pelt blob, and set a few leg bones aside for Stretch to gnaw on. Cast a cleaning spell on the plastic sheet and flopped down beside it with a book, hoping to pass the time while regenerating.

That lasted ten minutes.

The story was good, but I couldn’t keep on reading. It was too depressing—too disheartening. The MC and his party were off slaughtering high-tier monsters, looting spirit coins, and rare drops as if they had a vending machine. Meanwhile, I’d buried a furry pelt blob and ended up with a year’s supply of hamburger meat.

I closed the book.

It took me two full days to regenerate. By the end, I was rested, focused, and even excited. I’d taken the time to reflect on where things had gone wrong and had a new plan—more refined and intentional. Optimism was back on the menu.

I shot another bison, drained it, and cooked the treat portions for Stretch. Then I got to work.

For the pelt, I split my mind again. Partition one: separation from the carcass, plus the ‘stay put’ intention. Partition two: keep together with an emphasis on maintaining the pelt’s original shape. This time, I channeled slower, held the images steady, and cast.

The pelt shot up into the air and dropped straight down—on me. It flopped over my head and shoulders. I pulled it off and inspected it. It was whole.

I stood up, punched the air in victory, and danced Gangnam Style in the middle of the field, not caring that my head and shoulders were covered in blood. Stretch raced around me in circles, yipping excitedly.

“Yes!” I shouted. “I’m a looter!”

Next: the meat.

Same setup as before. Partition one: separation from the bones and containment—stay on the plastic sheet, no shooting away. Partition two: cut into steaks, not minced. I even emphasized the size and visualized thick, hearty slabs.

I channeled my mana slowly and steadily... then—pop.

A year’s supply of stew chunks.

I stared at it. Definitely not steaks. But bigger than the last batch, and most of it landed on the sheet.

“Still progress,” I told Stretch on a sigh.

After storing the meat, burying the remains, and cleaning the tools and pelt, I packed up camp. We still had half a day of light left, and the open plains stretched out like an invitation.

Despite everything—furry blob included—I felt better. Confident.

I scratched Stretch’s ear. “My next attempt is going to be epic.”