Caelen wiped sweat from his forehead with a dirty cloth, watching the iron slowly lt in the furnace. It wasn't elegant—more like a dieval BBQ pit with ambitions—but it did the job.
Molten iron hissed inside a stone mold, casting out thick heat. His copper tongs clinked against the edge as he adjusted the form.
Zira stood nearby, arms crossed, curiously watching. "You really made all this?"
He grunted. "Yeah. One rock and stupid idea at a ti."
She laughed. "Impressive. I can barely cook berries without setting fire to the pan."
"I've had my fair share of food cris," Caelen muttered, flashing back to the mushroom stew incident. "We don't talk about those days."
The iron cooled slightly. Caelen carefully pulled out the mold and set it aside. Next to him were other forged tools: a new axe head, nails, a half-finished chestplate.
Zira leaned closer. "How do you even know all this?"
"Trial and error," he lied, poking the fire. "Mostly error."
"Still..." She kicked at the dirt. "Living here, all alone? This forest is dangerous."
"I noticed."
"No, seriously. Most goblins wouldn't last a day here. Let alone a human."
Caelen smirked. "Guess I'm built different."
He didn't say more. He wasn't about to ntion the Google Brain, the creation skill, or how close he'd co to dying in the first few days. So things were better left unsaid.
He stood, stretching his back. "Anyway, we need a proper food storage. That cabinet's a joke."
"Agreed," Zira said, following him outside.
They built a small shed next to the main hut. Caelen lined it with stone slabs to keep pests out, added hooks to hang dried at, and carved ventilation slits. Zira gathered herbs, while he stacked wood for a smokehouse chimney.
By mid-afternoon, they sat on rough wooden stools, chewing on half-dried roots.
Zira looked at him sideways. "You still haven't told how you survived the first night."
Caelen shrugged. "I had a pickaxe. Got lucky."
Zira frowned. "That's not an answer."
"Not everything needs explaining."
She raised her hands. "Fine, mister mystery."
They sat in silence for a mont, listening to birds chirping overhead. A friendly one fluttered nearby—part of the magical forest creatures Caelen had grown used to. This one always ca back, chirping at the sa ti each day.
He tossed it a crumb.
Inside the hut, the furnace still glowed. Caelen walked over and began fitting the cooled armor pieces together. Chestplate. Shoulder guards. Arm bracers. He used copper rivets and his wooden workbench, hamring slowly and carefully.
Zira peeked in. "You making armor now?"
"Yup."
"You planning to fight sothing?"
"No," Caelen said. "I'm planning not to die if sothing fights ."
She blinked. "Fair point."
Finally, he stood in the doorway, wearing a mismatched iron chestplate and one bracer. "Stylish, right?"
Zira squinted. "You look like a walking pot."
"Perfect. I'm stew-proof now."
She giggled.
Caelen glanced at the system tab in his mind.
[System: Population Detected = 2]
[Reward for 1 Population: 10 Search]
[Google Brain: 30/30 Searches Available]
He smirked.
So the more people... the more searches. Hmm.
He didn't say anything, but in his head, gears were turning. A village. More residents. More searches. That ant more crafting, more building, maybe even—
Zira interrupted. "You're smiling again."
"Am I?"
"Yeah. It's creepy."
"Then I'm doing it right."
She rolled her eyes.
As the sun set, Caelen placed his new tools on the shelf—iron axe, reinforced pickaxe, and a small blade.
He wasn't just surviving anymore.
He was preparing.
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