The Gate Traveler

In the morning, I breathed deeply through my nose, allowing the air to fill my lungs. It smelled of nature. Not a single specific scent, but that clean, crisp aroma you only find in the wild. Fresh air, damp earth, morning dew on the grass, and open skies. I sat with my coffee, savoring the aromas from my cup and the world around me, letting the serenity surround me like a veil. Waking up like that, in the middle of nowhere, with views that belonged on a postcard and the air cleaner than anything I had ever inhaled, was bliss. It was the kind of morning that made you stop and appreciate life.

After breakfast, I packed up camp, and we continued our journey. The day passed quietly, the landscape shifting around us as we walked. By evening, we emerged from the valley between two low mountains and spotted another river ahead, its surface catching the sunset. It was so peaceful. I picked a spot near the bank to set up camp, close enough to hear the water but far enough not to wake up soggy.

That night, we sat by the fire in comfortable silence. I didn't play the guitar or talk to Stretch, so as not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere. The flames flickered, shadows danced across the rocks and trees, the river's steady murmur blended into the background, and the refreshing night air felt nice on my skin. It was a quiet evening, exactly what I needed.

In the morning, the sky was a deep blue with some fluffy white clouds, promising a clear day. I wanted to continue on the river, so I took out one of my canoes and tried to get Stretch into the boat. He flat-out refused. Sat down like a sack of bricks, ears alert, tail still, making it clear he had no intention of moving. I tried everything: called him over, patted the seat, threw a steak into the boat. Nothing. Even cooked bacon didn't do the trick. He sniffed the air, considered it for a second, then turned his head away. Eventually, I picked him up and carried him in. That's when his mood shifted. The second his paws hit the canoe, his whole body stiffened. He didn't make a sound, but his stiff posture and the way he looked around wide-eyed didn't bode well. Before I could even get both hands on the paddle, he jumped out, swam to shore, and shook himself off. Then, he gave me a look of pure betrayal.

"Have it your way," I said.

I got in the boat and paddled slowly, keeping close to the bank so he could follow along on foot. He didn't. He sat on the bank and let out a long, drawn-out whine, as if I'd abandoned him. Then he got up, shuffled his feet like tap-dancing, and let loose a series of whiny barks in the most mournful tone imaginable. I sighed, gave up, and stored the canoe. We continued on foot, following the river. Stretch trotted beside me, occasionally glancing up as if to check that I was still there.

On the third day, Stretch lost it over a bush. Hackles raised, tail stiff, ears up like radar, and barking his head off. His whole body locked into a tense, forward-leaning stance. I jogged over to see what the fuss was about and spotted the culprit: a giant porcupine. It even looked normal. Like a porcupine from Earth, only super-sized. Same slow waddle, beady eyes, and a million needles.

Stretch didn't care. He lowered his body, legs twitching, ready to pounce.

"No!" I shouted.

Too late.

He jumped and let out a super-high-pitched yelp. He hit the ground whining, muzzle twitching, paws pawing at his face. His whole snout and neck were full of quills, eyes squeezed shut, and tail glued to his belly. I swore under my breath, ran to him, and shove-swatted the porcupine away with my staff, maybe a little harder than necessary. It waddled off in a huff, its quills rattling like angry wind chimes.

I dropped to my knees and cast Anesthesia. One by one, I pulled the quills. Each one came out with a faint pop, followed by a tiny spurt of blood. He whimpered softly at first, even under the spell, but by the third one, his body had gone fully still. When I finished, I stopped the spell, but he didn't wake up. Just lay there, sprawled in the dirt, paws at odd angles, as if he passed out on a too-small couch. I let him sleep it off. When he finally woke up, I fed him a mountain of meat and topped off the healing. He sniffed the food, then dove in like he hadn't eaten in a week. His tail gave a weak wag, and when he finished, he looked up at me.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" I told him, shaking my head. "Hunt for food? Nooo! But when you see a walking pile of needles, you're suddenly Mr. Courageous. What were you thinking? You don't pick a fight with a stack of knives!"

He wagged harder and licked my face, tail going thump-thump in the dirt.

"Yeah, yeah, I love you too. But you're still an idiot."

Casting Healing Touch while maintaining Anesthesia was easier this time. The mental strain was still there, but it no longer felt like my mind was about to snap. More like lifting something a little too heavy, but still manageable. While I worked, an idea for my looting spell began to form. I'd already figured out how to separate the pelt from the rest of the animal, but it kept flying off in random pieces. What if I split my mind? One part casting the separation, the other holding everything together? That could work. I looked around, half-tempted to find something to test it on, but the sky had already darkened into a deep blue, and the stars were beginning to appear. Tomorrow, then.

While I packed up camp in the morning, I told Stretch, "We need more meat for you. Today, we're going hunting." He looked downright pleased. His tail wagged like crazy, and he bounced around me, practically vibrating with energy. I had a strong suspicion that his excitement stemmed from the fact that I would be doing the hunting while he would be doing the eating.

After about two hours of walking, we reached a bend in the river. On the far bank, a vast, open grassland spread out toward the horizon, broken only by the occasional tree. It looked perfect. Precisely the kind of place I'd been looking for.

Now I just had to solve the Stretch problem.

I glanced at him, then at the water, then back at him. He sat on the bank, looking everywhere but at the canoe. I tried the same routine: coaxing, calling him over, and even tossing a juicy hamburger into the boat. He stared at it, his tail gave a single wag, then yawned and lay down with his head on his front paws. I sat down too, elbows on my knees, staring at the river. The water moved slowly, making it easy to cross, just not with a wolf who thought canoes were the devil incarnate. I let out a long breath, annoyed at his mulish refusal.

"Fine," I said, standing up and pulling my shirt off.

I stripped down, waded into the water, and dove forward. The water was relatively cold, but not unbearable. A few vigorous strokes took me into the middle of the river, and I heard a splash behind me. Looking behind me, Stretch was already in, swimming toward me like a champ, in a steady and confident doggy paddle.

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"You've got to be kidding me," I said.

He ignored my dismay and kept on swimming.

We reached the far bank, and he scrambled up ahead of me. Then, with a shake, he sprayed me with a wave of wolf water, his tail wagging like he was doing me a favor.

"If you're not afraid of water, what's your problem with the boat?" I asked with my hands on my hips.

He shook again, harder this time, spraying my face and chest. I wiped my eyes, water dripping from my nose, and just shook my head. Maybe he couldn't answer me with words, but his intention came through loud and clear.

After drying and dressing, I looked around, located the tallest tree, and walked toward it. Stretch trotted at my side, tail held high. The tree looked sturdy enough, but still swayed and bent slightly under my weight. Once I reached the highest branch I dared to sit on, the view made the climb worth it. Endless grassland stretched in every direction, golden-green in the morning light, rippling softly in the breeze. Through the binoculars, I could make out three separate herds grazing in the distance. One looked bigger than the others, and that was enough of a reason to head that way. Two hours later, we finally reached it.

They looked like bison, with the same bulky bodies, shaggy fur, and faces, but were only cow-sized. Still, not small enough. I circled the herd slowly, keeping downwind, and compared their size to that of the surrounding trees. Even if I managed to kill one, I didn't like my odds of getting it strung up properly. I doubted these branches would survive the attempt.

We moved on.

After lunch, we reached the second herd. Still mini-bison. Same problem—too big. I chewed on my lip and stared out across the plains. The third herd would probably be the same.

I found the tallest, sturdiest-looking tree nearby and climbed again. This one didn't sway as much. From up there, I scanned the herd and picked out a bison grazing near the edge. Nocked an arrow, took a deep breath, and aimed for the eye, since I wasn't sure the arrow could punch through its hide. Bull's-eye. Or bison's-eye. Hah. That was probably how the term started.

The herd exploded into motion, hooves thundering across the ground as they stampeded away, dust rising in their wake.

Stretch bounded toward the downed bison, dancing in excited circles around the carcass, tail wagging furiously. He knew what came next. I cut out the liver and heart and dropped them into a big bowl. Next, I grabbed the bison's hind leg, dragged it to the base of the tree, and hung it without too much trouble. I didn't even strain or feel winded. The tree, on the other hand, didn't look that good. The branch groaned, and the entire tree bowed under the weight.

Those stats are no joke!

Stretch sat by the bowl and looked at me.

"What?" I asked.

He nosed the bowl toward me with a deliberate little shove.

"You want this cooked too?"

Tail wag.

I crossed my arms. "You had no problem with it raw before."

Wag, wag. This time, with the pleading eyes turned up to eleven.

I pointed a finger at him. "You're getting spoiled, you know that?"

He trotted over, placed both front paws on my shoulders, and licked my face in one long, wet swipe.

"Okay, okay. I'll cook it for you." I wiped my cheek with the back of my sleeve, grumbling under my breath.

Once he finished his cooked treats and the bison had finished draining, I tried out my new idea for the looting spell. I lowered the bison onto the plastic sheet and split my mind. In one part, I held a firm mental image of the pelt separated from the carcass. In the other, a firm image of the pelt as a whole. The mental images felt stable, so I infused mana into the carcass, focusing on them, and directed my mana with intention.

The pelt shot past me in a blur.

I turned around slowly and followed its trail through the grass until I found it: a large, misshapen lump of fur. It looked ball-shaped, with a horn protruding from it. I crouched and poked it. It felt solid. Tried to unroll it. No dice. The whole thing was fused together, like it had been sealed with magic glue.

I scratched my head. Why is it so hard?! What am I missing?

Technically, it wasn't a total failure. The pelt had stayed in one piece this time. It didn't shoot off in strips or scatter like fur confetti. But still. I just wanted to loot a whole, intact pelt. Was that too much to ask?

With a sigh, I turned to the meat portion of the spell.

No exploding this time. That was the main goal. Less mana, more control. Keep it all neatly on the plastic sheet. Add that to the intention. Next, separate the meat from the bone. I could use the same technique I'd been refining for the pelt. Cutting it into steaks was trickier, but worth a try. I concentrated and split my mind. One side: separate the meat from the bones, and for the love of all things holy, keep it from flying off. The other: a picture of clean, even steaks. I held the image of a neat stack, like they'd come straight from the butcher. I ran through the mental pictures again and again to ensure they were solid, then began channeling mana.

At first, nothing.

Then—pop.

The bison skeleton was covered by a heap of minced meat. The meat did separate, but it didn't even resemble steaks. I blinked, looked at the meat, looked at my hands, then let out a long, defeated sigh and sat there, shaking my head. At least most of it stayed on the plastic sheet. Technically, it was progress. The pelt didn't shoot off in strips, and the bison didn't explode. But the dream of a clean, whole pelt and a perfect stack of steaks still felt like a distant, unachievable dream.

Now I had to figure out where the hell to store a giant pile of ground bison.

I took out a couple of coolers with fruits and vegetables and a bunch of baskets. One by one, I moved the fruits and vegetables into the baskets to make room, then turned to the mountain of minced meat. I took out a shovel and cast Clean and Purify. Thought about it for a second, then cast Clean and Purify on the meat, just in case. Then, shoveled it into the now-empty cooler, sighing and shaking my head the whole time. The motion became oddly meditative: scoop, drop, sigh. Scoop, drop, sigh. Like a ritual for the mildly defeated.

One bison filled almost the whole cooler, and I had another one ready to go. So, space for one more bison, but unfortunately, my mana was low, less than a thousand left. Not enough for another attempt.

I set up camp, buried the bones and the pelt blob, and set a few leg bones aside for Stretch to gnaw on. Cast the cleaning spell on the plastic sheet and flopped down beside it with a book, hoping to pass the time while regenerating. That lasted ten minutes. The story was good, but I couldn't keep reading. It was too disheartening. The MC and his party were off slaughtering high-tier monsters, looting spirit coins and rare drops as if they had a vending machine. Meanwhile, I'd buried a furry pelt blob and ended up with a year's supply of hamburger meat.

I closed the book.

It took me two days to regenerate, and by the end, I was rested, focused, and even excited. I'd taken the time to reflect on where things had gone wrong and had a new plan. Enthusiasm was back on the menu.

I shot another bison, drained it, and cooked the treat portions for Stretch. Then I got to work.

For the pelt, I split my mind again. Partition one: separation from the carcass, plus the 'stay put' intention. Partition two: keep together with an emphasis on maintaining the pelt's original shape. This time, I channeled more slowly and held the images steady throughout the entire process. The pelt shot up into the air and dropped straight down on me, covering my head and shoulders. I pulled it off and inspected it. It was whole. I stood up, punched the air in victory, and danced Gangnam Style in the middle of the field, not caring that my head and shoulders were covered in blood. Stretch raced around me in circles, yipping excitedly.

"Yes!" I shouted. "I'm a looter!"

Next: the meat.

Same setup as before. Partition one: separation from the bones and containment. Stay on the plastic sheet, no shooting away. Partition two: cut into steaks, not minced. I even emphasized the size and visualized thick, hearty slabs.

I channeled my mana slowly and steadily... then—pop.

A year's supply of stew chunks.

I stared at it. Definitely not steaks. But bigger than the last batch, and most of it landed on the sheet.

"Still progress," I told Stretch with a sigh.

After storing the meat, burying the remains, and cleaning the tools and pelt, I packed up camp. We still had half a day of light left, and no bison hunting in the plan for the foreseeable future. Despite everything—furry blob included—I felt more confident.

I scratched Stretch's ear. "My next attempt is going to be epic."