Chapter 22: Arrangement

In the faint gray mist, Lumian woke up.

He immediately rolled off the bed and rushed to the window, gazing outside.

The mountain, composed of reddish-brown stones and russet soil, stood silently on the wasteland as usual.

Though only twenty to thirty meters high, it gave the impression of piercing the clouds and connecting to the sky, so Lumian instinctively described it as a “mountain peak.”

At its base, a ring of collapsed buildings in various states of ruin spread outward in concentric layers across the wasteland.

“From its bodily structure, that monster with the hunting rifle is clearly adept at running and jumping, and possesses a certain level of intelligence—it can use a relatively complex weapon like a hunting rifle…”

“It has an extremely strong tracking ability…”

“I’m not sure whether it possesses supernatural abilities like Aurora…”

“…”

Various details about the target surfaced in Lumian’s mind.

He preliminarily judged that if he were to confront the monster head-on, his chance of being killed was as high as ninety percent; if he tried to use his own special ability, he’d die even faster—once he entered meditation, he could easily push himself to the brink of death, and the monster would only need a single strike to finish him off.

Besides being unable to fight directly, ambush or assassination was also out of the question for Lumian—first, given the monster’s tracking ability, he likely couldn’t truly conceal his form, making stealth impossible; second, he had no ranged weapon, and even if he had a revolver, he wouldn’t be in such a desperate position now.

Over the past two days, Lumian had repeatedly pondered how to deal with the monster, and ultimately arrived at only one solution:

Use a trap!

He had once accompanied village hunters into the deep mountains and learned how to set simple traps, later refining the technique through minor pranks.

Lumian had originally planned to use the oil at home—for example, filling a large open barrel with it, placing it in a concealed elevated spot, tying it with a rope, and when the target approached, yanking the rope to tip the barrel and douse the monster in oil, then quickly hurling a lit torch at it.

But after careful consideration, he abandoned the idea.

Given the monster’s demonstrated tracking ability, he must greatly overestimate its sense of smell!

The odor of oil is unmistakable.

And if he tried masking it with another strong scent, he wasn’t sure whether the monster would adjust its tactics, whether it would, like a stray dog, detect even the slightest anomaly.

In the end, he chose to dig a deep pit and bury sharpened stakes.

This too carried risks: given the monster’s tracking ability, it had a significant chance of detecting the anomaly in advance and seeing through the trap.

Lumian’s response was to find a way to lower its vigilance and exploit cognitive blind spots.

In short, he could only hope to outwit the creature—under the disadvantage of inferior weapons—he must leverage humanity’s greatest advantage.

“At least from last time, it has some intelligence, but not much…” Lumian comforted himself inwardly.

Of course, he wouldn’t underestimate the monster—he planned to assume its intelligence was on par with an average human’s.

The benchmark was Pons Benet.

“No, that guy’s too stupid—if he didn’t have so many thugs, I’d have made him kneel and call me Dad long ago.” Lumian thought again and cautiously raised his estimate of the monster’s intelligence, “Hmm, treat it like an illiterate parish priest.”

He looked out the window once more, his gaze fixed on the wasteland between his home and the ruins.

This area was closer to the “safe zone,” safest for him—but it offered no cover, completely exposed, utterly unsuitable for ambush.

“Digging a pit isn’t a problem, but if I use myself as bait, the monster can spot me from afar and shoot me dead without even coming closer…” Lumian muttered, then decided to risk entering the ruins to find a suitable spot to set the trap.

The plan, already drafted, quickly took shape in his mind, leaving only one final point to confirm:

Digging a deep pit and burying stakes would take considerable time; Lumian couldn’t command the monster to wait until he was done.

After thinking, Lumian spread his arms wide, assuming the pose of “embracing the sun,” and prayed with greater devotion than ever before:

“My god, my father, please protect me in defeating that monster.”

“Praise the Sun!”

Most things in this world can never be guaranteed with one hundred percent certainty; Lumian no longer hesitated, picked up his spear and axe, left his bedroom, and entered the study.

Considering the target’s weapon, he decided to replace his “protective gear.”

Lumian took off his cotton coat and tied a stack of hardcover books to his chest and back with rope.

This was his homemade “paper armor!”

Faintly, he remembered his sister once warning that this might cause internal injuries, but now he had no choice.

Lumian moved his body, confirming the number of books wouldn’t overly hinder his combat ability.

He put on his leather jacket again, descended to the ground floor, and began searching for materials needed to set the trap:

Soon, he held a shovel in hand and had a coil of rope tied at his waist—first for climbing, second to weave into a rope net as a substitute for branches.

After completing his preparations, Lumian took a deep breath, pulled open the front door with his right hand gripping the axe.

Faint gray mist spread across the wasteland as he stepped forward, walking toward the mountain peak stained as if with blood.

In deathly silence, Lumian reached the edge of the ruins.

He first moved sideways a distance, discarded the shovel, spear, and rope into a dark corner of a collapsed building, then returned to his original entry point carrying only the axe.

He began his exploration without any unusual behavior, slowly advancing deeper into the ruins as before.

When he reached the spot where the three-faced monster had driven him back, he paused for nearly a minute before turning around.

Halfway back, he began detouring toward the collapsed building where he’d hidden the shovel and spear.

As he neared his destination, Lumian began observing the terrain, searching for a suitable location to set the trap.

“Here’s a relatively wide but short fissure—slight modifications would make it an excellent trap, and it would save me considerable time; another spot might take much longer—I can only hope the monster doesn’t track me down too quickly…”

Lumian retrieved the shovel and other tools, returned to the chosen spot, and swiftly set up the trap.

After roughly shaping the fissure, he chopped and sharpened wooden stakes, placed them at the bottom of the pit, then wove a rope net and laid it over the top, covering it with loose soil to blend with the surroundings.

After completing this, he pretended to be the monster, tracking himself toward the trap.

“If it detects this trap, it will surely detour—or even jump over it—likely landing around here…”

“I need it to see me only when it reaches this spot, not before—so I must hide right here…” Lumian paced the distance with his feet, judged the direction with his eyes, and slowly moved to a still-intact wall.

He crouched there, verifying his line of sight.

Then he began digging a second trap.

This was a setup designed for an “average human”:

When a person tracking a target discovers the target has laid a trap, easily spots it, and then finds the enemy hiding nearby, they typically grow overconfident and eager, overlooking the possibility of a second trap, rushing headlong toward the prey.

Average intelligence often falls into this cognitive blind spot.

Lumian only hoped the monster’s intelligence fell below the human average; otherwise, he’d have to turn and flee, likely being caught and killed somewhere in the wasteland, or only rarely making it back home and hiding in the “safe zone.”

The abnormalities in Cordu Village forced him to risk his life.

Time passed second by second; Lumian finally finished the second trap, yet the monster with the hunting rifle had not appeared.

Neither had any other monster.

He could finally relax slightly; after hiding the shovel and other tools, he stood upright, arms spread wide.

“Praise the Sun!” This time, his sincerity was greater.

Lumian immediately crouched beside the wall, watching the first trap.

From where he had come, the spot was invisible—blocked by a fully collapsed building.

He waited patiently.

Thump, thump, thump… Lumian clearly felt his heartbeat quickening.

For him, this was an unprecedented experience.

During his years as a vagrant, he had faced enemies older and physically stronger than himself, but neither side intended to kill—the goal was simply to seize food, money, or a place to sleep. Even if someone died in the process, it was always accidental.

Now, the enemy he was about to face was a monster that obeyed no human laws or morals, far stronger than him, possibly possessing minor supernatural abilities—if his plan faltered even slightly, his fate was obvious.

Thump, thump, thump… Lumian became unavoidably tense.

No one wants to die; he was no exception.

Inhale, exhale… Inhale, exhale…

Lumian practiced deep breathing to calm his frayed nerves.

But it seemed to have little effect.

For a moment, he both hoped the monster would arrive soon and feared its actual arrival.

The former because he wanted the ordeal to end quickly—no matter the outcome, at least he wouldn’t remain in this state of crushing tension, on the verge of collapse; the latter was pure fear.

Seeing his condition worsening, he told himself, “This is to avoid burdening Aurora,” and attempted meditation.

The crimson sun was harder to visualize than ever, but after Lumian’s effort, it finally emerged.

This calmed him considerably, though his body still trembled slightly.

At that moment, he heard a faint sound.

It was as if, beyond his sight, a pasture existed, and a shepherd was approaching silently.

(End of Chapter)