Chapter Four: Danger in the Blood Pine Forest
Five days later.
The two of them took the train to the edge of the Blood Pine Forest.
The Blood Pine Forest is rich in blood pines, which are quite profitable, but it has recently been plagued by green-skinned beasts that occasionally rush out of the forest to slaughter lumberjacks who haven’t managed to escape. Behind the safety of the city walls, unemployed lumberjacks numb their nerves with alcohol.
Upon hearing that the two were heading to the Blood Pine Forest, everyone shook their heads. Someone muttered, “Another couple of fools going to their deaths.”
Another person complained, “The capital is so close to the Blood Pine Forest! Why hasn’t the current emperor dispatched troops to exterminate them? I heard during the time of Calveranz, the emperor was diligent, waging wars east and west, winning every day; there wasn’t a single monster in the forest.”
“I almost thought the empire was very peaceful before,” Jima said. “The forest was full of harmless little creatures, and they even offered you fruit.”
George had just finished speaking with a merchant when he walked over, wearing ill-fitting chainmail that clinked with his movements. He patted Jima’s shoulder and said, “I just got a mission, and we can set off now.”
Jima looked him up and down; he wore only a simple helmet that barely covered his skull, made with two iron strips holding together four curved pieces of cast iron, with no nose guard.
“Your gear has a very high cost-performance ratio.”
“I sense you’re saying something else.”
“Low emotional intelligence, but your gear really is pathetic.” Jima grabbed his hand and said, “Come on, let me buy you some equipment to dress you up.”
After leaving the noisy tavern filled with the smell of alcohol, George lowered his voice: “I bought this low-tier equipment just to minimize trouble.”
“Trouble? Where’s the trouble coming from?”
George said, “You killed six thugs yesterday while I wasn’t there.”
“Who told them to chase us and whistle?” Jima replied. “The first time you warned them, they left after throwing threats; that was great mercy, but they still had to come back to die.”
“You didn’t have to kill them; even if you did, you didn’t have to be so cruel.”
“I just transformed them into frogs, and eroded one into a mutant,” Jima said. “Then the villagers burned the mutants; that doesn’t seem like it’s my problem.”
George said, “Now that we have plenty of time, I’ll try to change your temperament little by little.”
“Be my guest,” Jima said. “Who knows, you might be changed little by little by me, hypocrite.”
“Demon.”
“Ding ding dang dang!”
The sound of hammering came from a nearby blacksmith shop, where a blacksmith was trying to tame a glowing red iron piece with a hammer.
Jima pulled George into the blacksmith shop, where there was an apprentice. Although only Jima’s eyes were visible, he inexplicably felt fond of her, and his grim, sharp face relaxed.
“Hello, do you need to buy something?”
Jima glanced around; behind the apprentice were many helmets hanging on a wooden board, including bucket helmets, small helmets, and half-finished Charles helmets. The highest was a recessed warrior helmet with a face guard, looking like something a knight could equip.
“Look at this tall guy; he must need a good helmet.”
“I’ll buy this one.”
Jima pointed to a half-rusted helmet on the counter, similar to George’s but with an “eyeglass frame.” The edges were surrounded by a chainmail ring. “Get the rust off, and I also want to buy a two-handed axe, the kind that can kill.”
“Sure thing, ma’am.”
The apprentice responsible for sales handed the half-rusted helmet to another apprentice to remove the rust. He looked at Jima and said, “Ma’am, I see you’re holding a poleaxe; do you need to buy some armor? I recommend a sleeveless chainmail that can fit under your robe.”
“No need,” Jima said. “As a frail spellcaster, armor would nullify my magic.”
The apprentice almost jumped up: “Are you a mage?”
“No,” Jima said. “I’m just an extraordinary person with some magical tricks.”
The apprentice sighed with relief: “I see. Are you heading to the Blood Pine Forest?”
Jima disliked this kind of census-like inquiry; they were just passersby. She said, “What’s your monthly income? How many people are in your family? How much do you eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? What shoe size do you wear? How far can you run in one breath? Is your mother young? Is she pretty? Do you have sisters?”
The barrage of questions left the apprentice stunned: “Uh? That doesn’t concern you, right?”
“Right, it’s none of your business.” The other person became very embarrassed.
George stepped forward and said, “Sorry, my companion hasn’t been good at interacting with strangers.”
Jima added, “Especially those who like to say ‘sorry’ to strangers.”
George changed the topic: “Yes, we intend to go to the Blood Pine Forest.”
“In that case, you should spend money to hire a whole team to set off.”
The blacksmith straightened up and patted his lower back, showing he had a ring of white beard, with some parts singed away. “Last week, an entire patrol team died out there.”
“Thank you for your concern,” George said. “But we have a plan and confidence.”
“Suit yourself; today’s youth seem more and more eager to court death.” The old blacksmith said, “I was born ten years after the Doomsday War; it was a mess back then. I’ve made it to today not just by luck.”
Jima said, “That’s quite impressive.”
The iron-gray hammer propped on the table had its rust worn off, but the chainmail was still rusty, and there was a two-handed battle axe, its blade roughly the size of a fist, with a backward hook at the back.
Twenty gold coins.
The apprentice pointed at the helmet on George’s head: “We’ll buy this helmet back at half price.”
“Quite a scam.”
“Ma’am, you could go find a second blacksmith shop.”
There indeed was a second blacksmith shop, working on farming tools.
“George, can you give me the helmet?” Jima said. “As a weak woman, I think I need some protection.”
“Can you even wear it?”
The others instinctively glanced at Jima’s head; it wasn’t very big.
Jima took the helmet and asked, “Do you think I can wear it?”
“Of course.”
“I think so too.”
Saying this, Jima put the simple helmet on her head. She paid for it, placed it on George’s head, then handed him the axe, saying, “Strike this pose.”
George followed Jima’s pose, holding the axe with both hands across his body and asked, “Like this?”
“Exactly. Now say this to me.” Jima used a deep, masculine voice and said, “I will make your skull into a bowl!”
“I will make your skull into a bowl.”
Jima clapped her hands and laughed, “Haha, now it has that flair!”
Everyone looked at Jima with the eyes of someone observing a mental patient, while Jima treated them like air.
“Come on, say it again.”
George felt a bit embarrassed but still said, “I will make your skull into a bowl!”
Jima laughed again: “Haha, yes, that’s it.”
She was not the least bit embarrassed, but everyone else felt awkward, and the apprentice couldn’t help but ask, “What are you two doing?”
“That’s a pre-battle ritual.” Even though only Jima’s eyes were visible, everyone could feel her seriousness: “It’s very useful.”
With that, she walked out of the blacksmith shop with George.
The blacksmith watched their figures extend in the sunset, reminiscing, “Look at them; they make me feel a lot younger.”
“What an interesting girlfriend; I wish my girlfriend were that interesting.”
“You definitely don’t want your girlfriend to hear that.”
The blacksmith said, “I hope they make it back alive; too many have died already.”
