Chapter 39

  Get Bucked

  Ken left the crags with wind in his teeth and hunger in his gut.

  First mission: meat.

  Second mission: a base that didn’t suck.

  He flew low through the trees, chi on low idle, saving the good stuff.

  North-west, away from goblin stink.

  The forest changed—trees got old and huge, underbrush thinned, shadows thick.

  The perfect hunting ground for…

  Tracks. Big, deep, fresh.

  Ken actually teared up.

  He ghosted forward, belly empty, focus razor sharp.

  The buck stood in a clearing like a king: rack wide enough to hang curtains, body radiating fat, clean chi.

  One-shot kill or nothing.

  Ken built speed in waves, Core humming happily.

  At thirty percent charge, his fortified structure ate the strain like candy.

  He became a missile, flying feet first.

  Steel toes crushed its neck bone.

  CRACK.

  The buck dropped without a sound, legs folding.

  Ken stood over four hundred pounds of instant pantry, heart hammering.

  “That..will..do.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Gasping, he knelt and pulled.

  A thick river of vitality slammed into his pathways.

  It stretched.

  It strained.

  Hot rebar got jammed in his channels then healed there.

  Ken laughed through a clenched jaw.

  “Gonna get my channels absolutely jacked, bro.”

  He took one step.

  Riiiip.

  Cool breeze on bare leg.

  Antler had sliced his pants from mid-thigh to ankle.

  Ken stared at the flapping fabric.

  A moment of respectful silence.

  “SONOFABITCH!”

  Vines became emergency pants glue.

  He dragged the carcass deeper into shadowed cover.

  “Now, I need a castle for my kingdom..”

  He climbed the rocky terrain, and eventually, found it.

  A small cave on a small mountaintop, overlooking a vast stretch of open woods, clear spring pooling below like nature was apologizing.

  “High ground, water, sight lines.

  He breathed deep and grinned.

  “Mine.”

  Confidence tasted better than food.

  “My rule will be short and violent.”

  Then came the hard part: turning a buck into groceries.

  He hacked a fat loin off the spine with a sharp chunk of granite, built a smokehouse out of pine boughs, and cheated fire into existence: two sticks, a trickle of Momentum Chi.

  Spindle spinning like a jet engine.

  The wood burst into flame.

  “Oh shit, almost burned my eyebrows.”

  “Fire magic, bitch. Suck it, Dan.”

  He seared the loin on a hot rock and inhaled it like he just kicked a buck to death.

  The chi hit his system like no beer ever could.

  He hung the rest in the smokehouse, built a low, slow fire, and patted the belly that was finally shutting up.

  Ken stared at the sunset, blood on his hands, smoke in his nose.

  Air on his thigh.

  Hours of butchering ahead.

  It didn’t matter.

  He had meat.

  He had a fortress.

  He had a Core that refilled itself.

  “Perfect.”