Dog and Man

The underground cavern.

An unknown little corner.

Ruger smoothed out a piece of insect shell and a small scrap of hide, setting them in a dry spot by the cave wall. Then he sorted through the thin cords he had fashioned from vines.

After many days of effort, he was finally about to have his first piece of clothing. As long as he stitched them together, he could escape his current state of having barely anything to cover himself.

Though it would probably only be enough to make a pair of shorts.

This was not merely for appearance's sake—it would be of enormous help when hunting, too.

Just imagining himself running freely through all kinds of harsh environments in a pair of shorts made a warm, happy feeling well up in his heart for no reason.

He had never imagined that he could be so easily satisfied.

Satisfied enough to be moved to tears by a pair of shorts.

He gathered his thoughts and took out his sleep book. In truth, he preferred to call it the Black Tome.

His insomnia had been terrible lately. By chance, he had picked up this black book, and every time he opened it and carefully read a page or two, he would start to feel dizzy. Repeating that a few times always guaranteed a good night's sleep.

So far, he had never made it to the third page.

It was not because the book's effects were that good. Sometimes he had to flip back and forth seven or eight times before falling asleep, and lately it had taken more than ten.

He had not reached the third page because the book seemed glued shut. It was clearly quite thick, yet no matter what he did, he could not turn to the pages behind it. Of course, this did not affect him much anyway, since he could not understand the words or patterns inside.

He scratched the messy fur behind his ear, caught a mischievous little bug, and casually tossed it into his mouth.

"It's been itchy all this time. I knew I was getting bugs..." he muttered softly.

He could shed fur and grow bugs. He felt that he had already become a qualified kobold.

That little interruption broke his concentration on the book.

He shifted into a more comfortable position, brushing away two small stones that were digging into him, then focused again.

There was only a single pattern on the book's second page, filling the entire sheet. If he stared at it for a while, the pattern seemed to come alive, faintly twisting before his eyes.

This time, he did not know how many times he had looked at it. He had long forgotten to count. At last, the dizzy sensation reached its peak.

He closed the book and stopped forcing himself to endure it, slipping it beneath his head.

This thick, solid book made an excellent pillow.

In an instant, short and long snores rose in turns, echoing through this empty cavern that few ever visited.

He had a dream.

He arrived in a restaurant that felt strangely familiar.

The delicacies on the menu made drool stream uncontrollably from the corners of his mouth. For a moment, even his eyes seemed insufficient as they darted endlessly up, down, left, and right.

"Bring the food! Bring the food! Hurry up and bring the food!" he shouted from beside the table.

His simple urging gradually turned into a furious roar.

It was as though all the rage in the world were churning within his belly.

His face began to change as well. First came slightly wrinkled skin, then sparse brown fur. His mouth gradually jutted forward, and his body shrank.

All kobolds were born looking like this. What was so strange about it? he thought.

The simple, worn dining table of the little shop silently became a solemn, heavy dark-red table. Its long surface, inlaid with graceful curved designs, rang out with loud bangs as he hammered it with both fists.

At last, the food appeared on the table.

Two plates, one to either side.

The two plates sat before him, yet he could not make out what was on them. He lowered his head, stretched out his neck, and leaned closer, forcing his dog eyes as wide as they could go.

On the plate to the left was a black book. On the plate to the right lay a pair of shorts pieced together from insect shells and scraps of hide of all sizes.

He jolted awake.

Panting heavily, he sat up and blankly surveyed his surroundings. Then he raised an eyebrow, leaned backward, and flopped heavily back down.

Grrrrumble! His stomach began to howl at just the right moment, as though afraid he might get lonely.

I probably didn't sleep for long again, he thought.

Resting his head on his arm, he gazed sideways at the materials barely arranged in a hollow in the cave wall. They looked as though they were on display, like gleaming medals laid out one by one.

During those early days of insomnia, whenever he barely managed to fall asleep and then woke again, he would always forget that he was a kobold.

Sometimes, he would even get caught up in strange thoughts.

For instance, now that he had become a kobold, was he still himself?

Was he really living in this strange world? Could this all be one very, very long dream?

Later, whenever his stomach growled with hunger, he would nod firmly. He was still himself.

Looking at the things on the cave wall, he decided to put his plan on hold and find another piece of insect-beast shell or hide, so that what he made would be even more perfect. If the materials were good enough, it could absolutely be considered a piece of armor.

Grrrrumble—

He rubbed his belly, rose to his feet, and picked up a long staff tipped with a beast fang.

On his short little legs, he took several twists and turns out of his secret nest.

As he walked, he adjusted the grass skirt around his waist, which was on the verge of falling apart. This old companion would have to stay with him a while longer.

He sighed. Whenever he did something, he always wanted to get it done in one step.

But that was exhausting.

Kobolds had no clocks. They usually measured time by strange things like their stomachs.

For example, after getting hungry three times, they would gather somewhere and head out together for a tribal hunt.

In this area, kobolds were hunters most of the time—provided they did not stray from the group. The shift between hunter and prey was often as smooth as silk. A lone kobold was, at best, a stinking lump of meat that could walk and shed fur.

Ruger looked at the little arm holding his staff. Even among the diminutive kobold race, he was one of the scrawniest, like a malnourished child.

After taking part in two tribal hunts, he had never gone again.

A scrawny kobold like him was considered useless by the tribe and was often used as bait during hunts.

There were generally two situations in which bait was used during tribal hunts. One was ordinary prey-luring; the other was an emergency measure. For instance, if an unexpected underground beast intruded midway through a hunt, then to ensure the hunt succeeded, someone needed to serve as bait and draw away the unexpected factor.

If the bait survived, then in theory, they would receive a little more of the hunt's spoils afterward.

But that was only in theory.

Kobolds were not kind or loving creatures.

Sometimes, kobolds even cheered at the bait's death, because that meant less food had to be divided out. And kobolds had never been stingy with their fists when it came to weaker members of their own kind.

So from then on, he had kept far away from them. As for food, he had always gritted his teeth and solved that problem by himself.

The scrawny had their own way of surviving.

Fortunately, his life had improved greatly lately.

He quietly approached an exit where kobolds rarely passed.

The area occupied by the kobolds was cave linked to cave, pit linked to pit, with crisscrossing tunnels running through the caverns on a staggering scale. Otherwise, he would never have been able to claim a quiet little nest of his own.

And what kobolds called going out to hunt was merely leaving this small cave region they occupied and reaching a larger, more open underground space. That was the kobolds' hunting territory, vast as a little world within the caves, where towering spindle-shaped mushrooms rose in the distance like giant trees.

Naturally, Ruger did not dare go there. That was a place only visited during tribal hunts.

Like a thief, Ruger slipped out quietly with his staff in hand.

Even now, he had no idea how many exits there were here, and he was certain the other kobolds did not know either.

Those guys' brains seemed broken. They were more beast than human, unable even to speak a long sentence. It was difficult for them to describe even a simple matter clearly.

If there was one thing most humanlike about them, it was their grudges.

After walking some distance, he looked back. When he did not see those three hateful figures, he let out a small breath of relief.

Feeling the mud beneath his feet, his short little legs churned rapidly as he hurried along, doing his best not to make a sound.

He only dared make a living around here.

Every sound of every size that came from any direction made him so nervous the fur on the back of his neck seemed ready to fall out. Then he had to judge whether to stay where he was and keep quiet for a while, or get away as quickly as possible.

Ruger also had to thank these dog eyes of his.

Kobold eyes could barely see in the dark, which kept him from being completely blind.

He made his way cautiously to a small ravine.

This was his secret granary.

He casually picked up a withered leaf by his feet, entered the ravine, and used the beast fang at the tip of his staff to cut open his palm. He lightly smeared the blood onto the leaf.

Then, eyeing a shallow pit, he placed the leaf in a suitable spot based on past experience—preferably between two shallow pits that were close together—and began waiting patiently.

These strange shallow pits contained one to three white larvae as thick as an arm. They were plump, pale, and extraordinarily delicious. Raw, their flesh was viscous and hard to swallow, but if rolled around in a hot spring, it turned wonderfully chewy.

Unfortunately, fat meat grubs could not provide him with crafting materials.

As far as he knew, these plump white larvae had now appeared throughout the kobolds' hunting territory. Quite a few kobolds had secretly started catching grubs instead of joining tribal hunts.

The fat meat grubs were gradually changing the kobolds' hunting habits.

The biggest reason they had become a preferred food was that there was no danger in hunting them. No one had ever seen the adult insects that laid them.

Only shallow pits scattered across the ground, not even worthy of being called insect nests.

Clutching his staff, he lay prone on the ground, his eyes fixed on the shallow pits.

The difficulty in catching these fat meat grubs was that he could not be impatient. He had to lure the grubs out of their holes.

The shallow pit nests were filled with a white substance. When startled, the meat grubs frantically spat saliva. Their saliva quickly fused with the white stuff, forming a huge lump that was incredibly tough. With arms and legs as small as his, he could pound at it until he starved to death and still not break it open.

The reason he had put off making clothes was that he had his eye on this stuff. It was practically a natural armor material—highly moldable yet hard. The only difficult problem was its smell.

Once coated with the grub's saliva, this stuff gave off a peculiar fragrance that lingered for a long time. Wearing it would probably attract wandering underground beasts.

After a long wait, came the wonderful moment of harvest.

He happily carried the long stick over his shoulder, feeling as light on his feet as if he were walking on air.

Two plump flesh worms were skewered on the stick.

If he rationed them, they would last him a long time.

Although this place was not far from the kobold cave complex—he had not even reached the kobolds' hunting grounds yet—

he would never linger here for long.

As he remembered it, this ravine had not been here some time ago, much less any talk of going down to catch bugs. He instinctively resisted this place, so he did his best to be a properly cowardly kobold.

Ruger remained cautious all the way and successfully returned to his safe nest.

Though it could not truly give him much of a sense of safety.

On his way into the cave complex, he guessed that quite a few kobolds from the tribe had gone out, which was why the journey had been so smooth and he had not run into a single annoying fellow.

The bugs were probably too easy to catch. No one wanted to loiter in the caves, nor did anyone want to keep lying in wait for rabbits and robbing passersby.

He first untied the rope around his chest and took down the Guide to Falling Asleep strapped to his back.

A sturdy, flat, thick book that was not afraid of water—what else could it be? Of course it could be an excellent piece of tableware.

He was simply too hungry, exhausted and starving. He decided to eat some raw food for this meal and worry about taste with the next one.

Happily cutting it up, happily eating.

He cheerfully hummed a little tune under his breath, as though he were not a kobold sitting in a broken hole and using a book as a plate.

And he relished the perks of being a kobold. As a qualified kobold, he automatically ignored the stickiness and sourness of the bug meat. With one bite, his stomach immediately felt much better.