The small clearing, recently the scene of chaotic violence and physics-defying takedowns, transformed into a fragile haven under Gregor's determined efforts. While Saitama enthusiastically gathered enough deadwood to fuel a pyre – often by simply tapping large branches until they fell – Gregor, with Lyra and Renn assisting where their exhausted bodies allowed, focused on the boar carcass.
Butchering a beast the size of the Great Tusk Boar was no small feat, especially with only a single skinning knife and bodies running on fumes. Gregor worked with the grim efficiency of someone who had likely learned the skill through harsh necessity rather than formal training. He moved with practiced motions, skinning the thick, bristly hide back, exposing the dense muscle and fat beneath. The sheer size of the creature meant progress was slow, laborious.
Lyra, despite her trembling hands, helped clean the knife periodically, her stomach growling loudly enough to echo slightly in the clearing. Renn, initially hesitant around the massive carcass, found himself tasked with gathering broad leaves and clearing a space for the meat, his earlier terror momentarily submerged beneath the primal, driving need for food.
Saitama eventually returned with a truly prodigious pile of firewood, dropping it near the center of the clearing with a thud. "Okay! Wood's ready! Enough for a bonfire? Or maybe just s'mores?" He looked expectantly at Gregor, who was currently wrestling with separating a massive shoulder joint.
"It's… plenty, Saitama," Gregor grunted, sweat dripping from his brow despite the cool air. "Now we just need… to cut the meat… into manageable pieces." He eyed the thick muscle. His knife was sharp, but it was slow work.
Saitama peered at the carcass. "Pieces, huh? Looks tough. Need a sharper knife?" He paused, tapping his chin. "Or maybe…"
Before Gregor could react or even process Saitama's contemplative look, Saitama stepped forward, positioning himself beside the boar. He held his right hand out, fingers straight, edge downwards, like a karate chop. "Okay, so like… slice here?" he asked, indicating a section near the ribs.
"Wait, Saitama, no!" Gregor yelled, suddenly envisioning the entire carcass being vaporized or launched into orbit. "That knife is fine! It just takes ti—"
Shnk.
It wasn't a loud sound. Just a short, sharp, unbelievably clean slicing noise.
Saitama's hand, moving with casual speed, had passed through the boar's torso. Ribs, muscle, thick fat, even the tough spine – all were severed instantly, leaving a cut so precise, so utterly without drag or resistance, that it looked like it had been made by a molecule-thin laser. The cut surface was unnaturally smooth, almost polished. The chop continued downwards, effortlessly shearing through the mossy earth and bedrock beneath the carcass, leaving a thin, perfectly straight fissure several feet deep in the ground before Saitama withdrew his hand.
He looked at the perfectly bisected section of boar, then at his hand, then back at Gregor. "Like that? Did I get the right spot?"
Gregor stared at the impossibly clean cut, at the fissure in the earth beneath, then back at Saitama's hand. His own knife felt suddenly crude, barbaric. He swallowed hard. "Y-yes, Saitama. Exactly like that. Perfect." His mind reeled. The sheer, casual destructive potential contained in that hand, used here for butchery…
Saitama beamed, apparently pleased with his effort. "Cool! Okay, where else?" He raised his hand again, ready for another chop.
"NO!" Gregor practically shouted, scrambling forward. "That's good! That's plenty! Really! We can handle the rest! Great job!" He quickly positioned himself between Saitama and the carcass, waving his hands placatingly. He had visions of the entire boar being reduced to perfectly smooth, geometrically precise cubes and a clearing riddled with bottomless fissures.
Saitama lowered his hand, looking slightly disappointed. "Oh. Okay. You sure? It was pretty fast."
"Very sure!" Gregor insisted, forcing a weak smile. "Wouldn't want you to… uh… dull your hand."
Saitama shrugged. "Alright. Guess I'll get the fire started then." He wandered over to the woodpile and, ignoring the need for tinder or kindling, simply poked the center of the pile with his index finger. There was a faint hiss, a brief flash of intense heat, and instantly, a roaring fire sprang to life, consuming the wood with cheerful enthusiasm. Saitama sat down cross-legged before it, holding his hands out to the flames. "Ah, toasty."
Lyra and Renn stared, first at the bisected boar and the fissure in the ground, then at the instantly roaring fire, then at Saitama warming his hands. Lyra slowly shook her head, a bewildered smile touching her lips. Renn just looked numb.
Gregor took a deep breath and focused on the task at hand, using Saitama's impossibly clean cut as a starting point to carve off manageable chunks of meat. It still took time, but significantly less than it would have otherwise. Soon, thick strips and chunks of boar meat were skewered on sharpened sticks (courtesy of Saitama casually snapping branches to perfect points) and roasting over the crackling fire.
The smell that filled the clearing was intoxicating. After days of stale air, fear, and gnawing emptiness, the aroma of roasting meat was the most beautiful perfume imaginable. Saliva flooded their mouths. Even the oppressive atmosphere of the Deepwood seemed to recede slightly, held at bay by the cheerful light and savory promise of the fire.
When the first pieces were cooked – charred on the outside, juicy within – Gregor passed them out wordlessly. They ate like starving animals, tearing at the hot, greasy meat with bare hands, heedless of burns or decorum. The rich, gamey flavor exploded on their tongues, sending waves of pure, primal satisfaction through their exhausted bodies. Tears streamed down Lyra's face again, but this time they were tears of relief, of a fundamental need finally being met. Renn devoured his portion with closed eyes, groaning softly with pleasure. Gregor ate quickly, methodically, feeling strength slowly seep back into his limbs with every bite.
Saitama chewed thoughtfully on a large chunk of roasted boar. "Hm. Not bad," he commented between bites. "Bit gamey. Could use some salt. Maybe pepper? Got any sauce packets?"
Gregor almost choked on his mouthful. "Sauce… packets?"
"Yeah. Like ketchup? Barbecue sauce? Teriyaki?" Saitama listed hopefully.
"Saitama," Lyra said gently, wiping grease from her chin with the back of her hand, "we just escaped a subterranean death labyrinth where we were going to be sacrificed to an ancient horror. We don't exactly have condiments."
Saitama looked crestfallen. "Oh. Right. No sauce. Bummer." He took another large bite of boar. "Still better than nothing, I guess."
As they ate, a fragile sense of camaraderie settled over the small group. They were bound by shared trauma, shared survival, and the shared bewilderment of their inexplicable guardian. The fire crackled merrily, casting dancing shadows that seemed, for the moment, less menacing. For the first time since their ordeal began, they felt something approaching safety, warmth, and satiation.
Hidden in the deeper shadows beyond the firelight's reach, Kristoph, Zenon, and Elara observed the campsite. They had arrived shortly after the fire was lit, drawn by the sudden bloom of light and heat. From their vantage point on a slightly elevated ridge, concealed by dense foliage, they had a clear view of the scene.
They saw the massive boar carcass, noted the impossibly clean cut bisecting part of it, and the fissure in the earth beneath. They saw the roaring fire, clearly started without conventional means. They saw Saitama eating with gusto, complaining about the lack of sauce. They saw the raw relief and hunger on the faces of the escapees as they devoured the meat.
"The kill… it wasn't a fight," Zenon murmured, analyzing the boar carcass and the surrounding ground through a small spyglass. "Minimal disturbance aside from the initial impact point and where the creature fell. Looks like… it tripped? Hard?" He lowered the spyglass, looking at Kristoph with raised eyebrows.
"Consistent with his previous encounters," Kristoph replied grimly. "Overwhelming force applied with minimal effort, achieving catastrophic results seemingly by accident." He noted the fissure near the carcass. "And that cut… Elara, any magic?"
Elara shook her head, her senses focused. "None, Commander. The cleanness of it… it defies explanation by blade or spell. It's like the material simply… parted before his hand. Another application of localized force negation? Or perhaps molecular separation? The physics are impossible."
Kristoph filed away another data point for his increasingly unbelievable report. "He then starts a fire instantly, gathers wood by punching trees…" He sighed softly. "His integration of overwhelming power into mundane tasks is… jarring."
"He provides for them," Zenon observed neutrally. "Shelter, fire, food, protection. Whether intentional or incidental, he is functioning as their guardian."
"Which makes extracting them problematic," Kristoph acknowledged. "And complicates any direct approach." He watched as the escapees finished their meal, their postures relaxing slightly, the crushing weight of exhaustion finally allowed to settle now that their immediate needs were met. Lyra and Renn leaned against each other, their eyes drooping. Gregor slumped against a root near the fire, his sword still close, but his vigilance clearly fading. Saitama tossed the bone he'd been gnawing on into the fire and stretched, looking ready for another nap.
"They'll likely rest here for several hours," Kristoph predicted. "Recovering. We maintain position. Observe."
As true night deepened, wrapping the Deepwood in its velvet cloak, the atmosphere around the small campfire shifted. The crackling flames cast long, dancing shadows. The forest beyond the circle of light seemed to press closer, the silence punctuated by strange, unidentifiable sounds. The feeling of being watched returned, stronger now.
Zenon suddenly stiffened, his eyes narrowed, scanning the darkness beyond the camp. "Movement," he breathed, almost silently. "Northwest periphery. Faint."
Kristoph and Elara instantly focused their attention, straining their senses. Elara subtly enhanced their vision with a low-light enchantment. Faintly, at the very edge of the firelight's reach, they could see… something. Not distinct figures, but fleeting shapes, glints of reflected eyeshine that vanished when looked at directly, movements that seemed too fluid, too silent for mundane animals.
"Multiple contacts," Zenon confirmed, his hand hovering near his knives. "Skilled movers. Using the darkness, staying beyond clear sight."
Elara extended her senses carefully. "I detect… suppression. Cloaking enchantments? Or perhaps natural stealth abilities augmented by… something else. Their signatures are deliberately muted, difficult to track." She frowned. "But I sense… intent. Observation. Cold, calculating."
Kristoph's blood ran cold. The third party. The ones who killed the defecting Shadow Walkers. They had found the camp. Were they observing Saitama? Or the escapees? Or both? Their presence added a dangerous, unpredictable element to the already volatile situation.
"They're watching," Kristoph murmured. "Holding position, just like us. Assessing." He felt a new layer of tension settle over him. They were no longer the only observers. And these other watchers were demonstrably lethal.
The fire crackled. Saitama dozed. The escapees drifted in exhausted sleep. And hidden in the darkness, two separate groups watched, waited, and wondered about the impossible man at the center of it all, unaware of the deeper currents stirring in the forest, roused by the breaking of ancient seals. The night was pregnant with possibilities, none of them comforting.