The Imperial Hunter

After staying in Utah for three more days, I had accomplished about half of my original goal. Why only half? Because I couldn’t properly interpret the newly fruited magical pieces in the white forest of fog.

What I had originally expected were functionally distinct magical phenomena like the techniques I use, and corresponding one-to-one “codes” for each phenomenon.

However, what the forest actually produced were dozens of tangled clumps like balls of yarn, with countless codes sharing parts of each other, interconnected by chains of sharing.

Seeing those clumps, even with the Eye of the Golden Age I couldn’t distinguish where the valid code ended and where the meaningless flow of magical power began. So each clump was like a collection of unsolvable equations and encrypted texts that I couldn’t guarantee decoding and interpreting even with great effort. It was in a messy state with lots of junk data mixed in, making it difficult to separate the pebbles from the gems.

The disappointment I felt from this was tremendous.

‘Is my soul too high to be a problem…?’

While the overwhelming biomass or difference in species could also be the cause, the core of the issue was still the quality and level of the soul. After all, it was a soul that might have existed even before the advent of modern humans. With the max estimate of the tree age being a million years, it was the time when Homo erectus was hunting with hand axes and learning to use fire.

If I had stayed in the forest from the beginning and observed the daily changes day by day, things might have been different. Or I could still settle in now to do research.

However, I was no scholar. To me, knowledge was just a tool for business, management, struggle, and desperate survival. I couldn’t devote my lifetime to researching one subject. Perhaps in the peaceful times after ultimate victory…

The reason I dwelled on this past disappointment was that I was experiencing similar frustration here in the Oregon forest I arrived at after leaving Utah.

The 2,500-acre kingdom of mycelia occupied by the mushroom as a single organism had burdened me with new troubles. At least the soul here was relatively young, not exceeding 870 years at most. That meant the difficulty level of the equations and codes it contained wasn’t as high as those of the Poplar Cluster.

Of course, relatively speaking. 870 years was by no means a trivial length of time. I felt the weight of that long history weighing down on me.

I was at my wit’s end.

The 2,500-acre mycelial entity that disappointed me with its primitive, localized circuits, in the beginning, was now tormenting me with some inscrutable technique. There were clearly outputs coming from the circuit, but no observable phenomena, which was bizarre.

As I was stressed like this, a group approached me. Smelling faintly of marijuana, they draw near, giggling. No weapons, many awakened to primitive magic but the average level was low. Their circuit development was imbalanced so they were useless as powers. I was getting a radio call from the security team.

“Some people claiming to be druids. They’re inviting us to join them.”

Tsk… Judging by their gathering to smoke pot together, they were not the orthodox CRP from the UK or the reformist RDNA from the US, most likely idiots just pretending based on hearsay and ‘spiritual experiences’. Even if they were orthodox, they were still pretenders.

I made a hostile expression to signal them to pass by, but these incapable bastards turned toward me, still giggling.

A woman with no outerwear, just a white dress, approached with a bright greeting.

“Hello?”

“……Hello.”

“Are you alone?”

“I have companions. I just wanted to be alone.”

“Oh my. Did something bad happen to you?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh dear.”

The barefoot woman clasped her hands with a pitiful expression.

“People with bad things happening shouldn’t be alone.”

…Is this bitch crazy?

Ignoring her was tempting, but the problem was that if I just passed by this location, the continuous flow of circuits I had been observing slowly stopped, and it was annoying enough as it was. I was tempted to chase them away in a fit of anger, but it wouldn’t have been a good idea. 

Unlike the fog-covered forests of Utah, this kingdom was also drawing in numerous tourists and pilgrims with its massive spiritual presence. Similar to the Trembling Giant, there was no surface-level danger here, so many sightseers strolled through the forest, and there were plenty of government researchers and patrols trying to prevent forest damage, such as military personnel and National Park Service (NPS) Rangers.

This meant that if a violent incident occurred, armed military personnel and intoxicated young awakeners from all over would gather.

Thanks to that, as a tree that had managed to pass through Richfield safely, I was able to focus on my work as long as I remained hidden in the forest. This was also because, among the many awakeners, the one who would discover me and figure out how to suppress my magical field was a potential enemy.

As the woman in white spoke kindly.

“It’s fortunate. We are priests who convey the teachings of the great nature and our Mother Amillaria to those who find life difficult and painful. Would you like to join us? We were just about to prepare a meal. Have some with us and listen to some wise words. Your companions are welcome too.”

Armillaria refers to the entire genus of honey fungi. In other words, these were priests who worshiped mushrooms.

“Thank you for the offer, but I must decl-“

“Oh my, oh my.”

Before I could finish declining, the woman, delighted to have found something, bent over.

“Look, there were life’s fruits here.”

I frowned when I saw the lump she was picking up, calling it the fruit of life. The lump was a cluster of cells, referred to as Immortality Cancer, that continued to nourish themselves with magic power and mana even after the host’s death. Unlike the varied names for primitive magic and awakened individuals, which still differed by country and region, Immortality Cancer was widely called by the same name in many countries, perhaps because its traits were too distinct and visible.

On the small lumpy tumor the woman found, there were wings, feathers, and a head. Judging from the small black and white stripes on its tiny head, I wondered if it might be a type of chickadee commonly found in North America. Feathers sparsely remaining like a cancer patient’s hair shook in the cold wind.

“Now, come down.”

The woman, who had coaxed the ants that had been pecking at the tumor, tapped it gently, causing the flesh to tear. She then called her companion over to put the plump tumor into the basket he was holding. Seeing the contents, I narrowed my eyes again. The basket was half-filled with similarly sized magical tumor masses.

Wait. Didn’t she say they were about to prepare a meal?

“You’re not planning to eat that, are you?”

“Yes.”

The priestess smiled and answered.

“It’s a gift bestowed on us by great nature, isn’t it? There’s no reason not to eat it. Once you dress the meat, carve slits, and marinate it, it’s delicious baked medium. We sell the rest too.”

“…Are you saying there are people who purchase it to eat?”

“That’s right.”

A relaxed explanation followed her light affirmation.

“First, individual vegetarians privately request it. They don’t eat meat because they dislike slaughter, not because they dislike meat, so since this isn’t meat deliberately killed, it’s okay to eat. If they can just overcome the revulsion from how it looks.”

“…….”

“And more and more people from China have been looking for it. They say they use it as medicine. What was it called, roker? Lowker? Something like that.”

From the pronunciation, it was probably nutmeg.

(+)