Thomas scanned the chaos around him, spotting a group of rambunctious cubs darting through the camp. He called out hurriedly, “Dante! Whatever you do, don’t stand directly behind them! If you do, you’ll get an unexpected... shower. Be patient and stay efficient!”
Without waiting for a reply, Thomas dashed off toward the runaway cubs, vanishing into the pandemonium of the camp.
Dante sighed heavily. While he knew this task was entirely his responsibility, facing a herd of intimidating, massive Blazing Ember Iron Bears alone wasn’t exactly comforting. Adding to his unease was the Armed Sentinel Captain’s cold, unrelenting gaze watching him from the distance. He couldn’t decide if its presence was reassuring or unsettling.
It didn’t take long for the Ember Iron Bears to notice Dante. One by one, their smoldering, fiery eyes turned toward him, curiosity flickering within.
A younger bear, though still towering over Dante at over four meters tall, lumbered forward to investigate. Its hulking form loomed over him as it sniffed the air with its coal-black nose, inching closer until Dante could feel the searing heat emanating from the creature’s every breath. Sweat poured down his back, soaking through his clothes in mere seconds.
The young bear stared at Dante with its glowing, ember-like eyes, filled with curiosity. Then, without warning, it extended a massive paw and pressed Dante flat against the dirt.
Dante froze, his heart pounding. He didn’t dare resist, letting the bear shove him around like a toy. The beast nudged him repeatedly, flipping him over several times as though playing with a particularly boring object.
Internally, Dante was cursing every deity he could think of, but outwardly, he remained still and submissive. He wasn’t about to risk angering the bear’s parents. He remembered Leon’s advice: as long as you don’t provoke the beasts, they won’t attack you—usually.
After a few minutes of this rough play, the bear seemed to lose interest and lumbered back to its family. Dante exhaled shakily, wiping the sweat from his brow. At least now he had passed the bears’ initial test of trust, or so he hoped. He could finally start working. This was precisely what Leon had drilled into him the previous night.
Two male Ember Iron Bears suddenly began fighting, just fifteen meters to Dante’s right. Their terrifying roars and earth-shaking blows made his heart race as adrenaline coursed through his veins. He whipped his head around just in time to see them ignite, their bodies engulfed in blazing red flames, turning them into monstrous infernos locked in a brutal battle.
Their massive, iron-ball tails, now searing hot and glowing a molten red, whipped back and forth with devastating force. Each strike sent fiery shockwaves rippling through the air. The deafening noise and sheer spectacle of their fight caused a ripple of panic among nearby beasts, scattering smaller creatures in all directions. Dante, standing far too close for comfort.
Thankfully, the chaos didn’t last long. Their alpha, Tysonte the Relentless, thundered onto the scene. Towering a full half-size larger than the warring males, his sheer presence was enough to make even these blazing behemoths flinch. With a thunderous roar that reverberated through the ground, Tysonte silenced the combatants.
The two males immediately ceased their brawl, retreating with heads bowed in submission. Their tails, which moments ago had been deadly weapons, now drooped meekly as they slinked away. Tysonte scanned the area with piercing, ember-like eyes, ensuring order was restored before lumbering back to his personal territory. There, he resumed munching on an enormous pile of food provided by the Beastkeepers—a spread so lavish it looked more like a royal feast than standard rations.
Dante exhaled shakily, his scalp tingling with unease. He knew his task for the day—to collect at least five tons of excrement—would be impossible without Tysonte. The beast alone could produce mountains of dung, possibly exceeding his entire quota in one sitting. That made Tysonte both Dante’s biggest problem and his best shot at survival.
Gritting his teeth, Dante steeled himself and cautiously approached Tysonte’s domain. The alpha’s territory was starkly distinct, an area where no other Ember Iron Bears dared to tread. Tysonte lounged amidst his hoard of oversized fruit, some pieces so massive they dwarfed Dante’s small cabin back at the camp. Each bite Tysonte took echoed like distant thunder, the juices dripping from his massive maw pooling like miniature ponds at his feet.
“Well,” Dante muttered to himself, gripping his bucket and shovel tightly, “if I die shoveling shit, at least they’ll have something poetic to write on my tombstone.”
Almost as soon as Dante stepped into Tysonte’s territory, the massive alpha turned its head to give him a single, deliberate glance. The look carried a weight of disdain, as if Tysonte were appraising Dante and finding him thoroughly unimpressive. Then, as if bored by his presence, Tysonte turned back to his feast, gnawing on his gargantuan fruit with the air of a monarch dismissing a lowly servant.
Dante felt a flicker of irritation at the judgmental stare but quickly let it go. At least Tysonte hadn’t deemed him a threat—or worse, prey. The bear’s apparent acceptance of him as a “shit-shoveler” was a small victory. Still, he didn’t let his guard down. Beasts were beasts, primal and unpredictable, not to be treated like domesticated animals or pets.
Resigning himself to his fate, Dante settled down at a safe distance, prepared to wait while Tysonte digested its massive meal. He didn’t have to wait long. Tysonte abruptly raised its enormous butt while still chewing on its colossal fruit. Without warning, it unleashed a deafening, hurricane-force fart.
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The sheer force of the blast sent Dante tumbling backward, rolling like a tumbleweed until he managed to stabilize himself. As he stood and turned, his expression twisted from confusion to horror. A steaming, crimson mass of semi-liquid matter was flying toward him like a molten avalanche.
Before he could even utter a single curse, the torrent of scalding dung engulfed him entirely.
For a long moment, all was silent. Then, with a wet squelch, Dante clawed his way out of the steaming mountain of excrement. His entire body was encased in the sticky, foul-smelling mess, glistening under the dim light like some grotesque statue of misery. He stood still, motionless, as if his mind were struggling to process the sheer absurdity of what had just happened.
Finally, with a slow, deliberate movement, he wiped the muck from his face. His eyes, glistening with what might have been tears or sweat—no one could tell—stared blankly ahead. He let out a long, defeated sigh, the sound of a man who had given up on questioning the universe.
After a brief pause to collect himself, Dante wordlessly began sifting through the mountain of dung. He retrieved his now-battered shovel and dented bucket, and, with an eerie calm, got to work collecting Tysonte’s droppings.
Dante wasn’t the kind of person who flinched at filth or hardship. Three centuries of imprisonment had ground his inner self into something smooth and resilient, like a polished stone. He’d learned to adapt to almost any challenge, not out of joy or pride, but out of the primal instinct to survive.
Just as he had in the prison, Dante threw himself into his work. His mind was a blank slate, focused solely on gathering as much feces as possible, no matter how disgusting or revolting his current state was. He moved with precision, scooping and shoveling without a single complaint.
But life, as always, was uncooperative. Within minutes, his shovel snapped in half with a loud crack. Dante let out a sigh, wiped the sweat from his brow, and did what any desperate man would do: he used his bare hands. Time was critical—the potent magical properties of the feces would degrade rapidly if not collected in buckets right away.
Despite his efforts, Dante was only human. After about ten minutes of frantic scooping, the once-steaming dung began to harden, losing its faint, otherworldly glow. It was now just ordinary, stinking crap. He’d barely managed to collect a tenth of the fresh excrement—roughly a hundred kilograms. At this rate, Dante calculated he might collect one ton by the end of the day.
That wasn’t nearly enough.
Frustration wrinkled his brow as he thought hard about a solution. An idea came to him—bold, reckless, and utterly humiliating. He glanced around the chaotic field and spotted a few empty iron buckets scattered about. Likely discarded in the confusion by the apprentices.
Grabbing two additional buckets, each capable of holding three tons of dung when full, Dante did a quick inventory: with these plus the one he was already using, he had enough capacity to make his next plan work.
Steeling his resolve, Dante picked up a bucket, took a deep breath, and approached Tysonte’s colossal butt. He moved carefully, mindful of the warnings from Thomas.
Just as predicted, Tysonte, true to its title and raised its enormous backside again. This time, Dante was ready. With an iron bucket held firmly in front of his face, he braced for what was to come.
Once again, the thunderous fart brought an overwhelming shockwave. Dante braced himself, holding his breath, fully prepared this time. As the gale-force blast of excrement followed, he planted himself firmly on one knee, gritting his teeth as he endured the deluge. The sheer force nearly toppled him, but he refused to give in. However, it didn’t take long for him to realize that the iron bucket in his hands was far too small to contain the flood of fecal matter. Frustrated yet determined, an idea sparked in his mind—he would summon the Infinite Fragment once more.
This time, it responded almost instantly, as though it had been waiting for his call. Deep within his soul, the fragment resonated with his intent. At his command, the iron bucket in his hands began to grow, expanding rapidly until it dwarfed him. In mere seconds, the once-simple bucket had transformed into a massive vat.
Minutes later, Tysonte finally ceased its volcanic release. The immense torrent of waste slowed to a merciful halt. Dante exhaled deeply, wiping the sweat—or was it something else?—from his brow. As the bucket in his hands shrank back to its original size, he couldn’t resist peeking inside. The faintly glowing runes lining the bucket’s interior flickered with a soft, golden light, signaling that it was nearly One-third full.
Dante allowed himself a rare smile. His plan had worked.
He setting the nearly overflowing bucket aside, intending to take a brief rest before continuing. However, something unusual caught his eye amid the hardened pile of waste nearby. Jutting out from the crusted excrement was what appeared to be the handle of an object—something distinctly unnatural amidst the mess.
Dante glanced over at Tysonte, who had now settled down for a well-deserved rest, its massive form sprawled out lazily. With the beast seemingly out of commission, Dante’s curiosity got the better of him. Setting the second bucket down, he cautiously approached the protruding object.
He knelt down, studying it closely. The hilt looked like it might belong to a weapon. Tentatively, he grabbed hold of it and, with deliberate care, began pulling it free. To his surprise—and mild horror—he was right. What he held in his hand was indeed a weapon, albeit a broken one.
The remnants of a long blade gleamed faintly in the light, though most of the blade was missing. The hilt itself featured a triangular guard, though it was caked in so much filth that discerning any finer details was impossible. Dante stared at the broken weapon, a sinking feeling settling in his gut.
A chilling thought crossed his mind: Could this have belonged to someone Tysonte had... eaten? Was this the last remnant of some poor soul who didn’t make it out of the beast’s belly?
Dante shook his head, dismissing the creeping unease. "Nope, not thinking about this," he muttered, preparing to drop the blade and move on.
But just as he loosened his grip, the hilt bit into his palm, sharp and deliberate.
"Son of a—!" Dante flinched, instinctively letting go. Blood trickled from the cut, a few crimson drops falling onto the blade’s jagged surface.
What happened next sent a shiver crawling up Dante's spine.
The fractured weapon shivered, drinking in the blood like a starved beast. The dull metal glimmered faintly, veins of sinister energy coursing through its shattered edge.
Dante took a step back, his heart pounding. "What the hell...?" he muttered, his voice barely audible. The air around the blade grew heavier, pressing against him like an unseen force.
For a moment, nothing else happened. The weapon lay still, lifeless again. Dante laughed nervously, shaking his head. "Yeah, no. Too much crap for one day."
But as he turned to leave, a whisper—soft, guttural, and impossible—brushed against the edge of his consciousness.
“More...”
Dante froze, every muscle in his body locking up. He turned slowly, his eyes drawn back to the blade. It lay there, silent and lifeless.