Deep in the Great White Forest, Emmet pushed through a thicket of thorns, his "silk-sack" clanking with the weight of raw salt crystals he had harvested from a mineral lake two days prior. While the salt was a major win for food preservation and flavor, his mind was elsewhere.
"Iron, copper, tin... heck, I'd settle for a vein of poor-quality bronze right now," Emmet muttered to himself, his silver eyes scanning every exposed rock face.
"If I could just get a bloomery going, I could forge real saws, chisels, and planers. The interlocking joints on the house are fine, but with a few iron bolts and a proper adze? I could build a palace. All I have is this dagger found on one of the cultists."
He paused to adjust his gear, his enhanced strength making the trek feel more like a light stroll than a survival mission.
"I still need fats and lye for the soap. If I find some limestone and some fatty animal tracks, Oliver won't have to smell like 'damp forest' for much longer."
After a few more hours of navigating the dense, white-barked trees, the oppressive silence of the woods was broken by the sight of a clearing. Emmet crouched low, his new found instincts heightening his senses.
Ahead lay a camp. It consisted of three tattered tents and a central fire pit that had long since gone cold. Wooden crates were overturned, and a discarded bedroll lay rotting in the mud. There were no bodies, but the air felt heavy with the sense of a hurried departure.
"Well now," Emmet whispered, a smirk playing on his lips as he approached a crate. "Let's see if anyone left behind something more useful than a thank-you note."
Emmet's eyes lit up as he sifted through the abandoned site. Along with the rusted cooking pot and the barrel of tallow, he uncovered a stash of aromatic perfume oils and various dried herbs. "Jackpot," he whispered. "Oliver is going to think I robbed a luxury bathhouse."
Before he could start his "chemistry experiment," Emmet needed the right environment. He scouted the area near a small creek and located a bank of heavy grey clay. Using his enhanced strength, he dug out several hundred pounds of the stuff and hauled it back to his temporary camp.
He spent the afternoon gathering dry hardwood—oak and hickory—for a high-heat fire. He constructed a crude but effective clay furnace, reinforcing the walls with stone to trap as much heat as possible.
He broke down the old rusted knives and pitted pots into smaller chunks. He placed the scrap into a thick clay crucible he had fashioned, layering it with charcoal he found in the camp.
As the furnace reached a roaring orange glow, the iron finally liquefied. Emmet carefully skimmed the slag off the top using a green wood stick, leaving behind a glowing pool of workable metal.
He had already prepared two clay molds in the shape of deep, heavy-duty pots. He poured the molten iron with a steady hand. Once cooled and the clay was smashed away, he was left with two brand-new, unpitted iron cauldrons.
With his new tools ready, Emmet turned his attention to the final ingredient: fresh fat. He spent hours tracking a Great Forest Boar, a creature the size of a pony with thick layers of fat. Using his *Fist Sentinel*power, he cornered the beast; a single, reinforced punch ended the hunt instantly.
"Talk about a knockout." He said grinning ear to ear.
Back at his workstation, the real "magic" began. He burned specific shrubs and hardwood to create white ash, which he soaked in water to leach out a potent lye solution. He used one of his new iron pots to render the boar fat and the scavenged animal tallow into a pure, clean oil. He carefully mixed the lye with the oils in his second iron pot, stirring constantly as the mixture thickened. Just before it hardened, he swirled in the perfume oils and the crushed herbs he had found at the camp.
By the time he was finished, Emmet had produced several dozen bars of High-Quality Sweet Soap. It wasn't just basic lye soap; it was creamy, smelled of lavender and forest blossoms, and was far better than anything the duo had seen since leaving Earth.
"Alright," Emmet grinned, packing the hardened bars into a silk-lined crate. "Time to head home. I've got a bathhouse to officially open".
Emmet paused a few feet away from his campsite, the weight of the salt and refined iron resting easily on his shoulders thanks to his enhanced strength.
"I'll cook something first," he decided, the thought of a warm meal after four days of hard labor too tempting to pass up.
He sat by his makeshift kiln, the lingering aroma of rendering boar fat and fresh soap bars mixing with the damp forest air. As the sun dipped below the canopy of the Great White Forest, he foraged for wild leeks, garlic-root, and aromatic herbs to season the fresh meat from his hunt. He prepared a deep, savory meat soup in one of his newly forged iron pots, the steam cutting through the oppressive quiet.
The smell didn't just linger; it traveled.
"That smells far too good to be the work of a scavenger," a melodious but sharp voice echoed from the shadows.
Emmet didn't flinch. His Fist Sentinel instincts had already detected the rhythmic heartbeat of someone approaching. Out of the brush stepped a woman who made Emmet's heart skip a beat. She was exactly his type: striking dark features, foxlike ears twitching atop her head, and a long, dark tail that flicked with curiosity. She carried a massive katana that dwarfed her frame, yet she held herself with the effortless poise of a Master swordswoman.
"If you're looking for a meal, there's plenty in the pot," Emmet said, flashing his usual fearless, cheerful grin. "I'm Emmet. And you are?"
She eyed him warily, her red eyes taking in his white hair and silver eyes—the same features that had terrified the demon Violet.
"I am Shiori Takahashi," she replied, her voice softening as the scent of the herbs hit her. "A wanderer of the deep forest. You have a strange aura, Emmet. You look like a demon royal, yet you smell of fresh soap and iron."
"It's a long story involving a lot of manual labor," Emmet laughed, gesturing for her to sit.
Shiori hesitated for only a second before sheathing her blade and sitting across from him, kneeling in the traditional Eastern style. As she took her first sip of the soup, her eyes widened.
"This is incredible! How did you get these flavors out of forest weeds?"
"Experience," Emmet said, leaning back. "And a very good pot."
As they ate, the tension melted away. Shiori shared stories of the shifting territories of the Four Great Kings, while Emmet listened intently, his mind already calculating the trade value of his soap.
"You're a strange one," Shiori remarked, looking at the stack of soap bars. "Most people here are screaming for their lives or trying to kill me. You're just... making soup."
"Life's too short to be stressed," Emmet replied, winking. "Besides, I've got a hot spring and a new house waiting for me. You should come by sometime—I think you'd appreciate a good soak."
Shiori looked at him with confusion.
"Are you not... appalled by my appearance?"
"No, why would I be?"
"Humans usually feel disgusted by my skin and features because they are dark and because I am a fox-kin, they think it brings bad luck" she admitted quietly.
Emmet let out a soft chuckle, trying not to sound creepy. "Honestly, you're exactly my type. Back on Earth, everyone is human, so this is quite the refresher." He shook his head and sighed. "Humans back home don't have tails or long ears, horns or anything. Just the same old thing, you know?"
Shiori stared at him intensely for several seconds. Then, her voice turning cautious, she asked, "You aren't from this world, are you?"
"No? Is that a pr—"
Before Emmet could finish, Shiori crawled over to him, stopping inches from his face. "Are you a Hero?"
"Yes,"? he said, pulling back slightly in surprise.
"What is your Hero ability called?" she asked, inching closer.
"It's called Fist Sentinel."
Her voice filled with excitement. "Really? You're exactly what I was looking for!"
"I am?... Wait, what are you looking for exactly?"
"The Goddess sent my clan a message to keep an eye on you so you don't end up in the wrong hands," Shiori explained, her expression turning serious. "Since you were summoned by the cultists instead of the Holy Order, you don't know this, but the power you possess was never meant for a human. The fact that you are still standing and sentient is both surprising and troubling."
"Why is it troubling?" Emmet asked, his face showing genuine worry for the first time. "Does this mean I can't use my strength to build things anymore?"
"No, you can still use your strength," she said, leaning back. "But the soul of the First Sentinel resides within you. He was a legendary warrior from the dark times who fought alongside the Heroes and the Nation of Fall. When they betrayed him out of greed, he started a holy war that nearly destroyed the nations. The Goddess sealed him away, but it seems that death cannot hold him. If you die or are pushed to the brink of death, he will most likely take over your body to seek revenge."
"So as long as I don't transform, I'm good?" Emmet asked.
"Precisely," she replied.
"Well, that's not something I need to worry about since I don't even know how to use the ability," Emmet said, standing up. "Regardless, we need to get back to base. If everyone knows about the summoning, it's only a matter of time before more people show up to kill us, and we are trapped in here with the Kings."
Gathering his iron pots, salt, and soap, Emmet and Shiori set off through the Great White Forest to reach the house as fast as they could.