Simon found that his memory had also worsened.
So he simply added a memo to his log.
[Miscellaneous]: Purchase some supplies [Miscellaneous]: Check on studies
After writing these down, a sense of frustration suddenly welled up in his heart. Was he getting old?
Compared to the feeling of being a dominant figure in the Taiwu World and controlling the universe back then, his current situation was indeed not great, but he was actually a person who was easily satisfied and wouldn't dwell on past glories.
That's not right, I'm still a child right now… Simon looked at himself on the ice, a weathered, mature Troll face—actually a bit rosy, with rich, dense blood vessels under the rough skin, soft if you rubbed it hard enough.
He had grown quite a bit recently, almost an inch, which was considerable, another childhood filled with growth hormones…
Tomorrow he was due to go to Winterhold. Simon had planned to clear out the entire ruin today, but then he had a sudden idea to hunt for some food and set up a tanning rack to prepare some leather for use.
The Wolf Pack Resting Place had many hides stockpiled. Walrus hide was good for making clothes, and bear hide could be used for bedding and cloaks. He would also make a pair of fur shoes, as the ones he was wearing had been punctured by his toenails.
Also, the leather waterskin he made last time was of such poor quality that he was drinking bad water. Simon decided to endure it for a while because the good, non-smelly waterskin was left for Jonas. He could only make do. In a few days, Simon planned to make a waterskin out of copper and iron.
Upon closer inspection, life was actually far from comfortable and pleasant; household chores were always very heavy.
Simon decided to go to the forest in the western foothills to see if there were any fresh prey.
Leading the Wolf Pack for a few miles, the smell of herbivore droppings came on the wind, seemingly a herd of large deer.
Although Simon's surname meant deer and he liked deer, he wouldn't show any special mercy when it came time to kill them. He immediately rushed excitedly in the direction the wind was blowing.
He burst into the forest.
The scent suddenly vanished.
The Wolf Pack became alert, letting out low growls.
Humans were hidden in the shade of the forest. The Troll remained calm, shrinking himself under his robe, his great axe on his back gently tapping his spine with each step, a soft thudding sound spreading.
The ground was covered with a thick layer of pine needles, which felt soft and comfortable to walk on, especially since Simon was barefoot, and the needles gently pricked his thick soles, creating a dense, pressing sensation.
Trolls have excellent eyesight, not only clear depth perception but also superior night vision. These strangers were not stealth experts like Kalia, so their presence was naturally detected. Through the thin forest mist, he glimpsed them still moving slowly, clustered together, wearing leather armor and carrying bows and arrows, appearing to be a group of hunters.
The Wolf Pack slowly dispersed. Simon stood directly in the hunters' path, turning his back, grabbing his axe, and pretending to chop wood.
The dull thudding echoed in the crisp, cold early spring air, stirring up the milky white mist, and the shadows of things twisted in the undulating vapor.
Simon swung his axe low, careful not to expose his claws. He turned his head slightly and saw, deep in the woods to his left, a tall, long-horned monster among the dark tree shapes.
He blinked, and that strange, bizarre shadow vanished into thin air, like a dreamlike silhouette, but a strong sense of destiny suddenly assailed his heart—the hunt!
The Troll's eyes drooped slightly. The Dark Elf said that lycanthropy was a blessing, but even more so a curse.
As a creation of Hircine, one should fight to the fullest in the arena he designated—no, it was a slaughter. Unequal opponents were much more interesting to watch. If it became a long, drawn-out battle, the Daedric Prince would lose interest!
Those hunters, ignorant and fearless, do you think your opponent is a newly transformed lycanthrope?
"Hey! Friend! Have you seen any Trolls nearby?" a rough Nordic voice called out.
Simon didn't answer. Another hunter repeated the question in imperial language. This time, he reacted, stopping his axe and turning his head slightly, but his gaze remained completely hidden within his hood. He said in a rough voice, "Trolls? There are many in the caves by the sea. Those who want to die can go there."
"Oh! That place is famous, but it's not our target for now." The hunter speaking laughed heartily. "Are you chopping wood alone here?"
"Alone?" Simon hesitated.
"Hmm?" The hunters scrutinized the Troll's back, just a short fellow.
"I am one person, you are six people."
"Don't worry, we are legitimate hunters…"
Awooo—!
Wolf howls came from all directions, mournful like a chilling wind.
A young hunter shrieked in panic—like the sharp cry of a startled bird—and before he could finish speaking, a massive axe blade flew, smashing through his leather armor, brutally splitting his breastbone, tearing his waist. Half of him flew backward, while the other half remained standing on the ground.
The Troll drew two longswords from his waist and began to wield them wildly with a sinister grin.
The hunters thought they had formed a encirclement, but who did they think their opponent was?
"Troll!!!"
"Run!"
A rain of human heads fell in the jungle. The Wolf Pack surged in and began to devour the bodies, another feast.
Simon retrieved his great axe and tallied his gains: ten gold coins—one of which was chipped, twenty silver coins—more of which were chipped, and a small pouch of copper coins. Six crude wooden bows, six bags of simple iron arrows, and six sets of tattered armor.
Deep in the forest mist, someone let out a satisfied sigh.
Simon heard the sound coming from behind him, but he didn't turn back. He packed up the supplies and left.
The scent of deer he had smelled earlier was just bait, the Daedric Prince's bait.
The hunters should have had their own camp. Simon followed the scent and soon found two brown-yellow fur tents at the foot of the mountain. The campfire was still burning, and a Breton man sat by the fire warming himself. Snoring came from the tent on the west side.
The Troll charged, making an astonishing display of power. The Breton man by the fire dropped his iron sword and tried to flee in a panic, only to have his head lopped off with an axe. An Imperial in the tent, though awakened, was still groggy. Simon split his chest and abdomen open with an axe, blood gushing out, and he died shortly after.
Simon continued to tally his gains.
Six gold coins, twenty silver coins, no copper coins, five leisure books, two tents, eight beds of bedding, and various cooking utensils and some ingredients, which were just what he needed. Two sets of weapons and armor, which were passable.
The Wolf Pack was still feeding in the forest. Simon briefly buried the bodies of these two men.
I don't regret killing you, but I apologize for my momentary pleasure.
Goodbye, my vanquished foes.
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