Chương 22: Chapter 23: Sweet Cherry Pie

The grind began before dawn and ended long after the trench fires had sunk low enough to resemble graves. By the third week beyond Dunmere's walls, survival had acquired the hateful dignity of industry. Men woke in darkness, hauled Ironbark through mud, butchered beasts beside the processing pits, reinforced the failing walls, collapsed into sleep with blood still under their nails, then rose before sunrise to perform the same argument against death again. The frontier no longer resembled a town defending itself.

It resembled an enormous starving machine, ingenious only because starvation had made it so, converting carcasses, timber, fear, and exhaustion into one more day of being difficult to kill. I fit into that machine too easily.

The southern trench lines became my world: beast hide stretched across drying frames beside the fires; cleaned tendons hung from hooks beneath canvas awnings, protected from the endless rain with the reverence wealthier towns reserved for silk; piles of bone waited near Wade Corbett's work benches, sorted not by creature but by density, curve, and the likelihood of surviving pressure. The camp relied increasingly on the dead things around it. Ordinary leather straps snapped too quickly under wet Ironbark.

Iron fittings rusted or bent. Rope frayed. Nails loosened. Everything failed faster than Dunmere could replace it, and the eastern wall, like most desperate constructions, was held together by arguments, profanity, and whatever the last beast had been kind enough to leave behind. I had no elegant answer yet, so I compensated with repetition. Skinning. Toolsmith. Again and again and again.

I stripped hides until my fingers cramped around the knives, shaped tendon braces until my wrists shook from the strain, hammered claw plates into trench supports, cut channels through cleaned rib bones for hauling rigs, rewrapped shield grips in layered stalker hide, rebalanced spear shafts with marsh scavenger tendon, and built reinforced gate braces from barkback shoulder plates and Ironbark pegs.

Every task fed both skills simultaneously now, and every task promised, falsely and cruelly, that the next one might be enough. Yet neither skill crossed the threshold, and that became maddening.

"You're overworking the cuts," Wade muttered on the fourth morning while watching me process another Iron stalker beside the trench fires.

"You keep trying to force the advancement." I looked up sharply.

"I'm working."

"You're grinding." The carpenter shrugged while adjusting a half-finished hauling frame nearby.

"Same thing most days. Not the same thing here." The words irritated me because they had the indecency to be true. Skinning had become cleaner over the past week. The ugly hesitations were gone now, and I separated hide from flesh almost automatically while identifying usable sections before the cuts finished. Toolsmith had sharpened in the same fashion. Structural weaknesses revealed themselves instantly, and the camp's ugly hybrid constructions increasingly survived impacts that should have shattered them.

But the system remained silent, and Copper felt close enough to touch, which made the waiting feel less like patience and more like insult. The patrol attacks continued between work rotations: three scavenger packs in two days, a barkback at the northern trench, and something larger moving through the Greywash forests at night without ever fully showing itself beyond the mist. Nobody said the word horde yet. Everyone thought it. The camp had begun to practise that kind of cowardice with great sophistication.

I worked through all of it. I processed carcasses after patrols while the others slept, reinforced trench braces after midnight, and spent dawn helping Wade reshape collapsed support frames from barkback bone and salvaged Iron fittings. The heat beneath my chest worsened too, not painfully, not exactly, but with the steady patience of banked coals beneath skin. By the seventh day, even Jory Pike noticed.

"You're steaming." I looked up from the skinning rack.

"What?" Jory pointed vaguely toward me.

"In the cold. You do that sometimes now." Wade glanced over immediately.

"Saints. He does." Thin trails of heat drifted faintly upward from my shoulders into the freezing rain while I worked, not enough to fog the whole air around me, but enough that winter no longer seemed willing to touch me properly. Bren Maddock noticed too, of course. The older guard noticed everything worth fearing and then offended everyone by saying nothing. Again, that frightened me more than questions. The breakthrough came during the collapse at the eastern hauling trench.

One of the Ironbark supply rigs snapped a wheel brace while crossing the muddy slope near the trench line, spilling half-cut timber and reinforcement stakes directly into the drainage channel below. Workers shouted while the overloaded frame twisted sideways under the weight, but I saw the failure before I saw the danger. Not the break itself. The tension path. The wheel had not failed because the axle weakened. The entire hauling structure distributed weight unevenly through the support frame.

Toolsmith showed me the flaw immediately while Skinning recognised exactly which tendon bindings could redistribute the force. I moved before thought could become debate.

"Lift the left side!" Nobody reacted quickly enough. I shoved one labourer aside, jammed a cleaned barkback rib through the collapsed wheel brace, then lashed three tendon loops across the axle while rain hammered through the trench around me. Mud swallowed my boots halfway to the ankle while the overloaded rig groaned dangerously overhead.

"Now!" The workers hauled upward together. The frame shifted, complained, and held. Something aligned violently inside me. The advancement struck like structural clarity forced directly into my skull. ABILITY ADVANCED Toolsmith has advanced from Iron (late) to Copper (early). You now better understand weight distribution, material tension, leverage, impact transfer, reinforcement stress, and emergency structural correction under field pressure.

Your repairs and improvised constructions can now reach Copper-level function when built from suitable materials with sufficient understanding of load, strain, and failure paths. Weight distribution sharpened instantly. Material tension, leverage, impact transfer, reinforcement stress, all of it settled deeper into instinct than before. The hauling rig suddenly looked primitive. Not wrong. Incomplete.

I stepped backward breathing hard while the labourers secured the recovered timber, and for one brief moment Copper sat inside me like a coin pressed warm into the palm. Finally. The heat beneath my chest surged, but Skinning remained behind, and that became unbearable. The next three days blurred together into repetitive exhaustion.

I processed every carcass I could reach: marsh scavengers, Iron stalkers, barkbacks, half-rotted kills dragged from the Greywash roads, anything with hide, tendon, bone, or usable structure. I stopped sleeping properly, though sleep had become so thin a thing in the eastern camp that refusing it seemed less like madness than efficiency with worse manners. Even Bren commented during one trench rotation.

"You look worse than before." I kept working.

"I'm fine."

"No," Bren said.

"You're progressing." That sounded too close to illness. The southern processing pits became almost meditative after enough repetition. Slice beneath the shoulder. Separate connective tissue. Preserve the hide grain. Follow tension lines. Strip tendon cleanly. Sort bone density. Stack usable material. Again. Again. Again. The work no longer felt ugly, and that frightened me slightly too. A man should be careful when revulsion becomes craft. It usually means the world has won an argument he never agreed to have.

By the time Merris arrived, I had been awake nearly twenty hours. The merchant caravan rolled through the eastern trench approach beneath grey afternoon rain while workers shouted warnings at the wagon drivers to avoid the half-collapsed drainage pits near the southern wall. Merris climbed down from the lead wagon already swearing.

"Your roads are actively trying to murder me." Wade answered without looking up from a brace joint.

"They're succeeding slowly." Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. The old merchant ignored him completely while hauling a cloth-wrapped package from beneath the wagon bench.

"For you." He shoved it directly into my hands, and warmth spread through the cloth immediately. Cherry pie. Real cherry pie. The smell alone nearly hurt: warm pastry, sweet cherries, actual butter instead of ration grease. After weeks of boiled meat, sour broth, smoke, mud, and beast blood, the sweetness seemed indecent, almost aristocratic, as though civilisation had arrived in a pastry crust and was embarrassed by the company. I stared at it blankly. Merris looked uncomfortable almost instantly.

"Bakery near the western quarter was still operating." I looked from the wrapped pie to him.

"You brought me pie." His mouth tightened.

"Don't make it emotional." Jory appeared beside us with supernatural timing.

"Can I become your adopted son too?" Merris did not look at him.

"No." Jory nodded once.

"Reasonable." I almost laughed despite the exhaustion grinding behind my eyes. Almost. Merris looked me over carefully while the workers unloaded supply crates nearby.

"You look terrible."

"That's becoming popular feedback." His gaze lingered briefly at my collar.

"You're sweating in winter." The merchant's eyes moved over the darkened veins visible near my throat before shifting away again. Awakened. The certainty struck harder this time. Merris moved too carefully around materials, watched structures too closely, assessed beast hide the way Bren assessed battlefields. The old trader knew more than he pretended. Perhaps not about Crimson Elves. Perhaps not about whatever burned under my skin. But he knew progression. He knew value.

He knew the look of a man standing too close to a threshold and mistaking the edge for a road. I wanted to ask directly. Instead I looked toward the southern processing racks. One more advancement. That was all I needed.

"Give me a bit," I said suddenly. Merris frowned.

"For what?" I did not answer. I was already moving toward the trench fires, and the others followed partly from confusion and partly because exhaustion had clearly pushed me into something bordering obsession over the past week. The Iron stalker carcass hanging beside the southern racks had been waiting for processing since dawn. Rainwater dripped steadily from pale hide while workers nearby glanced up nervously as I seized the skinning knives from the work table. Wade called cautiously, "Vey. Maybe eat first."

I shook my head.

"After."

"You've barely slept." I set the knife against the hide.

"After." The first cuts landed too hard, and I forced myself to slow immediately. Skinning required precision, not force. That lesson had nearly broken me weeks earlier, though apparently not enough to spare me learning it again. I breathed once while rain hammered softly against the canvas awning overhead, then began properly. The world narrowed to hide grain, tension lines, muscle separation, and preservation paths. The knife moved steadily beneath the skin while the camp faded into distant sound and movement.

Every previous carcass sat inside the work now. Every failed cut. Every salvaged tendon. Every hide ruined through impatience. The skill resisted force, so I stopped forcing. Something loosened immediately afterward. The cuts sharpened, not physically faster, but cleaner. The hide separated almost willingly beneath the blade while tendon bundles peeled free intact from the shoulder joints. Then the understanding settled fully. ABILITY ADVANCED Skinning has advanced from Iron (late) to Copper (early).

You now better understand hide grain, tendon preservation, carcass tension, usable cut paths, joint separation, and recovery of valuable material from dangerous beasts. Your harvesting work can now preserve Copper-level material value when using suitable tools, sufficient time, and controlled technique under field conditions. I closed my eyes immediately. The overlap hit harder this time.

Toolsmith and Skinning surged together violently inside me, no longer separate instincts but two halves of the same structure pressing against each other hard enough to blur. Bone. Hide. Tension. Recovery. Use. The concepts collided repeatedly inside my head while the system opened before me. Everyone nearby saw something happen. Wade swore softly first. Bren moved closer immediately. Merris said nothing at all. ELIGIBLE MERGE DETECTED Toolsmith: Copper (early). Skinning: Copper (early).

Shared nature identified: material recovery, carcass use, survival fabrication, field reinforcement. Merge available. I could feel the merge wanting to happen. Not offering. Pulling. Like two hooked chains dragging toward each other beneath my ribs. Bren crouched beside me near the trench fires.

"Easy," he said quietly. I barely heard him. The overlap widened further. Toolsmith no longer felt entirely separate from Skinning. The instincts already touched constantly during work. Hide became structure. Bone became tools. Tendon became engineering. The merge made sense, and sense, I was beginning to learn, was sometimes merely danger wearing a better coat. Bren's voice sharpened.

"Don't force it." I swallowed.

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are." My breathing had quickened without me noticing. The system remained open, waiting. Merris finally approached through the rain while holding the untouched cherry pie beneath one arm.

"Listen to him." I looked up sharply. The old merchant's expression remained calm. Too calm.

"You've merged before," I said. Merris barked a dry laugh.

"Everyone who survives long enough merges eventually." That was not an answer. Wade folded his arms nearby.

"What happens if he forces it?"

"Best case?" Merris shrugged.

"The merge stabilises ugly." Wade's expression darkened.

"And worst?" The old merchant looked directly at me.

"You lose both skills and gain something useless enough to follow you for ten years." Silence settled heavily beneath the trench awning. Jory swallowed audibly somewhere behind them. I looked back toward the carcass hanging from the processing rack. Toolsmith and Skinning represented weeks of blood, exhaustion, labour, and survival. Losing them terrified me more now that the merge stood directly in front of me. Yet the overlap already existed.

I had been using it for days, and there was a strange cowardice in refusing a door simply because it had teeth around the frame. Bren's voice lowered slightly.

"Don't merge because you're tired. Merge because the path actually fits." I stared at the blood-covered knife in my hand. The heat beneath my chest pulsed steadily. The merge waited. Finally, slowly, I accepted. ABILITY MERGE ACCEPTED Toolsmith and Skinning have begun merging. Compatibility basis: beast material recovery, field construction, reinforced survival craft, hide, bone, claw, horn, and tendon use.

The pain arrived immediately, not physical exactly, though my hands clenched hard enough that the blade bit through skin. It felt like memories being torn apart and rewoven into different shapes: tool grips, bone channels, tendon anchors, structural pressure, hide tension, carcass processing, reinforcement paths. Separate instincts collided violently, then vanished. For one terrible heartbeat, nothing remained. I nearly collapsed forward. Wade caught my shoulder first.

"Easy." The emptiness frightened me more than the pain. Toolsmith was gone. Skinning was gone. Familiar instincts simply disappeared, leaving hollow space where reliable understanding used to sit. Then something new settled into the gap. Lower. Much lower. The reset hit like humiliation. I exhaled sharply while the new skill spread through me rough and incomplete. Yet beneath the weakness sat breadth. Bone. Hide. Tendon. Claw. Horn. Not tools exactly. Not skinning exactly.

The useful remains of beasts and how to turn them into survival. MERGE COMPLETE Toolsmith has been consumed. Skinning has been consumed. Beastcraft has awakened at Iron (early). This evolved ability begins below its source abilities but carries a broader path: recovering, shaping, reinforcing, and crafting survival materials from beasts. Merris watched me carefully.

"Well?" I flexed trembling fingers.

"It worked." Jory leaned forward immediately.

"What'd it become?" I hesitated.

"Beastcraft." Wade scratched his beard slowly.

"Could be worse." Jory nodded after a moment.

"Could definitely sound better." Bren ignored them both while studying my face.

"Grade?" I looked away.

"Iron (early)." The silence afterward landed heavily beneath the trench awning. Even Jory stopped joking. Finally Merris nodded once.

"Good." Everyone looked at him. The old merchant shrugged slightly.

"Strong roads reset hard." Then he nodded toward the processed hides, tendon bundles, claw plates, and reinforced fittings stacked under the canvas.

"And I'll give you six copper for that pile before you decide to turn it into philosophy." I stared at him. Merris sighed.

"Six if you eat the pie first." Jory pointed immediately.

"That is negotiation under duress." Merris replied without hesitation.

"That is parenting." I looked down at the wrapped pie still warm beneath the cloth, then at the blood on my hands, then at the skill sitting inside me like a rough new tool made from the ruins of two better ones. Iron (early). It should have felt like a loss. It did feel like a loss. Yet somewhere beneath the embarrassment, beneath the fatigue and heat and watched silence around me, Beastcraft waited with a kind of ugly patience. A beginning again. Not failure. Reset. I took the pie.

The first bite tasted almost painfully sweet. Merris counted the coins while pretending not to notice. PAYMENT RECEIVED You received 6 copper pieces for processed beast hides, tendon bundles, claw plates, bone supports, reinforced fittings, and field-ready materials. Current Coin: 9 copper and 70 iron pieces. ``