Condolences

"Today, the taste seems different..." Zane muttered, swirling the spoon in his bowl of bark soup like a man reviewing a fine wine.

"I used sandalwood for the smell and some wild grass as the base for the soup, Master," Sylphie said with a hopeful smile.

"Is that so? I see... I see..." Zane nodded thoughtfully, his face calm—too calm. Then his expression twisted into something out of a horror movie. "What is this life..."

After a hefty dose of trauma courtesy of the demonic rabbits from hell, Zane couldn't help but reflect on his newfound tolerance for bitter flavors.

"You know what? The hell am I fine with this!" he suddenly roared, slamming the table with enough force to jolt Sylphie and nearly spill the soup.

"M-Master?" Sylphie stammered, clutching her apron nervously.

"Weakness," Zane growled, leaning forward with a determined glint in his eyes. "That's what this is about. Those damn rabbits fear fire—it's their one weakness!"

Sylphie's brow furrowed in concern. "But Master, we were lucky the fire extinguished itself last time. If it hadn't, I fear the whole village might have had to evacuate—"

"You're looking at the small picture here, Sylphie," Zane interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. "Because the way things are going, we'd be better off eating tree bark flambé by the roadside."

Sylphie tilted her head, thoroughly confused but choosing to remain silent.

Zane stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He grabbed a couple of wooden sticks and plopped down onto the floor. With a confident flick of his hand, Vista appeared in front of him, its familiar black screen glowing faintly.

"Alright, let's do this," Zane muttered, his fingers moving across the simulation like a conductor directing an orchestra. He dragged and dropped the materials into place, running the design through Vista's simulation.

Simulation Running...

Success Rate: 5%

Zane twitched. His eyebrow gave a single, rebellious jump.

"Five percent?" he muttered, his voice trembling. "Five percent? Are you telling me this masterpiece has less chance of success than a toddler playing the stock market?"

He slammed his hands on the ground and shot to his feet, his frustration boiling over. "Sylphie! We're flipping this place upside down!"

"Master?" Sylphie asked timidly as Zane began tearing through the house like a whirlwind.

He rummaged through shelves, tossed aside pots, and even peeked under rugs like a madman searching for hidden treasure. Finally, his eyes landed on the bed.

"Hmm..." Zane's gaze narrowed, his fingers stroking his chin. "The support beam is metal."

The thick, sturdy rods that made up the bed frame gleamed faintly in the dim light. A slow grin spread across Zane's face as he felt the gears in his mind turning.

"Sylphie," he said, his tone suddenly calm and calculating.

"Yes, Master?" Sylphie replied hesitantly, unsure of where this was going.

"I'm taking the bed."

"...What?"

Zane didn't answer. Instead, he immediately began dismantling the bed frame, pulling out the metal rods with a feverish intensity. Sylphie, now accustomed to her master's increasingly strange behavior, stayed quiet and watched as he worked.

Once he had the metal rods in hand, he returned to Vista, feeding the materials into the simulation.

Simulation Running...

Success Rate: 60%

Zane's eyes lit up. "Sixty percent? Now we're talking!"

He leaned back with a wicked grin, his laughter echoing through the small house and, unfortunately, the entire village. Sylphie glanced at the door nervously, sure that the neighbors were considering evacuation plans.

"Master?" Sylphie ventured cautiously. "Are you... okay?"

"Oh, I'm better than okay, Sylphie," Zane replied, his voice taking on an unsettlingly manic tone. He straightened up, holding one of the metal rods like a trophy. "I'm inspired. I know exactly what to do."

Sylphie sighed and muttered under her breath, "It's like the accident all over again..."

Zane, too caught up in his scheming, ignored her completely. He stood triumphantly in the middle of the room, brandishing the metal rod like a sword.

"This village won't know what hit it. Or, more importantly, what I hit it with."

Sylphie tilted her head. "Master, are we still talking about rabbits?"

"Of course we are!" Zane declared. "This is all for the rabbits!"

He paused for dramatic effect before adding quietly, "And also for me. Because I refuse to let this world keep beating me down. Let's make a masterpiece, Sylphie."

---

Three days later. Nine grueling, soul-destroying bowls of tree bark soup later... Zane had done it.

He stood proudly beside his latest creation, which looked like the unholy offspring of a medieval weapon and an Ikea DIY project. But it worked—or at least, he hoped it did.

Sylphie returned just as he was putting the final touches on his masterpiece. "Master, I'm back," she called cheerfully.

"Oh, did you bring the villagers with you?" Zane asked, turning around. His gaze landed on the three men behind Sylphie, and he immediately began sizing them up.

The first man was huge—so massive, in fact, that Zane briefly wondered if the guy moonlit as a mountain. Despite his intimidating size, his expression was comically innocent, like a puppy that didn't quite know it could knock over furniture.

The second man was the human equivalent of a blank sheet of paper. Average face, average height, average build. If someone looked up "generic villager" in a dictionary, they'd probably find his picture.

The third man, in stark contrast, looked like a villain in a budget thriller. He was skinny to the point of looking wiry, and his sharp, angular face practically oozed menace. His eyes darted around the room like he was planning a heist.

"Master," Sylphie began, gesturing to the group, "the big guy is Ron. He's the son of the village elder."

"Of course he is," Zane muttered, eyeing Ron's biceps, which looked like they could crush coconuts.

"The guy next to him is Vlad," Sylphie continued.

"Ah, yes," Zane said, squinting at Vlad's aggressively average face. "The spirit of mediocrity. Got it."

"And the mean-looking guy is Tim," Sylphie finished.

Zane arched an eyebrow at Tim. "Tim," he repeated slowly.

Tim straightened his posture defensively. "What? Me? Mean? That's absurd."

"I apologize," Zane said quickly, waving a hand. "My maid's a little foolish sometimes. It's just malnutrition rewiring her brain. Completely harmless, I assure you."

Tim didn't look entirely convinced, but he let it slide, much to Zane's relief.

"So," Zane continued, clapping his hands together, "did you guys bring what I asked for?"

"You mean the knife, sir?" Vlad asked, holding up the item in question.

Zane nodded. "Good. Now, let me show you how to turn this into a makeshift spear."

He took the knife and began demonstrating how to securely tie it to the end of a sturdy branch. His movements were deliberate but unpolished, as though he was figuring it out as he went along.

As Zane worked, Ron spoke up, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Lord, Miss Sylphie said you're working towards bringing food for the village. Is that true?"

"Of course it's true," Zane said, nodding confidently. "Why else would I call the strongest—and, uh, well, at least one of you—here if I didn't have a plan?"

Ron seemed satisfied with the answer and let out a sigh of relief.

But Tim wasn't as easily convinced. He narrowed his eyes, his voice skeptical. "We heard the budget was gone."

Zane froze for the briefest of moments, his hands mid-knot. Then, like a true master of improvisation, he sighed deeply, his expression shifting to one of exaggerated sorrow.

"It's... a sad story," he began, his voice trembling slightly.

The three men leaned in closer, their curiosity piqued.

"When my family banished me here..." Zane paused, covering his face dramatically. "My stepmother—oh, I shouldn't say this. It's too painful."

His voice cracked just enough to sell the performance. The men exchanged awkward glances, unsure whether to press further or offer condolences.

Zane peeked through his fingers, gauging their reactions. Behind the mask of gloom, he was grinning like a cat who'd just tricked three mice into handing over their cheese. How do you like my emotional, half-assed response? he thought gleefully.

The room fell silent as the men, sufficiently guilt-tripped, decided not to pursue the budget question any further.

"Well," Zane said, clapping his hands again and snapping them out of their contemplative state. "Enough about that. Let's focus on the task at hand. Ron, Vlad, Tim—welcome to my brilliant plan for the future of this village. You're going to love it."

Ron nodded eagerly, Vlad shrugged indifferently, and Tim narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

Sylphie tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "What's the plan, Master?"

Zane flashed a devilish grin. "Oh, you'll see. Let's just say it involves spears, fire, and a little thing I like to call genius."