Chapter Nine: The Logical Problem of Acrophobia

All this time, we had been hounded by this pack of wild dogs, driven to desperation. Though none of us ever spoke of it, a smoldering fire of resentment burned within our hearts. Now, with the chance to redeem ourselves and wash away our humiliation, how could we not feel invigorated? That single curse—“sons of bitches”—was not only an apt description but also a much-needed vent for our pent-up frustration, granting us a moment of satisfying catharsis.

The first to charge at me was a level-six “Frenzied Wild Dog.” Its health was less than half, and an arrow protruded from its rear, the white fletching swaying proudly as it ran, as if it had sprouted a second tail from its backside.

Faced with such a weakened foe, Bull Million for once displayed his courage. He swung his wooden club, flattening the wild dog to the ground in a single blow, and couldn’t resist commenting on our elven friend’s marksmanship: “Truly, the arrow matches the man—what a shameless shot, absolutely shameless. Who knows if this dog is male or female; hit with an arrow there, is it pain or pleasure...”

Ignoring his indecent ramblings, I had already slipped past a level-seven “Enraged Wild Dog,” slashing its hind leg with a backhanded “Cleave.” Before I could press the advantage, another level-seven wild dog lunged at me, leaving a scratch on my arm. And so, we became entangled in a skirmish with four wild dogs.

In the thick of battle, we deliberately avoided Kaplan, focusing our efforts on the other three wild dogs—they were, after all, far easier to handle than the leader. If we dispatched them quickly, the pressure on us would lessen. With the support of health potions, it wasn’t long before one wild dog was nearly reduced to a pelt by one of Bull Million’s crushing blows, and the health bar of the one before me had thinned to the point of invisibility.

Just as I readied my sword to finish it off, a foul wind rushed at me from behind and to the left. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the silver-furred wild dog leader, Kaplan, its gaping maw drawing near, dagger-like teeth gleaming inches from my face.

Its sudden appearance caught me completely off guard. Instinctively, I swung my left arm, hoping to shove its head aside. By sheer luck, my shield struck the rabid hound square on the nose with a resounding “thud.” Instantly, my left hand went numb, dropping uselessly to my side. Even as I gripped my sword tightly in my right hand, bracing for Kaplan’s next attack, suddenly, the pale green halo that had just appeared on Song-of-Strings’ body—signifying the mastery of a new skill—flared to life around me as well. An uplifting strength surged through every fiber of my being.

No one needed to tell me, nor did I have time to consult my spellbook, but I knew—I had just, by accident, learned a skill called “Shield Bash.” Striking an enemy’s head or face with a shield could knock them back and leave them briefly stunned, at the cost of fifty points of vigor.

Kaplan, the rabid hound who’d just taken the blow, stood dazed and powerless, its strong limbs barely able to support its muscular body, swaying weakly, unable to move.

The timing was perfect. Leaving the stunned Kaplan behind, I thrust my sword straight through the wild dog before me, then joined Bull Million to dispatch the last of his foes in quick succession. Suppressing our revulsion, we each downed another bottle of the foul-tasting health potion just in time for our only remaining opponent to recover from its stupor.

Our mood now was vastly different from that anxious first encounter with Kaplan. Though its attacks were still frenzied and swift, its health had dropped to double digits. Trading blows with it, reckless and battered, we forced the silver beast to exhaust its last reserves of ferocity, until it finally became a part of our souls.

At the very instant Kaplan fell dead, a crisp chime echoed in my ears, and from its corpse popped a dark red crystal, landing at Bull Million’s feet. The crystal was a naturally formed symmetric polyhedron, like a finely cut gem, with a dull, strange sheen rippling across its surface—one could almost sense an unfathomable, mysterious power emanating from it.

In this world, there exist dangerous creatures known as “magibeasts.” They possess wondrous magical energies within their bodies, some wielding magic with ease, and are far stronger than ordinary beasts.

But not all magibeasts are born that way. By chance or through intervention, some common wild animals may become tainted by magic, transforming into magibeasts.

Sometimes, when a magibeast dies, people may find within its body crystals of various shapes, imbued with special magical elements, which can be harnessed—these are known as “magic cores.”

The origins of magic cores have always been a matter of debate among mages. Some claim the core is the very source of a magibeast’s magical power.

I, however, find that theory unconvincing. Not every magibeast has a magic core; in fact, from what I know, the odds are slim—one might slay a hundred magibeasts and never find a single core, and lacking a core doesn’t make these creatures any less fierce.

I am more inclined to another explanation: so-called “magic cores” are, in essence, nothing more than the stomach stones of these indigestion-prone beasts. They just happen to be prettier and carry a bit of magic. However priceless they may seem to many, that doesn’t change the fact that they’re likely nothing more than what should have been foul-smelling animal excrement.

There was no doubt—this crystal was a lump of—well, a magic core. I was surprised; until now, I hadn’t realized that the rabid hound Kaplan was a magibeast—apart from its massive, powerful build and its gleaming silver fur, it seemed no different from the other wild dogs, certainly not showing any magical talent.

Bull Million picked it up. In the massive hands of the minotaur, the teacup-sized crystal looked as delicate as a button. He examined it closely, puckered his broad, long lips, and whistled before announcing the name and function of the core:

“Kaplan’s Heart of Swiftness—increases attack speed by ten percent, and grants a Swiftness spell, boosting movement speed by ten percent for thirty seconds.”

It was a superb magical item, especially for warriors who fought up close.

With his thick fingers, he gently caressed the core, and in a moment, a succession of emotions—delight, greed, hesitation—flitted across his face. At last, he sighed, furrowing his brow, as if making a difficult decision. Reluctantly, he came to my side, held out his big hand, and placed Kaplan’s Heart of Swiftness before me.

“Here, for you. Congratulations—you’ve won yourself a great prize.”

I couldn’t say his congratulations were insincere, but the sour note in his words was obvious. A towering, fierce-looking warrior of another race, yet wearing the expression of a child forced to give up a beloved toy—partly comical, but all the more endearing.

To say I wasn’t tempted by such an artifact would be a lie. A ten percent speed boost is valuable to anyone, but to a close-combat warrior, it is priceless; and in dire straits, when you must flee from an unbeatable foe, that sudden burst of speed might as well be a second life. No one would easily give up such a treasure.

I took the magic core from Bull Million, and as my fingers touched its smooth surface, I could feel a pulsing energy seeping into me, as if the hard crystal itself was alive.

Then I did something that surprised even myself.

I placed the magic core back in my minotaur friend’s hand and folded his fingers around it.

“No, the congratulations should be for you. It belongs to you.”

Bull Million was taken aback and immediately tried to refuse, waving his hands. “No, no, no—this really shouldn’t go to me. The plan was yours, those wild dogs were all shot down by Song-of-Strings, and if it weren’t for the two of you, I’d be nothing but bones by now. Even if you don’t want it, it should go to Song-of-Strings.”

From his perch in the tree, the elven ranger overheard our exchange. Eyes closed, one hand on the trunk, he declined Bull Million’s offer without hesitation:

“It’s not much use to me. I have Rapid Shot—my speed is fast enough. Besides, my effective range is so short that a ten percent boost won’t make much difference.”

With both of us insisting, Bull Million received the rabid hound’s core. That ten percent boost to attack speed would surely do wonders for his accuracy.

“Compared to trivial things like a magic core…” Now that the precious loot was settled, the handsome acrophobic, looking slightly green around the gills, abruptly raised his voice in a wail.

“…I’m more concerned about how I’m supposed to get down from this tree!”

The entrance was blocked; those outside couldn’t get in, and Song-of-Strings was trapped inside. With the only way out sealed, I suggested he jump straight down from the trunk. The branch where he stood was high, but a leap wouldn’t be fatal.

“Jump down? Why don’t you just cut the whole tree down! If I dared jump, I wouldn’t be afraid of heights! Your suggestion is out of the question.” He rejected it instantly.

“Then you could try suicide. If you die, your soul can float down,” Bull Million quipped mischievously.

“As if I hadn’t thought of that! But I’m out of arrows, and I don’t have a second weapon. I can’t strangle myself with a bowstring, can I? What a waste of those wild dogs—if I’d known I’d end up stuck like this, I’d have let them bite me to death.” Strangely enough, Song-of-Strings didn’t sound like he was joking.

“There’s another way to kill yourself,” Bull Million said, grinning wickedly.

“What’s that?”

“Jump down and die!”

A truly dreadful joke…

With a thud, Song-of-Strings dropped from the tree, landing squarely on his behind.

“Huh? I’m not dead?” The moment he hit solid ground, the elven ranger’s eyes popped open, his acrophobia vanished without a trace.

Bull Million and I exchanged bewildered glances.

“Didn’t you realize I was joking?” Bull Million asked, perplexed.

“A joke? Really?” Song-of-Strings looked genuinely confused.

“Why did you refuse to jump when I suggested it, but the moment he said it, you did?” I exploded.

“That’s different. You told me to jump down to survive, but I’m afraid of heights—jumping down to save myself is suicide, so that basic contradiction can’t be resolved. If I listened to you, it would be completely illogical. But Bull was saying that only by killing myself could I get down, and jumping was the only way to do that, so I jumped. Bingo, a flawless syllogism!”

I felt the veins on my forehead were about to burst.

“But…,” I ground out, doing my best not to bash my head against the tree, “isn’t the end result exactly the same?”

Song-of-Strings pondered for a moment, then replied with certainty, “Not at all. You wanted me to jump to survive—I could still manage up there, but jumping down might scare me to death, so I hesitated. But Bull was telling me to jump to die…,” and with logic now hopelessly tangled, the elven ranger posed an utterly fearsome question: “If I’m not afraid of dying, why would I be afraid of heights?”

...

“That’s a question you should be answering for us!” Bull Million and I both snapped, on the verge of collapse.