With no Adorned weapons, Finlay’s chances of winning were abysmal. And he was a long way from tempering his body to wrestle beasts with his bare hands. But dealing with this predator didn’t mean to defeat it. Just discourage it from thinking he was an easy meal.

Birds scattered. They had spotted the predator. He couldn’t. It was keeping its distance.

What could this be? A terror bird wasn’t known for stalking its prey; he should hear angry stomping feet by now. Couldn’t be Myrclaws—those shadowy wolf-like creatures hunted in packs and were usually active at night. This was either a jarlion or a mountain Itsiri.

The predator seemed to be in no hurry to catch him. But he was sure it was there. His senses hadn’t failed him yet.

Fine, his senses had made many mistakes before. If it turned out nothing was chasing him, then great. But if something was there, it was herding him to a dead end before revealing itself.

The crowd of trees thinned as Finlay drew closer to the foot of the caldera’s lofty edge. He passed broken pieces of an ancient statue and stopped before the cliff face. This was supposed to be the shortest part this side of the Big Bowl, but it stretched up so high he couldn’t see its top. He had nowhere to go. He turned around to meet his fan who probably wanted an autograph.

Or not.

A jarlion emerged from behind a bowed tree, lithe yet muscular, its fur more yellow than the usual orange. It was smaller than the one at the auction house. No mane. A female. That explained why it followed him this far. Jarlionesses freely wandered through the territories of males, only avoiding or fighting other females. The lack of darker streaks on its face meant it wasn’t a full adult.

It appeared to be in good health and its dark amber Soulheart wasn’t lit up—it wasn’t desperate to fight for food. Likely more curious of Finlay, given its young age, than hungry. Wouldn’t be fun to be its plaything though. A slap of a paw wider than his face could break his neck.

The jarlioness stalked the outer area of the clearing, eyeing Finlay, possibly trying to figure out what he was.

A jarlion had a capture rating of eight if Finlay rightly recalled. According to the Hunter Guild Union that established this system a century ago, it meant eight average hunters could capture a jarlion without anyone dying. Finlay was pretty interested how they went about measuring this.

The Union released a compendium of details for fifty of the most hunted beasts. They didn’t really capture beasts for Soulhearts back then as the trappers of today did, but they used a ‘capture rating’ instead of something related to killing so hunters could gauge how difficult the encounter was with plenty of room for error. That was good thinking.

However, the rating system wasn’t completely reliable. Some individuals of a certain species were stronger than others, like male jarlions compared to females. Hunters then and trappers now preferred to capture male jarlions as they had better Soulhearts for Linking and manifesting abilities. The system also ignored variants, like how the terror birds inside the Big Bowl had iron-infused beaks for some reason.

Finlay couldn’t ask the Union who the ‘average’ hunter was because it broke up during the Elderbone Wars. The hunter’s guilds comprising the Union were located in different warring kingdoms and couldn’t stay united, choosing support their respective nations.

At present, the various organizations making up the continental Soulheart trade followed the Union’s olden system and expanded it, covering hundreds of various beasts. They didn’t test with ‘average’ hunters, thankfully, instead gauging the difficulty of a beast in relation to those already recorded.

“It feels weird to be this weak again,” Finlay muttered, looking in the direction of the jarlioness but not meeting its eyes to avoid provoking it early.

The monster with the highest capture rating that Finlay had hunted solo was an Adam-amin dragon living in the sand towers of Fardunha. It had a rating of a hundred and seventy. That didn’t mean a hundred and seventy hunters could capture it with no casualties. Since the adjusted system wasn’t linear—a monster with a rating of sixteen wasn’t only twice as strong as a jarlion—the rating of the Adam-amin dragon signified that it could demolish an army of ‘average’ hunters.

The jarlioness approached Finlay, its padded feet completely silent with each step. He might end up the one demolished if he made a mistake.

Should he shout and wave his arms to try to scare the beast away? Better not. The jarlioness might consider him a threat and activate its coat of lightning or electric shock aura. It shouldn’t think he was worth expending energy over. He crouched low and made himself small and harmless while removing the cloak bag tied to his back. No sudden movements that might spook the beast. Getting electrocuted wasn’t fun; he knew that from experience.

The jarlioness slowly closed in. It’d strike when it was one leap from reaching him. If he ran away, he’d just delay getting mauled by a few seconds. He had to surprise it.

He opened his cloak and let its contents roll out—the sponge-pitcher leaf, fruits, and other things he collected. The jarlioness inquisitively tilted its head but still advanced, recognizing no danger.

Finlay picked up a fruit. That made the jarlioness stop. He whipped back his arm, winding up a throw, cycling anima for strength. An attack, the jarlioness must've thought. It roared and charged forward. He hurled the fruit. Inexperienced with projectiles, the jarlioness didn’t evade such a small object. The fruit shouldn’t hurt it, but Finlay threw it was such force that it splatted over its eyes. Surprised by getting hit, the fruit’s juices clouding its vision, the jarlioness leaped to attack.

Finlay unfurled the cloak and threw it over the jarlioness as he moved sideways. Landing next to him with the cloak wrapped around its head, the jarlioness turned around. It snarled in anger and confusion.

Taking advantage of the opening, Finlay launched a kick to the side of jarlioness’s head. He couldn’t direct anima to a specific part of his body yet and empower it, so he flared the cycling to give strength to all his muscles. A second kick still couldn’t make the jarlioness step back.

A clawed swipe came. Finlay had already jumped away, expecting it.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The hair on his arm stood on end. Bad news. He ran.

The jarlioness crackled with electricity. He counted to three and dove down. Bolts of lightning shot out from the jarlioness in every direction. One passed over him and hit a tree, scorching its bark. A burnt smell filled the air. The jarlioness flailed its head, not understanding the cloak covering it. Frustrated, it charged up even more electricity.

Finlay managed to scramble behind a giant headless statue before the jarlioness released its power. The statue shielded him from the worst, though some shocks still rocked him as electricity crept over the ground. He peered from behind his hiding spot. The jarlioness looked his way as burnt pieces of the cloak fell from its face.

Sorry for losing your cloak, Cogwyn, Finlay thought as he stepped forward, carrying himself as tall as he could. Contrasting earlier, he raised his arms to look bigger and more formidable.

From the perspective of the jarlioness, Finlay was an unknown prey who had inexplicably blinded her. He even hit her twice. It didn’t hurt her much but it showed he wasn’t afraid of an apex predator like her. She was also forced to expend energy with nothing to show for it. This prey wasn’t worth the trouble since she wasn’t hungry—this was what Finlay hoped the jarlioness would conclude. Fake it till you make it applied very much to fending away predators.

Sure enough, the jarlioness plodded to the trees as if nothing had happened between them. She gave him one last look before disappearing in the thickets.

“Not only the cloak but my food and water are gone too.” Finlay checked the blackened ground where the jarlioness had stood when it used its ability. “Oh, there’s a fruit left.”

He had to gather supplies again after reaching the other side. Should take a few hours getting over this wall. He hoped to finish before the sun went down. There I go again estimating how long I’d accomplish something.

This span of the cliff wall was around a furlong; other areas were up to twice or thrice taller. Well, a furlong wasn’t really a measurement of height. It supposedly was the distance a groff could plow a field in one go without rest—a furrow long. This measurement most likely came from Earth because Finlay had read a furlong used in a book. Humans of Ilaya also used feet and yards, with slightly different pronunciations.

Finlay couldn’t recall who told him but he heard that a furlong was equal to six hundred and sixty feet. He never got around to finding out whose foot was used as the standard. Using the Earth's foot, a furlong was a little over half the height of the Empire State Building. Sounded daunting putting it that way, but he should simply focus on climbing. There was a place to rest two-thirds of the way up.

He might not have climbing gear—he wouldn’t know how to use them anyway—but he had a superhuman body. And experience was his best asset. He found the spot where he climbed before—a narrow crack that ran almost the entire height of the wall. An ancient earthquake must’ve caused it. The gap could fit two people shoulder to shoulder, and it was perfect for him to sort of shimmy up the wall. In case of an emergency, he could lean back and wedge himself in place by locking his knees.

“Here goes.” Finlay started the climb.

Acceleration and amplification.

And shimmying.

----------------------------------------

“Such a nice view…” Finlay said.

Sitting by a ledge, he swung his legs as he savored the cool air. It wasn’t as thin as one might expect at this height. Could be that the supercharged plants inside the Big Bowl produced an excess of oxygen. The hundreds of bogdons grazing the valley beyond the forest ringing Big Bowl were like grey beetles scurrying over a green carpet.

Finlay was taking a break after an hour and a half of climbing, snacking on the fruit that survived getting toasted by the jarlioness. He didn’t recognize this particular fruit but wasn’t too concerned it was dangerous. Its bright orange color meant it was supposed to attract birds that’d eat it and scatter the tree’s seeds—low chance it was poisonous.

“Want some?” Finlay offered the fruit to the giant statue sitting cross-legged beside him. “No? I’ll finish this then.” He chuckled, somberly shaking his head.

Talking to inanimate objects or animals was one of his tricks to remain sane during long trips alone. It distracted him from thinking about all the dead he was leaving behind and all the death he’d face ahead. He didn’t know if this happened to other people, but traveling alone warped his sense of time. That was why he always looked for the sun to make sure he was progressing. Walking and time passing—he should be going somewhere, right? Fortunately, this trip to the Big Bowl wasn’t existential dread-inducing like traversing a wilderness slowly getting overtaken by otherworldly molds.

“You know, this is the third time we’ve met,” he told the statue. “The first time in this timeline though.”

At about eight feet tall, the sitting statue was humanoid, slender and long-limbed. Its four arms were raised at chest level, hands and fingers forming signs Finlay couldn’t quite decipher. Were they ancient handlocks for life conduits? The statue’s face had vaguely feline features and its head extended back like a baguette. They must have very big brains.

This statue was of a Kymorathi, the people that ruled Ilaya thousands of years ago. Finlay had encountered many of their statues in hard-to-reach places. There were probably many more of them, but those were the only ones that survived the march of time and meddling of other races because they were hidden. The statue near Finlay was in a good condition considering the thousands of years in faced the elements.

Finlay leaned forward to see the other statues sitting in the row. “I forgot there are many of you here.”

The ledge he sat on was a long horizontal strip carved out of the cliff face, home to almost a dozen statues of Kymorathi, not counting the empty slots. Some good-for-nothing pranksters must’ve thought it funny to push the statues over the edge. Or maybe someone who hated the Kymorathi did. These statues were damn heavy to move just for a joke.

Makes it even more of a wonder how they got up here. They were made of a different stone than the cliff wall.

Why here of all places? Who was going to see them? The contents of this ledge weren’t visible from below. Ilaya boasts so many mysteries that Finlay regrets not having the time to investigate them.

“I’ll ask the goatkin about the Kymorathi someday.” Finlay dusted his pants and went to the edge of the ledge. Less than an hour and he’d reach the top. The descent would be much easier.

Hands tingling with rushing anima, Finlay grabbed the corner. The crack he wanted to return to was a few feet further left, and he needed to swing himself over there. Confidence was the key; hesitation was death. He jumped sideways, pivoting around the corner, and released his grip. He caught the edge of the crack and pulled himself inside.

Up we go, he urged himself, fighting the temptation to look below.

He relied more on his legs to push his body up because his forearms and fingers were weak. People seldom developed grip strength even if doing physical labor. Most work was pushing and lifting instead of pulling. This crack in the wall allowed him to cheat the climb. Without it, he’d have no hopes of reaching inside the Big Bowl without becoming at least a Monolinker Warden and using a suitable Soulheart.

Later in the afternoon, though nighttime was still some time away, Finlay reached the top of the wall. He shook his tired arms as he looked back where he came from.

The next mountain over—he didn’t know its name—blocked the view of Worwick. How long did it take him to reach here, minus the world pimple side trip? Probably half a day in total? He should train himself to travel faster. He needed to return to town for various errands and couldn't spend that much time traveling one way.

He turned around and beheld the Big Bowl.