Chapter 2: The Young Fox's First Taste of Its Claws and Fangs

Yet Venigo’s skill in roasting meat… truly astonishing. The timing of the fire, the vivid, striking flavors, the marvelous springiness upon biting in—The Ranger sighed, already weary of his companions’ abysmal cooking.

“All right, this job isn’t dangerous anyway. We should be able to keep an eye on him.” The Ranger paused, then turned to the hook-handed Hanwell. “We’re thinking of hiring this… What’s his name?”

Hanwell had no idea what Venigo’s name was—they’d never asked, simply calling him “Young Fox” all along.

“Venigo,” Venigo answered calmly. “If that’s too strange for you, you can keep calling me Young Fox.”

“We’ll rest for the night and set out at dawn. Young Fox, welcome to the team, even if it’s only temporary.” The Ranger offered Venigo a polite smile.

Polite, yet condescending. But Venigo didn’t mind. He knew well enough: in this world, without strength—be it force, magic, or power—nobody would grant you respect.

He returned to his room, shut the door, tied a thin thread to the handle, sat on his bed, drew the curtains, and pulled the blanket up to his chest.

Only then did Venigo open his palm, revealing two crystals.

From the moment he held them, Venigo felt a strange urge—yet he kept his composure, waiting until he was free from all attention before taking them out.

He understood what he’d gained: an ability—one that could manifest whatever left the deepest impression in his mind. But this power was bound and resisted by the laws of this world; to use it, certain conditions had to be met.

It was complicated—Venigo’s manifestation ability came with intricate and elaborate restrictions, the full details of which were inscribed in him, beyond words, as if branded in his soul from the start—only to be awakened upon encountering the crystals.

In truth, the crystals themselves were ordinary; what awakened his power was the silver thread within: mercury, seeping through the crystal.

All Venigo needed was mercury.

Mercury was not rare in this world, but refining it required advanced alchemy—mercury was a valuable catalyst in the art, far beyond the means of a petty smuggler like Venigo.

It was hard to describe Venigo’s power precisely, but roughly speaking: he needed mercury to awaken his ability, to transform into an “entity”—one that he remembered vividly and understood well, but which needn’t necessarily exist in reality.

To become such an entity, Venigo required a certain amount of mercury, and his own mental strength had to match the capabilities of that form. He knew, vaguely, how to improve his mental strength, but to his frustration, neither his body nor his mind seemed to benefit from training.

To transform, he also needed some token or symbol of the entity—say, Pikachu’s signature lightning tail, or the moon-marked coat of Iori Yagami, or…

There were further limitations, but listing them all would take too long. In any case, Venigo instinctively knew which roles he could assume and which he could not.

“I need to try,” he hesitated. Mercury was a precious resource, but not understanding his own power was unacceptable to Venigo.

Venigo’s great advantage as a poacher lay in his knowledge of skills and enemies.

Here, the world had no clear statistics, and abilities and magic differed from games; fire in a game would never set a house alight, while here, a flaming arrow could engulf a whole town.

With his current mental strength and supply of mercury, transforming into a powerful character was out of the question. As for how to judge a character’s strength—it wasn’t just about combat: becoming a master alchemist or blacksmith was no easier than a mighty warrior.

So, what to become? Since the transformation didn’t include external items, he’d have to prepare any equipment or symbols himself.

He’d already decided.

Soon, Venigo found a shiny copper coin among his collection, flattened it with a stone, lengthened it, carved crosswise lines with a knife, then tied it to his forehead.

Gently, he summoned that power within.

Meowth, level one. Character selected. Analysis complete. Commencing reconstruction…

Venigo checked his reflection: sure enough, he had become the small, cat-like creature of his memory, the oversized coin gleaming atop his head—a part of Meowth’s own body, inseparable.

He’d chosen Meowth because, though weak at level one, it possessed a useful ability: Pickup.

In the world of Pokémon, Pickup meant finding treasures during travels. Physically, Meowth’s attack was also decent.

Still… could he throw himself into some lovely lady’s arms and beg for affection like this? Venigo touched the fake coin, tilting his head in thought.

He didn’t venture out—lest someone mistake him for a monster and kill or capture him—but sat quietly, reflecting.

After an hour, the transformation ended.

“I can feel it—the mercury depletes during transformation, and when it’s gone, I revert. And any injuries I receive during that time are erased… Everything resets.” Venigo examined his wrist, where a self-inflicted wound from his claws had vanished during the transformation.

“One piece of mercury left. I’ll have to use it sparingly.” With a sigh, Venigo tucked the crystal into the pocket close to his skin, discarding the now-lifeless remnant onto the table.

After some thought, sure of his next step, he went to sleep.

There were many treasures in New Sopick Town, but Venigo had resisted taking them; he had nowhere to hide them, and being caught with them would only bring trouble.

For example, hidden in the wall of the town vault was a scroll of Flight; in a corner of the Pirate’s Den, a magic portal to the Dragon Desert…

Venigo had even tasted the town’s fountain, which healed wounds and restored mental energy; the water from the “lucky well,” however, proved useless here.

But now, since he was leaving…

Venigo got to his feet, recalling all the things in New Sopick Town that he could take and actually use at this stage.

Under cover of night, he donned his cloak and slipped outside. No one questioned him—late-night outings were normal for denizens of the Pirate’s Den.

He circled the edge of town, hesitated, then took the unused Flight spell scroll from the wall, tucking it safely away.

He also collected a few scattered silver and copper coins from unobtrusive chests, and, on his way, picked some fruit from the town’s apple tree for his pouch.

He busied himself in the town until nearly dawn before returning to the Pirate’s Den. He dared not go too far afield, for orcs and the cultists of the Bleating God prowled those borders, and they were anything but friendly.

At last, satisfied he’d forgotten nothing, Venigo packed his things for the next day and slept deeply.

Beneath the dim, yellow moonlight, the crystal in Venigo’s pocket pulsed with the faintest glimmer.

…

Venigo rose early. He prepared breakfast for twenty, taking special care with the four adventurers’ meals, then tidied their packs in the main hall, brushed off the dust, and set out food and tools for the journey ahead.

As he finished his work, he spotted the four adventurers emerging from their rooms. Venigo made no unnecessary gestures, simply finished his last task and turned to leave.

“Well, it seems we’ve found ourselves a decent attendant,” the witch said softly, a smile in her voice.

“Good morning, everyone. May I ask your names?” Venigo approached, setting breakfast before them as he spoke.

“I’m the leader—Ranger Merak,” the Ranger nodded.

“Archer, Verani,” the taciturn archer replied.

“I am Jemore, servant of the gods.” The priest, calm and dignified, nodded slightly. “May the Light always shine upon you.”

“Thank you,” Venigo replied with a smile.

“And I’m Yarrow, the wizard,” said the robed witch, beaming. “Young Fox, do your best.”

Venigo smiled in response, poured each of them a glass of fresh water, and quietly withdrew.

“What an interesting child, wouldn’t you say?” Ranger Merak remarked.

“Combat ability is low. Not likely a spy,” Archer Verani replied.

“No unpleasant aura. I can’t say if he’s good, but he’s not evil,” Priest Jemore nodded. “We can trust him.”

“I say we just teach him a thing or two and keep him around. I’m sick of the captain’s awful cooking—compared to Young Fox, your roast is charcoal!” Wizard Yarrow complained.

“Yarrow…” Ranger Merak covered his face with a hand. “Three days ago you said Jemore’s roast was charcoal compared to mine.”

“That was before I tasted the real thing,” Yarrow answered, utterly unabashed.