Chapter 642

Hearing the explosion of the crashing plane, Arthur immediately stood up, walked to the platform outside the cave entrance, and gazed into the distance, but the fire quickly died out due to the overly humid air, leaving only a wisp of smoke rising from the nearby forest.

"Go quickly! Arthur! Hurry… it might be an air crash, someone needs help!" Oliver clutched his chest, trying to rise, but collapsed back onto the ground, coughing hard twice, shaking his head, clearly not fully alert.

"Stay here. I'll go check." Arthur also realized the gravity of the situation; from the shockwave of the explosion, the entire plane was likely destroyed—if there were passengers…

Arthur dared not think further. He leapt swiftly down along the protruding rock face, then pushed aside scattered vegetation and fallen trees, running toward the crash site.

From afar, he saw thick smoke, but by the time he reached the spot, the smoke had already dispersed. He saw two figures standing there—Arthur exhaled in relief; if they were standing, they were likely unharmed.

But as he drew closer, Arthur was stunned—those two standing figures were Schiller and Hal.

"Professor, and Pilot, what are you doing here?" Arthur hurried over and asked.

"I…" Hal wore an extremely reluctant expression. Schiller prodded him again with his umbrella. Hal sighed and reluctantly admitted: "I meant to fly here to find you, but the plane crashed. This is definitely a problem with the aircraft's quality, not my piloting skills."

Arthur opened his mouth, stared at the unrecognizable wreckage, and said: "Looks like the autopilot system still isn't reliable…"

"Exactly! It's the autopilot's fault!" Hal's eyes suddenly lit up. "I didn't even pilot it—it crashed on its own. Completely unrelated to my flying skills…"

My Healing Game

"Wait, what's that?" Arthur suddenly spotted something strange.

He walked over and found it was a piece of plane wreckage—but strangely, this piece was unusually intact. As Arthur approached, he realized it was exactly where the plane's storage compartment had been.

"Oh my God! Great! We've got supplies!" Arthur rushed over joyfully, but paused beside the wreckage, frowning: "What angle did the plane hit? If it crashed nose-down, the storage compartment should've been crushed. If it crashed tail-down, it shouldn't have stayed this intact…"

"Maybe it landed flat?" Schiller suggested a possibility. Hal slapped his own forehead. "That's just a smooth landing!"

"Forget the details—call it nature's gift," Schiller walked over to the wreckage and added: "Oh, look—the refrigerator's still intact. The food should be fine too?"

He opened the fridge door, glanced inside, then slammed it shut. His face darkened as he marched over to Hal, leaned close, and whispered: "I told you to use your Green Lantern energy to protect the fridge. You didn't have to protect it like this, did you?"

"What? Did it break?" Hal looked nervous—he knew the fridge was packed with food. If it was ruined, besides the waste, he'd be eating nothing but fish for days.

At that moment, Arthur walked up, opened the fridge door, and before he could express delight, he frowned: "Huh? The freezer compartment is fine—I get that. Vegetables can take a hit too. But not a single egg cracked? Isn't that a bit…"

Inside the open fridge, the right shelf of the middle layer was completely filled with raw eggs. From such a height, not one had broken—they remained neatly arranged in perfect rows, formation untouched.

Hal looked embarrassed. "Uh… maybe it's nature's gift. We're just lucky. That's it…"

Arthur remained puzzled, but couldn't figure out how it happened. He shrugged it off: "Come on, let's move the fridge together. Then I'll search nearby for materials to repair the boat."

Hearing this, Schiller froze. He nudged Hal with his elbow. Hal understood, stepped beside Arthur, and said: "Let's carry the fridge over there first and inventory the supplies."

Arthur didn't think twice. Together with Hal, he lifted the heavy refrigerator. He hadn't expected it—Hal looked smaller and weaker than him, yet most of the weight rested on Hal, who still moved with effortless speed.

Arthur praised: "Pilots really do have exceptional physical conditioning."

"Hmm… thanks. But not all pilots are like this. I'm among the best…" Hal smiled.

Watching the two walk farther away, Schiller quickly whispered to the gray mist inside him: "Quick—identify what here can be used to repair the boat. Destroy it all…"

Schiller glanced around, confirmed no one was watching, then crouched, pressed his hand to the ground. Gray mist spread rapidly, instantly consuming every remaining piece of plane wiring. The mist spoke inside his mind: "Done. Unless he can decompose and reconstruct at the molecular level, he won't find a single usable component."

Schiller finally relaxed. When Arthur returned to search for usable materials, he sighed in disappointment: "Maybe this plane was too advanced—I found zero wiring inside. My god, how did it even function?"

At that moment, Schiller stepped forward and patted his shoulder. "Don't be greedy. Nature's gifts are always limited. We've already been lucky enough."

Arthur nodded. Schiller's logic made sense. He had a broad mind and didn't obsess over unsolved mysteries.

So he returned to the immediate problem: "There's too much food in this fridge. We could move it in batches, but it's better to move it all at once—otherwise, seagulls or lizards might steal it."

Arthur surveyed the surroundings. "We can use palm trunks. Cut them down, lay them on the ground, and roll the supplies forward. That should get it there faster and with less effort."

"Why go through all that trouble? I can just…" Hal began.

Schiller jabbed him with his umbrella, glancing at him with disdain. "You want to cheat?"

"I…" Hal was speechless. He stepped beside Schiller and whispered: "Aren't you cheating too?"

"I did use special abilities before, but from now on, I won't."

Hal snorted. "Then let's make a bet. Whoever uses their powers first, whoever breaks the rules first—that person loses."

"Fine. If you lose, you handle all Green Lantern Corps duties for the next two months…"

While they spoke, Arthur had already begun searching for suitable wood. Soon, he found several appropriate trees not far from the crash site.

Palm trunks weren't hard to cut, especially with the massive plane wreckage nearby. Arthur rummaged through it and found sharp metal shards. He gathered several, stacked them, and hammered their edges with stones.

After several strikes, the edges fused. He hammered two notches at the base, tied the bundle with palm leaves, secured the handle at the bottom, then wrapped it again—creating a crude axe.

Just as Schiller thought he'd swing it to chop trees, he realized it wasn't an axe—it was a sickle.

Arthur hooked the metal edge onto the trunk and began rubbing back and forth. Soon, a shallow groove appeared. With enough repetition, the tree would fall.

Schiller watched his movements, then turned and walked into the wreckage. He found a larger metal sheet and began searching the ground for stones. Hal, confused, asked: "What are you doing?"

"I'm making a saw. Help me find a few suitable stones." Schiller replied.

Hal and Schiller scoured the ground, soon finding stones of similar size. They repeatedly bent the metal sheet until it fractured along its weak point, then hammered notches into the broken edge—creating a crude saw.

As Schiller approached with the saw, Arthur looked surprised. Schiller raised it proudly, waving it—only for Arthur to say: "Oh, I actually meant to make a saw. But I couldn't handle such a large metal sheet alone…"

"Then why didn't you ask me for help?" Schiller asked.

"Uh…" Arthur kept sawing with his small sickle. "Professor, you don't look like someone who does manual labor."

Arthur had been polite. Schiller glanced down at himself. Arthur was 185 cm tall; Schiller was two centimeters taller. But in width? He was nowhere near as muscular as Arthur.

Arthur's Arnold Schwarzenegger-like inverted triangle physique perfectly matched his young fisherman identity. Schiller, by contrast, was leaner. He sighed, turned, and saw Hal approaching. Hal rubbed his hands. "How's it going? Need help?"

"Forget it. You don't look like someone who does manual labor either." Schiller said, then picked up the saw and went to cut wood.

Hal looked down at himself. He was one centimeter taller than Schiller, but just as lean. Neither had Arthur's broad frame.

He stared at Arthur's mountain-like biceps, extended his own arm, struck a bodybuilder pose, patted his muscles, and muttered: "Not bad."

Then he remembered Arthur was only nineteen. He sighed again and went to help Schiller carry logs.

Muscle mass meant nothing to Schiller and Hal—they didn't rely on strength. So when both effortlessly cut and carried over a dozen logs, Arthur stared in disbelief at the pile of palm wood and said:

"Professor, you've truly impressed me. Even the strongest fisherman on our island couldn't gather this much wood so quickly…"

Both had promised not to cheat—but both had secretly used their special physiques. They awkwardly coughed, then turned to look at Arthur's results.

In just over ten minutes, Arthur had collected four logs. That was no small feat—beyond the strength gap, their tools were vastly unequal.

Arthur lifted a thick palm trunk effortlessly. Hal and Schiller turned to watch him carry it from one side to the other. Hal nudged Schiller. "You're sure we can beat him without cheating?"

"I… certainly am not sure."