Chapter 132: The Shelter
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Impaled on Chen Mo's spear was a massive sea fish, over a meter long. Previously hidden by his towering frame, it was only when he lowered it that the group caught sight of their feast.
With no intention of hiding anymore, Chen Mo decided to end the "airdrop" phase. Considering how long it had been since they'd had a proper meal, he had gone into the sea to catch this fish—both as a practical gift and a gesture of goodwill.
With his enhanced physique, holding his breath underwater for over ten minutes was effortless, and his swimming speed wasn't far off from most fish.
As he glided through the ocean, admiring the seabed scenery, he took his time selecting a worthy catch. Most of the effort had actually been spent leisurely exploring.
This particular fish weighed over twenty kilograms—more than enough to fill every stomach present.
Half an hour later, the fish had been cut into chunks, skewered on sticks, and placed over the fire.
The flames licked at the meat, producing faint crackling sounds as the surface gradually turned golden. Juices sizzled between the flesh, releasing an intoxicating aroma that made the two younger girls crouch by the fire, eyes glued to the roasting fish, swallowing hard at the scent.
That noon, for the first time since the crash, the survivors experienced the long-lost satisfaction of a full stomach—and with it, a wave of happiness and contentment.
In these harsh conditions, a single proper meal was enough to feel like a blessing. Their gratitude toward Chen Mo needed no words.
Yet Chen Mo didn't join them. His alloy-armored combat suit, though comfortable, wasn't exactly mealtime attire. And revealing his face wasn't an option. He'd eat later, back at his own camp.
While the group feasted, he wasn't idle. After delivering the fish, he vanished into the woods.
Once out of sight, he retrieved the Sword of Kings from his inventory, ready to switch to lumberjack mode.
But after a brief hesitation, he put it away.
The sword could slice through steel—let alone trees—but caution won out.
There was no telling if rescue would ever come. On this island, leaving fewer traces was wiser. The sword's cuts were unnaturally smooth, starkly different from ordinary tools, and could raise unwanted questions.
Besides, even without it, felling these trees was child's play for Chen Mo.
Selecting a straight, arm-thick sapling, he stepped forward, gripped the trunk with his left hand, and—with his right armored hand—chopped downward like a blade.
With barely any effort, the tree snapped clean. He stripped the branches, leaving only the straight trunk.
What would've been laborious for others was trivial for him. One after another, trees fell under his hands, branches torn away with ease. By the time he stopped, a pile of smooth, uniform logs lay ready.
With the lumber gathered, Chen Mo didn't return immediately. Instead, he headed back to his tent.
From his inventory, he retrieved roasted meat and fruits from *Underworld*, enjoying a leisurely, lavish lunch before resting briefly on his airbed. Only then did he rejoin the survivors.
The group, still basking in post-meal bliss around the fire, scrambled to their feet at his return, eyes alight with admiration.
Seeing they'd eaten their fill, Chen Mo gave a slight nod and cut to the chase.
**"Follow me."**
Taking everyone except the elderly man, he led them to the felled trees.
At the sight of the neatly stacked logs, confusion rippled through the group.
**"Carry these back to camp,"** Chen Mo instructed calmly under their puzzled gazes.
**"This afternoon, we build a house."**
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Brimming with curiosity and anticipation, the group set to work.
The logs—three to four meters long and as thick as an arm—weren't overly heavy. Even the two younger girls could manage two at a time with effort. Captain Zhao Jianmin, nearly recovered, shouldered three alone.
No one slacked. Trip after trip, they formed a bustling human chain, determined to contribute.
The girls, thrilled to finally be useful, pushed themselves hard. They refused to be deadweight—not when their rescuers, strangers who owed them nothing, had done so much.
Even when exhaustion set in, they gritted their teeth, hauling two logs at a time rather than lightening their load.
The others, too, worked tirelessly without complaint, even when Chen Mo wasn't watching.
Since the crash, Chen Mo had observed them all. He knew his help hadn't been misplaced.
They were worth saving.
Though limited in ability, each gave their all—sharing meager rations with those in greater need, striving to do their part.
It was only under his intervention, his unspoken "rules" of survival, that these "good people" had lasted this long. Without him, their fates would've been far grimmer.
This experience cemented a truth for Chen Mo:
*Justice needs guardians.*
Left to nature's merciless sieve, how many good souls met cruel ends while villains thrived?
He wanted more people like these to live. He wanted every wrongdoer punished.
Justice needed upholding. Evil needed purging.
And Chen Mo knew he could do far more than this.
It started here, on this island.
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Time passed. Dozens of logs, after countless trips, were finally all transported back.
Chen Mo, returning ahead, had already marked out the construction site.
Though calling it a "house" was generous—given the limitations, it was more of a sturdy shelter—compared to their current flimsy lean-to, this would be a mansion.
He'd chosen a slightly elevated, dry patch east of the camp, requiring little groundwork.
With the location set, Chen Mo didn't start immediately. Instead, when unobserved, he retrieved an Adamantium dagger from his inventory—25 centimeters long, 3 wide, and 5 millimeters thick. Perfect for makeshift carving.
Taking a log, he sharpened one end with the dagger, then charred it over fire for rudimentary preservation.
By the time the girls returned, sweating and panting with the final logs, Chen Mo had prepped enough materials to begin.
At the marked spot, he raised a sharpened log high with both hands—then drove it downward with force.
*Thunk!*
The log sank nearly half a meter into the earth.
The group gaped. The ground wasn't rock-hard, but that level of strength was staggering.
(Of course, Chen Mo was holding back. His current display matched a top-tier strongman—astonishing but not superhuman.)
Like a human pile-driver, he planted log after log, swiftly erecting the shelter's main supports.
With the framework up, Chen Mo directed the others to lash crossbeams into place with vines.
Under his guidance, teamwork turned the skeleton into a solid structure surprisingly fast.
Rather than a cramped A-frame or cone, Chen Mo had opted for a spacious design—five meters square, with a 2.5-meter ridge and 1.8-meter eaves. Roomy enough for ten without crowding.
The frame was sturdy, but gaps remained. The next step was simpler: gathering leafy branches to thatch the walls and roof, sealing out wind and rain.
By sunset, the green-tinted shelter stood complete.
The group beamed at their handiwork, the younger girls clapping in delight. No more huddling in drafty, cramped tents!
Though humble, the hut was solid and spacious, its thick leafy insulation banishing the night's chill.
Standing before it, they hardly felt like castaways anymore. It was more like a camping trip.
On Chen Mo's very first day among them, their living standards had skyrocketed.
And the days that followed felt like a dream.
No more hunger. No more sleepless nights shivering on the ground.
The fish weren't all provided by Chen Mo—he couldn't play fisherman daily. But he'd prepared for that.
When he produced several fishing rods, the group's jaws dropped.
*How?!*
The plane's wreckage had burned. There'd been no salvageable gear. Where had these come from?
And the dagger he'd used earlier—strictly prohibited on flights—what was its origin?
(Thankfully, Su Wan hadn't mentioned his military tent, airbed, or stockpile of fruit, or their shock would've been even greater. Even she was baffled but hesitant to pry.)
Chen Mo's explanation was succinct:
**"My boat sank nearby."**
No further details, but the group's imaginations filled the gaps.
*A deadly assassin, post-mission, taking a yacht vacation. Fully stocked with survival gear and supplies.*
The MREs, canned food, tent, dagger, fruits—it all made sense now.
After the boat sank, he'd washed ashore with some supplies, just in time to encounter their crashed plane.
As for the astronomical odds? For plane crash survivors, "impossible" had lost all meaning.
With fishing rods, the group could now sustain themselves. As their skills improved, half their number could secure enough food daily, freeing others for different tasks.
No one begrudged Chen Mo's minimal direct involvement. After their ordeal, they understood the value of aid. Nothing was owed; his help was pure generosity.
Compared to before, this was paradise.
Yet one tragedy still struck—as they'd feared.
The old man's heart condition was severe, requiring daily medication. Su Wan had carried a small supply, but even rationed, it ran out within a month.
Without it, his heart faltered. Despite their care, the pain grew worse.
A week before Chen Mo's next world-jump, the old man passed quietly in his sleep.
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