Chapter 39: Choked Out by Mount Bustmore

The upward yank was abrupt, disorienting, and followed by a piercing, high-pitched shriek.

"WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH—!"

Ethan’s scream tore through the forest as he and Germaine were hauled through a thick canopy of leaves. They burst through the greenery and landed with a tandem THUD-CLANG on a wide, sturdy branch of a massive old-growth tree, it's foliage dense enough to swallow them whole.

Standing over them was a man. He moved with an unnerving quiet grace. His most striking feature was his hair—cut into two distinct, textured blocks on the sides of his head, a utilitarian style as sharp as his gaze. A mask covered the lower half of his face, which he now deftly untied with one hand, revealing a calm, angular face. In his other hand, he held the mechanism that had reeled them in: a compact, multi-geared grapnel launcher.

He surveyed them for a moment, his eyes—a cool, analytical brown—flicking between Ethan’s prone form and Germaine’s quick recovery into a defensive crouch. Around them was not quite a treehouse, but a cleverly concealed platform nestled in the crook of several large branches, adorned with simple gear and supplies.

"Why," the man began, his voice low and even, each word chosen with deliberate care, "would you allow Fulminar wolves to complete their encircling maneuver? It’s the tactical equivalent of sticking your head in a blender and asking for a smoother texture."

He leaned over slightly, pushing aside a cluster of leaves with a soft rustle. Below, the grey smoke from his bomb was dissipating. The wolves were shaking their heads, snarling, their noses twitching as they desperately tried to pick up the scent trails of their vanished prey.

"See them?" he murmured, more to himself than to his guests. "Cunning in numbers. They don't just chase. They herd. They poke and prod from the edges, driving you where they want you. Their most dangerous trait, however, is their breath. Not fire, precisely. A superheated, condensed plasma. They don't use it to kill outright; they use it to cut off escape routes. If you try to run too far, they'll exhale a wall of shimmering heat between you and freedom, cooking you inside their shrinking circle."

Ethan finally sat up, groaning as he stretched his back with a series of metallic pops. "Well, that would have been a fun fact to have. Thanks, man. I didn't know any of that. My system’s been… uncooperative. It’s been suggesting I try diplomacy. Or surrender."

The man didn't laugh. He just let out a slow, controlled sigh that spoke volumes of weary patience. He turned and knelt by a small work kit. With methodical, precise movements, he selected a straight shaft of wood, then a long, curved fang from a pouch. He began binding the tooth to the shaft with a strong, dark cord, his fingers moving with practiced, effortless skill.

"We owe you one," Germaine said, her voice firm with gratitude. She then shot a venomous glare at Ethan. "And it's because of this guy. He had a 'brilliant' plan to just walk into a cave he'd never seen before."

"I thought it would be full of Orc's!" Ethan protested, waving a hand. "A straightforward, honest brawl!"

Without looking up from his work, the man spoke, his tone flat and factual. "That's not an Orc hideout. It's the den of the Fulminar Wolf Alpha. One of the two bosses for this Gate. The primary one." He finished securing the fang, then picked up a new arrow shaft. He dipped the pointed tip of the next fang into a small clay cup filled with a viscous, violet liquid that seemed to drink the light.

"The other," he continued, his eyes still on his task, "is to the west. An Orc Warlord. Lightly armored, but deliberately so. It wields a bastard sword that looks like it was forged from a girder. The fact it doesn't bother with heavy plate doesn't signal weakness; it signals a confidence in its own hide that should terrify you. It's telling you its skin is tougher than steel."

He glanced down through the leaves once more. The wolves, having lost the scent, had melted back into the forest shadows, their hunt temporarily abandoned.

"I'm Jay," the man said simply, setting the newly poisoned arrow aside.

"Gay?" Ethan asked, tilting his helmet as if cleaning out his ear. "Did you say 'Gay'? Like, 'Hello, I'm Gay, savior of the forest'?"

A deep, weary breath escaped Jay's nostrils. "Jay. Not 'Gay.'"

Ethan frowned, confused. "Huh? What do you mean, 'Jay the Gay'? Is that a title?"

WHAP!

Germaine’s open palm connected with the back of Ethan’s helmet with a sound like a gong. "It's JAY, you absolute tin-plated moron! J-A-Y!"

"Ohhhh!" Ethan’s face lit up with dawning comprehension. "Nice to meet you, Jay! Thanks for saving our asses back there. Truly, a service to humanity. I'm Ethan." He gestured grandly toward Germaine with a sweeping hand wave. "And this woman here—"

His sweeping gesture, performed with his usual lack of spatial awareness, didn't end in the air. His gauntleted hand swung directly into the side of Germaine’s chest, resulting in a soft, unmistakable bounce.

Ethan froze. Germaine froze. A deadly silence hung for half a second.

"—is Bustzilla," Ethan finished, his voice suddenly very small.

Germaine’s reaction was not a scream, not a shout. It was a swift, silent, and terrifyingly efficient movement. Her arm snaked around Ethan’s throat in a chokehold that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with asphyxiation.

"GACK—! AHHHHHH! GLRK! I MEAN GERMAINE! GERMAINE!" he wheezed, his legs kicking futilely in the air.

Jay watched the scene unfold. He didn't intervene. He didn't smirk. He simply picked up another arrow shaft, dipped another fang into the violet toxin, and let out one more long, soul-deep sigh, the sound of a man who had saved two people only to immediately question the lifespan of his own sanity.

The world, for Ethan, was currently a warm, blonde, and surprisingly soft prison of rage. As Germaine’s chokehold tightened, his visor pressed against the side of her neck, and a single, maddeningly clear thought pierced the fog of oxygen deprivation: Being strangled by a busty blonde is a very fine choice for a last moment on Earth.

Then, the need to breathe overruled all philosophical observations. With a sudden, desperate heave of his armored body, he stood straight up, lifting Germaine off her feet. She dangled from his neck, her legs kicking in the air, her grip unrelenting.

“Wait—hurk—is this some sort of house?!” he wheezed, his voice echoing as he gestured blindly around them with a flailing gauntlet.

Germaine’s grip slackened just a fraction, her own irritation momentarily overridden by the question. She followed his gaze, her eyes widening slightly. Now that the immediate threat of death had receded, she took in the details she’d missed in the chaos of their arrival.

It wasn't just a hunter’s blind. It was an organized, lived-in space. Neatly stacked against the rough bark wall were a compact portable burner and a small, lidded pot. A hanging net held a few pieces of dried fruit and what looked like strips of jerky. There was a small, sharp kalgaksu knife, its blade clean, next to a stack of compact, metal camping plates. It was a Spartan existence, but a deliberate one.

Ethan, finally pulling free with a gasp, pointed a shaky finger toward a far corner. There, nestled in a cradle made of woven vines and padded with moss and layered hides, was a distinct, bed-shaped form.

“Is that… a bed?!” he squawked.

Jay, who had resumed methodically dipping arrowheads into his violet toxin, didn’t look up. “And what about it?”

“Are you living here?!” Ethan exclaimed, waving his arms at the surrounding monster-infested forest. “That’s crazy dangerous, man! You’ve got a front-row seat to the apocalypse!”

Germaine nodded, crossing her arms. “He’s an idiot, but he’s not wrong. The spatial stability of a Gate is fluid. This whole area could shift in two, maybe three days. You’d be trapped inside a dissolving pocket dimension.”

Jay let out a slow sigh. He finally set down his arrow and looked out through the lattice of leaves, his grey eyes distant and calm. “It’s not a problem. I trust my own abilities. More importantly, I trust my own judgement.” His gaze returned to them, flat and unreadable. “This setup allows for sustained operations without the inefficiency of constant ingress and egress.”

Ethan leaned conspiratorially toward Germaine, his stage whisper perfectly audible in the quiet clearing. “He must be super-ultra-mega rich,” he hissed. “Think about it! He owns real estate inside the monster zone! Zero commute, all-you-can-eat monster buffet… though I really don’t want to ask what’s on the menu.”

Germaine pinched the bridge of her nose. “I agree with the sentiment, but the way you ‘whisper’ directly in front of the person you’re gossiping about is giving him more than suspicion. It’s giving him grounds for justifiable homicide.”

Jay spoke, his tone still flat and informative, as if reading from a survival manual. “Don’t worry. All of the monsters here are technically edible. The trick is speed. You must excise the viable cuts before the mana saturation causes rapid cellular degradation and renders the flesh toxic. Immediate storage in an item box halts the process.”

Ethan stared at him, his mind reeling. The concept of carving a steak from the wolf that had just tried to turn him into pâté settled in his brain, which immediately tried to reject it like a bad organ transplant.

“Wow…” Ethan breathed, his voice full of horrified awe. “That’s… that’s crazy. Like, ‘I-have-rewritten-my-relationship-with-the-food-pyramid’ crazy.” He struck a ponderous pose, one gauntlet on his chin. “As the ancient sage once pondered while butchering a goblin: ‘Is it cannibalism if you’re ascending the trophic ladder? Or is it just aggressive meal prepping?’ The line, I feel, is deliciously blurry.”

He nodded sagely, entirely agreeing with a point no one had made. “Truly, Jay, you are a pioneer of gastrointestinal bravery. A conquistador of the colon.”

Jay simply picked up another arrow, dipped it in the violet toxin, and closed his eyes for a long, quiet second. The sigh he released this time was less weary and more… metaphysical. It was the sound of a man calculating how many poisoned arrows it would take to achieve a moment of pure, uninterrupted silence.