Chapter Three: The Hen and the Giant Ox

Chasing after the cries for help, a colossal figure emerged from the depths of the dense forest. Two sharp, long horns grew from his head, and where his feet should have been, there were instead two hardened, round hooves. Roaring and swaying, he charged toward me.

It was clear this was a minotaur—one of the strongest and most boisterous intelligent races on the continent of Falvey. In fact, many questioned their so-called “intelligence,” for up to now, the minotaurs still lived in primitive tribal clans, scattered in small groups, and their impulsive, irascible nature resembled that of wild beasts more than any “intelligent race.” The only traits connecting them to “wisdom” seemed to be their unusually strong sense of pride and self-respect—qualities that often led them to do foolish things.

Even among this formidable race, the fellow approaching me belonged to the tallest and most robust. I couldn’t accurately estimate his height, but at most, the top of my head would only reach his chest. His bare torso and rugged face were covered in black and red markings, squeezed together by his bulging muscles, making him appear especially fierce and valiant—like a demon freshly crawled from the depths of hell.

By tradition, minotaur names are generally long, including their own name, their father’s name, their earned title, the name of the strongest opponent they have defeated, and their clan name. For example, if a minotaur is named “Hodder Kalen Red-Eye Highland Tiger Windhorn,” it means this is a minotaur from the Windhorn clan named Hodder, his father’s name is Kalen, his nickname is Red-Eye, and the mightiest foe he has slain was a highland tiger.

But the rules did not apply to this giant before me. His name was indeed long—so long it was unimaginable. Above his head, I could see the soul-bound sigil of his name twisting in three turns. Yet that wasn’t the most astonishing thing; his name was so grandiose and lofty that even the God of War himself would blush to receive such a title.

“Through the Ages, Shocking Heaven and Earth, Peerless and Unmatched, Invincible in All the World, Graceful as Jade, Beautiful Inside and Out, Loyal to the Core, Righteousness Touching the Clouds, Brimming with Learning, Bravery Crowned Among Armies, Resourceful and Wealthy in Youth, Fists Smite the Colorful Tiger of the Southern Mountains, Feet Kick the Black-Scaled Dragon of the Northern Sea, Able to Reach the Moon in the Sky and Dive to Catch Turtles in the Five Oceans, Dashing Young Lord of the Troubled World, Flower of Beauty Among Men, Number One Hero, Grand Champion, Great Chivalrous Master, Grandmaster of All, Exuding Bullish Aura, Books as Numerous as Cattle, Testing the Waters Like a Bull, Mighty as a Bull, Tiger’s Back and Bull’s Waist, Tiger Crouches, Bull Coils, Sinking Ox and Falling Goose, Dragon Flies and Bull Dances, the Giant Bull Among Bulls, Bull Million,” that was his name. I must admit, as he ran toward me, the lines of text blurred so much that I probably missed several characters.

But most jaw-dropping of all was that this minotaur warrior, whose name could shame the God of War, was in fact fleeing—and in hot pursuit behind him was…

…a flock of chattering hens?!

Clutched in the minotaur’s hand was a massive wooden stake, thick enough to serve as a pillar in some grand hall. But wielded by such a clumsy master, this enormous weapon was no more lethal than a plow. The minotaur swung the stake with all his might and little skill, each blow seemingly aimed to shatter the earth, but in truth, most of his attacks landed only on the ground, bringing little real threat to the hens nipping at his heels.

Right behind our “Number One Hero, Grand Champion, Great Chivalrous Master, Grandmaster,” the not exactly savage flock of poultry took turns pecking at the minotaur’s body with their tiny beaks, chasing him into a frantic dance. Each peck drew blood, and above his horns, “-2” or “-3” would float—indicating the damage to his soul.

Normally, if you ran at full speed, these hens could never catch you. But something was clearly wrong with the minotaur warrior with a name as long as the heavens—his running was awkward and sluggish, each step uneven and off balance, sometimes even moving both hand and foot on the same side, as if he couldn’t coordinate his limbs. It wasn’t long before he was encircled by the hens.

Whenever this happened, the minotaur would stomp his hooves, sending a tremor through the ground that caused the hens to stagger, giving him a chance to escape their encirclement, tilt his head back, and gulp down a small bottle of soul potion before continuing his desperate flight. This was thanks to two racial traits: War Stomp, which slows the movement speed of nearby creatures by 50%, and Natural Constitution, which increases potion effectiveness speed by 50%. Without these, he probably wouldn’t have lasted this long and would have become fresh feed for the flock.

It’s said that minotaurs are a proud and conceited race, and in this regard, the fellow before me was an extraordinary exception. The moment he saw me standing at the edge of the forest, his eyes grew moist with excitement. He spat a mouthful of feathers, tilted his head back, and drained a large bottle of soul potion before stumbling over to me, shouting desperately, “Big brother, help me, save me…”

In this world, race and combat skills are not the only standards that determine strength. Often, it is the level of one’s soul that speaks most about a being’s power. For example, all these hens had soul strength of level one, which is about the level any newcomer to the continent of Falvey can handle.

Through my magic mirror, I saw that the minotaur warrior, Bull Million (his name was too long—by tradition, this should be an acceptable way to address him), also had a soul strength of level one, meaning he wasn’t much stronger than these docile poultry. This only further proved how feeble this seemingly mighty fellow really was, and deepened my understanding of why boasting is called “blowing bull.”

In the blink of an eye, Bull Million had darted behind me. One hand propped on his wooden stake, the other clutched my shoulder as he tried to curl himself up, as if hoping to hide his massive body behind me so the hens wouldn’t find him. Of course, this was futile—he was simply too big. Even sitting, he was nearly as tall as I was standing, with nowhere to conceal himself.

It was a terrifying scene: a dozen hens leapt up, pecking wildly at our heads, their not-so-sharp claws scratching at my armor with a nerve-jangling screech. In an instant, I was engulfed by this chaotic disaster—feathers in my eyes, clucking in my ears, and the reek of chicken droppings thick with rotting grass nearly suffocating me. I had never endured anything so dreadful; if I had a choice, I’d rather face a raging lion than these furious hens.

“What’s going on? Are you starting a chicken farm?” I seized a hen that was about to peck through my belt, shouting at the culprit of this mayhem—the hapless minotaur, who was desperately trying to tear a chicken off his face, his wide nostrils already marked by several bleeding scratches.

“I don’t know why…” he wailed, “I just accidentally stepped on a few nests of eggs, that’s all!”

Soon, the hens demonstrated their destructive power. Each peck cost me only one or two health points, but their speed, both pecking and scratching, was enough to make even the most skilled warrior sweat—especially since it wasn’t just three or five hens in this frenzied assault, but a full dozen. If not for my armor absorbing most of the blows, I might have been forced to flee myself.

Clearly, if I didn’t help this reckless oaf deal with this mess, I wouldn’t be able to escape either. Amidst the chaos, I finally groped for my sword hilt, swung it into the flurry of chickens before me, and with a shriek, a fat hen fell to the ground. A pale orb of light floated up and merged into my body.

That was its soul. In this world, every being has a soul. If you kill another, their soul merges into yours, becoming part of you. If you absorb enough souls, your own becomes stronger—this is how one “levels up.”

The death of their companion didn’t faze the remaining hens, who stubbornly continued attacking my armor. Their courage was admirable, but their persistence caused me great trouble. Without exaggeration, I was risking my life battling these crazed fowl. And my danger didn’t come only from them…

“Hey, watch where you’re swinging!” As I spun, I barely dodged Bull Million’s massive club, which crashed down where I had just been standing, gouging a deep pit in the earth—that wasn’t the first time he’d missed and nearly hit me.

“Sorry, sorry…” Bull Million squealed an apology. He looked utterly terrified by the frenzied hens, swinging his club hysterically and haphazardly at the flock.

“This is my first time using a neural sensor; I can’t control my balance, careful!” he screamed, taking another wild swing at me.

Neural sensor? I had no idea what that was, but from experience, anything I didn’t understand was probably jargon from the “skyfarers.” I had no curiosity to investigate further.

I struggled to find words to describe Bull Million’s performance; he was pushing the boundaries of clumsiness. Facing birds that could hardly be called fierce, this “valiant” warrior stuck out his butt, stretched his arms stiffly, and limply shoved his club forward as if desperate to keep the hens at bay.

Bull Million’s movements were like a mincing woman at play—no, even less so, for at least women know to grab hair. I almost doubted whether he was truly a minotaur famed for ferocity or just a tall, oddly shaped deep gnome—a cowardly subterranean race renowned for their advanced industry.

Every time he swung the club, inertia threw him off balance—in fact, even standing still, he swayed precariously. His ponderous attacks posed little real threat to the squawking hens; by the time he targeted one, it had already darted away, and when the club landed with a thud, his intended victim was behind him, pecking his backside.

Within the melee, chickens flew and minotaurs leapt amid cries of pain.

Before long, these vengeful mothers put me in mortal danger. Though I’d slain seven or eight hens, my health was dangerously low. I could feel my life ebbing with each drop of blood from my wounds. Desperation dulled my pain, reducing the damage I took, but it also told me my health was below 5%.

I was about to die! Still fighting, I was gripped by fear. To have my newly regained freedom and life ended by a flock of hens was both bitter and helpless.

Just as I was about to despair, Bull Million’s club, out of control, swept toward me. I ducked, and by chance, the errant club struck a hen that was sneaking up behind me, sending it flying. Its soul took a long while to float back, then split evenly between Bull Million and me.

That misdirected blow was unexpectedly powerful—a one-hit kill.

Inspired, I shouted from the ground, “Don’t stop, keep spinning! Spin two more times!”

I had no idea if the frightened minotaur understood, but he obeyed—probably more out of panic than comprehension—raising his club and spinning in place. Round and round, faster and faster, the stake became a blur, a black whirlwind whistling above my head. The hens, blinded by rage, charged forward only to be sent flying one by one, their souls dissipating into the ether.

When the last hen was dispatched, a surge of energy from its soul washed through me. My depleted health was restored, and from within, I felt a new power awaken in my soul. Not just me—Bull Million as well.

We had leveled up.

I quickly checked my soul in the mirror: I was now a level two warrior—Strength 13, Intelligence 10-2, Agility 12-2, Health 200/200, Combat Qi 100/100. My attack and defense had each increased by two.

Wait—where had Bull Million gone?

I turned to find the burly fellow flat on his back, four limbs splayed, eyes rolling in circles, mumbling in a daze, “So dizzy…so sick…so many stars…”

It took a long while for Bull Million to recover from his vertigo. Shakily, he got to his feet, not forgetting to thank me.

“Thanks to you, big brother, otherwise I’d be done for.” He hobbled over, rubbing his backside and grumbling, “Ow…that hurts. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have set the sensation level so high. I never thought being bitten by hens would hurt this much.”

He too pulled out a mirror to check his soul’s attributes. Suddenly, he exclaimed with delight.

In his “Combat Skills” tab, there now appeared “Mighty Whirlwind”—a multi-target melee attack, 50% bonus damage, 100% increased attack speed, knockback effect, one-minute stun afterward, and costs 70 Combat Qi.

Clearly, the “battle” just now—if fighting for your life against hens can be called a battle—had granted this reckless brute a special combat skill. As a comrade who had just survived alongside him, I was happy for his progress, but knowing the skill had arisen from my inspiration while I gained nothing left me with a vague pang of envy.

“Where are you from, Child of the Earth, Bull Million…” I asked. His name sounded strange. “As far as I know, there are no minotaur clans nearby.”

At my question, Bull Million scratched his head in embarrassment. “I’m from Hardhoof Valley. I just wanted to do a beginner’s herbal gathering quest, but I got lost and somehow ended up here. Where am I?”

“This is Campnavia City…” I replied casually, then asked curiously, “Why didn’t you check the map? You could have found your way home by following it.”

“Map?” To my surprise, Bull Million looked puzzled. “What map? I’ve never seen one.”

“You don’t have a map? How can that be?” I took mine from my pack and showed it to him. “Don’t you have one of these?”

“Oh, that’s a map…” He suddenly realized, smacking his head in regret. “…I…sold it!”

“Sold it?”

“Yes, I thought it was useless, so I sold it to a merchant for a copper coin…” His voice grew quieter, mumbling like a child caught in a mistake.

I was left speechless. Even among the not-so-bright minotaur race, this brute must be one of the most intellectually challenged.

“Big brother, I’m a newbie here, and I don’t know anyone. Can you take me under your wing?” he pleaded, his tattooed face squeezed into a pitiful expression that looked rather out of place.

Having such a giant “Number One Hero, Grand Champion, Great Chivalrous Master, Grandmaster” call me “big brother” sent cold sweat down my back. I quickly waved him off.

“Just call me Jeff. I’ll take you into town and help you buy a new map first…”

A magic map, once in its owner’s hand, immediately displays all the roads they’ve traveled. Bull Million’s map amazed me—his birthplace was on the northern plateau, a full sixty days’ journey from Campnavia. The paths he’d uncovered led through two demon-destroyed cities, vast beast-infested forests, many graveyards haunted by Heartslayer Wraiths, and even a dragon’s lair. How this level-one bungler survived such perilous lands and arrived safely at Campnavia was beyond belief. If he isn’t the greatest traveler I’ve ever seen, he must be the luckiest fool alive. I half-suspect he could follow the map all the way to the moon.

Getting him home was out of the question. If we tried, we’d likely be torn apart by jungle beasts before the day was out. Honestly, dying to a beast might be a warrior’s noble end, but considering our comparative power against hens, I suspect we’d have a greater chance of being ignominiously trampled by a herd of rabbits.

“So, what now? What should I do?” Bull Million stowed the map and turned to me again.

“What should I do”—I was stumped, unsure how to answer. Before meeting him, I had been troubled by that very question myself.

How ironic, that I, unsure of my own purpose, was now expected to guide another. Yet life is often like this—while we may be lost in our own search for meaning, we can always offer sound advice to others.

“We…could look for some work to do together…” I said hesitantly. “I know of some jobs we could take on as a team.”

No one knew better than I where a newcomer to Campnavia should begin. I led Bull Million to the city gates, to the guard Jeffrey Kidd.

“Cosplay!” Bull Million exclaimed in awe at the guard. “You look just like the real thing! If you stood there without moving, I’d never guess you weren’t authentic.”

I didn’t quite understand and didn’t wish to dwell on the topic. Once Bull Million had accepted the wild dog hunting task, we strode briskly out the city gates.