One Hundred and Twenty-one: The Fat Man of Venice

With an unprecedented show of generosity, Fyin politely declined the dinner of thanks hosted by the Tauren big sister—perhaps it would be more accurate to call her a maternal aunt—known as Wet-Nurse in the Candlelight. According to her own explanation, this was entirely because she had suddenly remembered she had to "work overtime" on the evening agreed for the banquet.

And when Wet-Nurse in the Candlelight sincerely and genuinely expressed that she could easily postpone this token of appreciation to any time the guild master was free, Fyin's expression looked precisely like someone forcing a fly into her mouth by the neck.

"Really, there's no need..." Dragging us along, she fled in a panic, leaving the Tauren aunt trailing far behind. She bolted in a flurry, tossing out absurd falsehoods along the way that even she herself couldn't possibly believe:

"...Since we've joined the guild, we're all family. Helping one another without expecting a reward is only natural. Treating us to a meal is far too formal, truly no need at all... No need, no need..."

Watching our retreating figures, the Tauren aunt stood with her hands crossed over her slightly plump belly, smiling kindly. Faintly, we heard her sigh in admiration: "What a fine girl, so generous and capable. If only my daughter were... Tsk tsk tsk tsk..."

Seeing that Wet-Nurse in the Candlelight had not followed, Fyin finally came to a halt, panting heavily as she patted her chest with lingering fear and said to us, "Thank goodness I saw Buddha's Smile's fate today. It really seems you shouldn't meet online friends casually, especially ones living in the same city. Just in case I too... Slurp..." As if imagining something unimaginably terrifying, she shuddered violently, goosebumps breaking out all the way to her face.

"...Guild Master big sis? Just how old are you? Do you have a partner? I know a few nice young men. All unmarried, would you like me to introduce some to you..." Suddenly, the Tauren aunt's voice drifted over like an unshakeable specter from behind.

"Oh, mother of mine. Why does that sound more and more like..." Fyin sprang up from the ground like a lit firecracker, completely unsparing of cost as she cast two or three "Teleport" spells in succession, scrambling frantically forward. I had the feeling that in her eyes, even the Doomsday Sovereign Dalenthier was not half as terrifying as this kind and amiable Tauren aunt.

I found this completely baffling...

Buddha's Smile had been press-ganged by his newly reunited father to act as a grinding coolie for equipment, and Fyin immediately drafted me as a substitute. I didn't agree right away, busy instead with delivering the evening gown to that yearning lady, and waiting patiently until she finally calmed down from the thrill of donning her new clothes. Only after she had preened to her heart's content before the mirror did she deign to tell me: the suspicious vagrant reeking of corpse odor had drifted upstream along the Dawn River toward the Cokla Pass—which happened to be Fyin and her companions' destination as well.

Thus, fate once more intertwined our paths, compelling us to journey onward together toward our respective goals.

The Cokla Mountains lie at the northernmost reaches of the Falvey Continent, formed by a continuous chain of thousands of snow-capped ice peaks piercing the clouds. The peaks here are blanketed in snow year-round, swept by howling blizzards and swirling tempests day in and day out. Legend has it that the Cokla Mountains mark the edge of the world; cross these pristine snowy summits and glaciers, and one might find the World's End. Beyond the World's End lies the endless void, a realm beyond domains deemed taboo even by the omnipotent gods—and for me, that was the ultimate boundary of the world I could touch.

The Cokla Pass is an entrance at the southern end of the Cokla Mountains. The Dawn River, boasting the widest basin and the most abundant water volume among all rivers traversing the Falvey Continent, originates right here. A species of monsters known as "Chaqink Bigfoots" roam these parts. Their physiques are extremely bloated, with particularly enormous bellies—making them look almost like the cousins of Orcish Shadow Thieves from the Long Triangle. Thick, heavy white fur covers their entire bodies, nearly obscuring their eyes, mouths, and noses, giving them a rather simple-minded and even friendly appearance—though I guarantee you will not be fooled by this illusion for long. They will show you in their own very "sincere" fashion that they are without a doubt among the most ferocious thugs you will ever encounter in this world.

Curiously enough, their feet are massive; each foot is as large as a cattail-leaf fan, and their legs always splay far apart. They sway back and forth as they walk, constantly making one fear they will trip over their own feet.

Yet, comical and ugly as their clownish gait may appear, they are not nearly as sluggish as they look—in fact, they are far more agile than you might imagine. Their broad soles prevent them from sinking into the deep snow, sparing them the ten percent movement speed penalty that plagues us in snowy terrain.

Therefore, when you, like me, become captivated by their light and ethereal footwork, and suffer tenfold under their mortar-sized fists, you will surely join me in regretting your mockery of their seemingly comical big feet, while developing a newfound reverence for the word "life"—in this cruel world, only the adaptable grow strong, and only the strong survive. When I used my shallow ignorance to mock others as "ugly," I failed to hear the natural law of survival of the fittest simultaneously mocking my foolish sense of aesthetics with an even louder voice.

Never look down upon any creature, no matter how different they are from you.

Each is a miracle of creation. So I thought.

These "Chaqink Bigfoots" are quite numerous, and I believe they are a semi-intelligent humanoid race. They have even formed primitive tribes of modest scale. Each tribe consists of some thirty to forty individuals, guarding their respective territories and keeping to themselves. Any outsider who dares to step into their domain—such as ourselves—will instantly face merciless attack. At the center of each tribe burns a campfire, beside which sits a long-bearded, grey-furred "Chaqink Bigfoot Elder." Unlike the muscular and robust warriors of the tribe, these elders are not particularly skilled in close combat, but they can wield simple ice-type spells to launch ranged attacks against us.

If I had not witnessed it with my own eyes, I could never have imagined that in such an extremely harsh environment, such vibrant signs of life could persist, even giving rise to a rudimentary sub-civilization. Given sufficient time—I imagine—for them to gradually grow and mature in such an environment, might they eventually become yet another intelligent race walking the Falvey Continent, standing alongside humans, Tauren, and Orcs... as masters of this land?

Even as I lost myself in this pleasant daydream of pan-continental solidarity, welcoming a newborn brother race in eternal peace and friendship, I casually hacked the nearest hulking savage to the ground with a single sword stroke...

If such a thing were truly possible, it would indeed be a miracle of creation, I thought.

An Elfin philosopher surnamed Ma once stated that the crucial distinction between intelligent and non-intelligent races lies in the fact that true intelligent races can manufacture tools—it is precisely under the fluttering banner of this theoretical definition that the rash and impulsive Tauren race barely manages to squeeze into the ranks of "intelligent races." By this standard, these Bigfoot savages possess immense potential to become an "intelligent race." At the least, they have already learned to craft weapons—and quite standardized ones at that.

Nearly every adult Bigfoot wields a finely crafted weapon—a thick wooden club, tapered at one end and thick at the other, clearly shaped through deliberate trimming. They know enough to grasp the thin end and strike their enemies with the thick end to generate greater destructive force. For a race that survives purely by hunting, this is quite simply the greatest invention in history—in fact, I have proven with my own flesh, blood, and bones just how shockingly great this invention truly is.

However, that was not what concerned me most.

Every single one of them possesses a wooden club, and that is where the real problem lies. Don't you find it strange? This is a snowy alpine plateau; the tallest terrestrial plants you can see here are patches of moss no thicker than your palm. If you walk straight south from here without stopping for two days and two nights, you might spot a dying larch by the roadside. And that is likely the closest tree to this place.

Yet these Bigfoots manage to equip every single individual with a large wooden club, and a large, thick, sturdy one at that! I racked my brains and could not fathom how on earth they managed it.

What did I say earlier?

Ah, now *that* is truly a fucking miracle of creation.

I genuinely thought so.

"Where on earth did these fat bastards get so many heavy clubs? There isn't even a blade of grass around here..." I deftly parried a lethal weapon hurtling toward my face, voicing my perplexity with a hint of grievance.

"Fat is fat, what do you mean by fat bastard?" Long Triangle immediately glared at me, shouting in indignant protest, "Just because we're fat, does that mean we deserve to die?"

This psychologically sensitive Orc Shadow Trader evidently held a rather wavering stance regarding the freedom and liberation movement of the peoples of the Falvey Continent—merely because his oversized, fatty vanity, prone to premature atrial contractions, had suffered a minor wound, he instantly aligned himself with that horde of vicious savages into an "us."

"Don't we fat people have eyes..." I know not which fragile chord in Long Triangle's soul my words had struck, but he abruptly grew sorrowful and indignant, holding forth with an aria-like, high-pitched, and impassioned eloquence:

"...Don't we fat people have senses, organs, dimensions, affections, passions? Fed with the same food—ah, though we eat a bit more—hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a thin person is?"

His emotion was so intense, as if he were venting in this single instant the accumulated humiliations suffered by mocked fat people over thousands of years. Every word leaping from his tongue seemed forged in a furnace; though brief, they were charged with the cutting power of swords, leaving one utterly defenseless and humbled.

My heart was filled with such remorse; had we not been in the thick of a fierce battle, I truly ought to have engaged in deep self-reflection in the recesses of my soul and bowed before him in a public apology.

"...If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?" His speech continued. I never knew this unremarkable Orc was a master of linguistics; it seemed he was prepared to babble forth this magnificent and elegant speech forever. I am convinced that if someone had transcribed his every word at that moment, it would have culminated in an immortal literary masterpiece.

"He's truly a literary giant!" I praised sincerely.

"Indeed, he is a literary giant, and Shakespeare's immortal masterpiece is *The Fat Man of Venice*. Those are two facts I only learned just now," String Song muttered rolling his eyes beside me, the whites of his eyes appearing especially magnified through his spectacles. Even so, the bowshot he casually loosed struck dead center in a Bigfoot's chest.

"Shakespeare? Which Shakespeare?" I asked in confusion.

"How many Shakespeares could there be? The jewel of England. Supposedly his language has the power to shatter souls, and countless English students have suffered mental breakdowns under the torture of his prose."

"Sounds like a Warlock..." I judged.

"Correct, a demonic Warlock, the endless nightmare of GRE and TOEFL students," String Song nodded in agreement.

Amidst our whispered consultation, the sorrow, indignation, and passion in Long Triangle's heart had also reached their zenith. Wielding a hammer in one hand and a gleaming dagger in the other, he cried out at the top of his lungs:

"...And if a fat man wrong a thin man, what should his humility be? Revenge! If a thin man wrong a fat man, what should his sufferance be by example of thin men? Why, the usage of a fucking uncle!"

Ugh...

Following a surge of supremely magnificent, gem-like rhetoric, it took a steep nosedive and suddenly popped out with such vulgar phrasing, leaving me entirely unequipped to adapt to such violently fluctuating emotional shifts. At that moment, all respect I held for this eloquently spoken Orc linguist vanished entirely: I had merely slipped up and said the wrong thing, but retaliating by telling me to go violate my uncle was going a bit too far—especially given the sheer technical difficulty of the endeavor, as I genuinely could not produce an uncle related to me by blood.

Having suffered such a grievous insult, I angrily turned my head, intending to demand justice from that foul-mouthed fat man...

Whereupon I instantly grew calm: this was merely a minor misunderstanding.

Although Long Triangle had unwaveringly and proactively stood on the same front as his fellow fat Chaqink Bigfoots, they clearly did not share his warm sentiment of considering Long Triangle part of "us." A wooden club squarely connected with Long Triangle's forehead mid-speech, producing a dull, heavy thud—and our Orc Shadow Trader instantly clutched his head and howled in agonizing pain.

His pupils were moist, the corners of his eyes brimming with tears. I could not tell whether this was because his impassioned speech on fat people had moved him to tears, or because the Bigfoot's massive club was simply a weight too heavy for life to bear.

"You bastards, actually daring to sneak attack while my guard was down! I'll butcher the lot of you short-lived fat bastards..." Wiping away the tears at the corner of his eyes, Long Triangle instantly cast his rhetoric regarding "fat bastards" to the winds, grinning hideously as he brandished his gleaming dagger and slaughtered those cute, naive Bigfoots without mercy.

And thus, the Falvey Continent gained yet another steadfast and high-spirited militant for the liberation movement.