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Chapter 3: The Hen and the Mighty Bull
Following the desperate cries for help, a colossal figure emerged from the depths of the forest. Two sharp horns jutted from his head, and instead of feet, he had two sturdy hooves. Roaring and staggering, the tauren charged toward me.
Tauren are one of the strongest and most boisterous intelligent races on the continent of Falvea. Many have questioned whether they truly qualify as an "intelligent" race. After all, their tribes live in scattered, primitive clans, and their volatile tempers often resemble those of wild beasts more than rational beings. Their only remotely intellectual traits are an exaggerated sense of pride and honor—qualities that often lead them into trouble.
Even among this formidable race, the tauren now approaching me was exceptionally tall and muscular. I couldn’t accurately gauge his height, but my head barely reached his chest. His bare torso and rugged face were covered in intricate black and red tattoos, which bulged with his sinewy muscles, giving him the appearance of a demon freshly risen from hell.
Traditionally, tauren have long names that include their own name, their father’s name, their nickname, the name of their greatest defeated foe, and their clan name. For example, "Hordel Karren Red-Eye Highland-Tiger Windhorn" would indicate a tauren named Hordel from the Windhorn tribe, whose father was Karren, who earned the nickname Red-Eye after defeating a Highland Tiger.
None of these conventions applied to the behemoth before me. His name stretched across three lines above his head, far too lengthy to fully comprehend. To my astonishment, it read:
"Eternal Unparalleled Invincible Supreme Heroic Wise Fierce Brave Strategist Youthful Billionaire Fist-Smashing-Tiger Foot-Kicking-Dragon Moon-Grabbing-Ocean-Conquering Gentleman Flower-Charming Youth Greatest Hero Grandmaster Oxenforce Soulbound Titan Tauren Millionfold."
I must admit, as he lumbered toward me, those lines of text above his head jiggled violently. It’s possible I missed a few details amidst the chaos. What truly amazed me, though, wasn’t just how long his name was—it was so absurdly grandiose and over-the-top that even the God of War might feel unworthy of such a title. For simplicity’s sake—and because reciting his full name could take hours—I’ll just call him “Millionfold.”
Despite his grandiose name, this mighty warrior was currently fleeing for his life. Chasing him relentlessly?
...a flock of squawking hens.
In his hands, Millionfold wielded a massive wooden beam thick enough to serve as a pillar in some grand hall. However, in his clumsy grip, the weapon proved no deadlier than a plowshare. With awkward yet earnest swings, he bashed the ground repeatedly, missing the hens almost entirely. Occasionally, his strikes landed, but they did little to deter the relentless poultry pecking at his flesh.
Each time a hen struck, a small burst of blood appeared on Millionfold’s skin, accompanied by floating numbers like "-2" or "-3"—indications of his diminishing soul strength. Normally, such creatures could never catch up to a running tauren, but Millionfold’s movements were staggeringly uncoordinated. One step deep, another shallow; sometimes he stumbled forward with both arms flailing in sync. This erratic gait allowed the hens to surround him repeatedly.
Whenever cornered, Millionfold stomped his hooves, creating shockwaves that destabilized the hens momentarily. Seizing the opportunity, he gulped down a vial of soul potion and resumed his frantic escape. Thanks to his racial abilities—War Stomp, which slowed nearby enemies’ movement speed by 50%, and Natural Resilience, which accelerated potion effects—he managed to survive longer than expected. Without these traits, he’d likely have been reduced to chicken feed long ago.
Pride is a hallmark of the tauren race, yet Millionfold stood out as an anomaly even among them. Spotting me at the edge of the woods, his eyes welled with relief. Spitting out mouthfuls of feathers, he guzzled another potion and lurched toward me, shouting, "Brother! Help me, save me!"
On Falvea, strength isn’t solely determined by physical prowess or combat skills. Often, the level of one’s soul determines true power. Through my magical mirror, I observed that Millionfold’s soul intensity was Level 1—the same as the hens attacking him. This explained why the mighty tauren struggled so pathetically against mere chickens.
Moments later, Millionfold ducked behind me, attempting to shield his towering frame—a futile effort given his size. Even seated, he loomed nearly as tall as me. The hens swarmed us, their claws scratching my armor with an ear-piercing screech. Feathers flew everywhere, and the stench of chicken droppings overwhelmed my senses. If given the choice, I’d rather face a lion than endure this chaos.
"What’s going on? Are you starting a chicken farm?" I yelled, grabbing one particularly persistent hen by the neck while addressing Millionfold, who was frantically trying to pry another off his face. Blood streaked his broad nose where the birds had left fresh wounds.
"I don’t know!" he bellowed. "I just accidentally crushed a few eggs!"
The hens demonstrated their lethality soon enough. While each peck dealt minimal damage, their relentless speed overwhelmed even seasoned fighters. Facing over a dozen simultaneously, I realized my armor absorbed most blows—without it, I’d already be fleeing for my life.
It became clear that unless I helped this clumsy giant resolve his predicament, neither of us would escape unscathed. Amidst the chaos, I finally grasped my sword hilt and swung wildly at the frenzied flock. A fat hen screeched and collapsed. A milky orb floated toward me, merging into my body.
This was its soul. On Falvea, every living being possesses a soul. When you slay another creature, their soul integrates into yours, strengthening it. Accumulate enough souls, and your own grows stronger—a process known as "leveling up."
The death of one hen didn’t faze the others. They continued their assault, admirable in their persistence but infuriating in their tenacity. Battling these enraged poultry felt perilous. And the danger wasn’t limited to them...
"Hey, watch where you’re swinging!" I narrowly dodged Millionfold’s errant beam, which left a sizable crater where I’d stood moments earlier.
"S-sorry!" Millionfold shrieked apologetically. Panicked, he flailed his weapon indiscriminately. "I’m new to using the brainwave sensor—it’s messing with my balance! Be careful!"
Brainwave sensor? Whatever it meant, I dismissed it as Planewalker jargon. My focus remained on survival.
Describing Millionfold’s performance defied linguistic limits. He moved like a drunken dancer, thrusting his beam with rigid, ineffective motions. Rather than evoking bravery, his actions resembled those of a timid goblin. Each swing destabilized him further, rendering him incapable of landing meaningful hits. By the time he aimed for one hen, it had already darted away, leaving his target to peck his rear.
Amidst the chaos, the hens pushed me to the brink. Despite killing seven or eight, my health plummeted dangerously low. Pain dulled as desperation took over, signaling that my vitality dipped below 5%. Death loomed.
Just as hope faded, Millionfold’s misaimed beam struck a hen sneaking up behind me, launching it far away. Its soul split between us upon returning, revitalizing our depleted energies. Unexpectedly powerful, the blow delivered a one-hit kill.
Inspiration struck. "Keep spinning! Don’t stop!" I shouted, diving to avoid another reckless swing.
Whether Millionfold understood or acted purely out of panicked obedience, he obeyed. Hoisting the beam, he began rotating in place. Faster and faster, the weapon blurred into a cyclone of destruction. The hens, undeterred, charged blindly into the whirlwind, only to be flung aside as defeated spirits.
When the last hen fell, warmth surged through me. My health bar refilled, and I felt newfound strength coursing through my veins. Millionfold experienced the same transformation.
We leveled up.
Checking my stats via the mirror revealed significant improvements:
Level 2 Warrior
Strength: 13
Wisdom: 10 (-2)
Agility: 12 (-2)
Health: 200/200
Stamina: 100/100
Attack Power: +2
Defense: +2
Where had Millionfold gone? Turning around, I found him sprawled on the ground, eyes spinning uncontrollably. "Dizzy… nauseous… stars everywhere…" he mumbled dreamily.
After recovering, Millionfold thanked me profusely. "Thanks to you, brother. I owe you my life." Rubbing his sore backside, he lamented, "I shouldn’t have set my sensory levels so high. Who knew being pecked by hens would hurt this much?"
Glancing at his reflection, he gasped in surprise. Under "Combat Skills," a new entry appeared: Power Cyclone—Multi-target close-range attack, +50% damage, +100% attack speed, knockback effect, 1-minute dizziness post-use, consumes 70 stamina.
Clearly, this chaotic skirmish (if battling hens could even qualify as such) had granted him a unique skill. As comrades-in-arms, I celebrated his growth. Still, remembering the idea originated from me yet benefited him alone left a faint bitterness.
"Where do you hail from, Earth’s Son Millionfold?" I asked. His name sounded absurd. "There aren’t any tauren tribes nearby."
Scratching his head sheepishly, Millionfold replied, "I’m from Stronghoof Valley. I came here collecting herbs but got lost. Where am I?"
"This is Kampnavia," I answered absently. Curious, I added, "Why didn’t you check your map? Following it should’ve led you home."
"Map?" he echoed, bewildered. "What map? I’ve never seen one."
“You don’t have a map? How is that even possible?" I pulled my map from my backpack and showed it to him. "You didn’t have something like this?"
"Oh, so this is a map…!" His eyes widened in sudden realization. He smacked his forehead and groaned in regret. "...I... I sold it!"
"You sold yours?" I exclaimed incredulously.
"Yeah, I thought it useless and traded it for a copper coin..." His voice trailed off, resembling a chastised child.
Words failed me. Even among tauren, renowned for their lack of intelligence, Millionfold seemed uniquely dim-witted.
"Brother, I’m new here. Can you guide me?" He pleaded, his tattooed face contorted into an awkward expression of supplication.
Being addressed as “brother” by someone half again my height made my palms sweat. "Call me Jeff," I said hastily. "Let’s head to town and buy you a new map first..."
I was astonished by the journey Millionfold had taken, revealed in full detail after I helped him obtain the map showing every step he'd made. Born sixty days' travel north in a highland region, his journey passed through demon-ravaged cities, beast-infested jungles, necromancer-haunted graveyards, and even a dragon’s lair. How this Level 1 novice survived such perils baffled me. Either he was the greatest traveler I’d ever met or the luckiest fool alive.
Returning him home wasn’t feasible. Venturing beyond Kampnavia’s walls risked becoming prey ourselves—not to lions but perhaps rabbits. Considering our recent encounter with hens, dying under gentler predators seemed embarrassingly plausible.
"So, what next?" Millionfold queried, stowing his newly acquired map.
His question caught me off guard. Before meeting him, I too wrestled with this seemingly simple yet confounding dilemma.
Ironically, unsure of my own purpose, I now advised another. Life works that way—uncertain individuals often dispense sound counsel to others.
"We could find work," I suggested hesitantly. "I know of tasks we can tackle together."
No one knew better than I how newcomers should begin their journey in Kampnavia. Leading Millionfold to the city gates, we approached Gate Guard Geoffrey Kidd.
"Cosplay!" Millionfold exclaimed predictably. "Your impersonation is flawless! Had you stayed still, I’d surely mistake you for him."
Though puzzled by his remark, I chose not to dwell on it. Confirming Millionfold accepted the quest to hunt wild dogs, we swiftly exited the gates.
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