100\% DROP RATE : Why is My Inventory Always so Full? Chapter 836 - 846 - Action

Lucien was allowed out of bed two days later.

Cienna would probably have preferred keeping him there longer, but Lucien had reached the point where lying still hurt more than walking.

Luke remained under stricter supervision.

His wound had not penetrated deeply enough to threaten his organs, but it had torn across enough flesh that any careless movement could reopen it. Cienna had apparently decided that Lucien was merely stubborn while Luke was actively irresponsible.

Lucien saw no reason to disagree.

His first destination was not the damaged wall.

The village buried its dead that morning.

The graves had been prepared on a gentle rise beyond the western fields, where several generations of villagers already rested beneath simple stone markers.

Most of the settlement attended.

Lucien stood beside Luke and Cienna while the two bodies were lowered into the earth.

There were no elaborate ceremonies.

The village chief spoke about the lives the two men had lived, the work they had done, and the people they left behind.

One of them had been a father.

His wife stood with two children beside her, one old enough to understand why their father would not return home and the other still too young to completely grasp what was happening.

The other man had been a son.

His mother cried quietly while his father remained beside her with one hand on her shoulder.

The excitement surrounding the dragon had vanished.

For a little while, the sight of something legendary had overwhelmed the village’s fear.

Reality eventually returned.

Two neighbors were gone.

A household had lost the man who helped support it.

Two parents had lost their son.

Lucien had stood at more funerals than he cared to remember.

He had seen cities mourn thousands.

He had watched people disappear in wars that could swallow entire regions.

Two graves should not have felt especially large compared with those memories.

They did.

Perhaps it was because there were no armies here and no great battle.

There was only a village.

Two families.

Two empty places that everyone would notice tomorrow.

Lucien lowered his gaze.

This time, he also knew that he could have done more.

Not necessarily enough to save them.

He refused to pretend certainty where none existed.

But more.

That alone was enough.

Lucien closed his eyes.

He would act.

The decision no longer felt impulsive.

It felt settled.

Alanthuriel had warned him to do as little as necessary, not to become a spectator while history tore itself apart in front of him.

The distinction mattered more now.

Lucien still did not know how easily another timeline could stabilize from the changes he made in this era.

He knew enough about temporal branches to understand that a single decision did not automatically create a complete independent history.

A branch had to persist, accumulate differences, and eventually stabilize enough to continue on its own.

His presence here already represented an intrusion.

He could not undo that by pretending not to exist.

What mattered most was preventing the future the Abyssal Arch-Lords wanted.

As long as Lucien remained alive and continued opposing their interference, any history that formed around his actions would still contain someone working against their objective.

That was not a guarantee.

It was simply the most useful fact he currently possessed.

Survival mattered.

So did preserving the broad course of history wherever he could.

Lucien opened his eyes as the first soil fell over the graves.

Another thought had been following him for days.

His name was still Lucien.

His father was Luke.

His mother was Cienna.

Even now, Lucien could not decide whether that coincidence was absurd or terrifying.

What if it was not coincidence at all?

Alanthuriel knew far more about the Abyss and temporal structure than Lucien did. He had chosen Lucien to enter this passage.

What if Alanthuriel had expected more than simple pursuit?

What if he had known Lucien would eventually be forced into exactly this position?

Lucien did not like that possibility.

He liked the next one even less.

The Human Ancestor.

Somewhere in this age, the person remembered in the future as the Human Ancestor should exist.

That person would eventually change humanity’s relationship with energy.

Lucien still needed to find him.

If history remained intact, Lucien’s role might simply be to prevent the Arch-Lords and their Incarnations from removing the person or circumstances necessary for that achievement.

That was still the outcome Lucien preferred.

He would find the Human Ancestor.

He would protect him if necessary.

He would help ensure whatever needed to happen actually happened.

Lucien’s gaze drifted toward the fresh graves.

There was, however, a contingency he could no longer ignore.

What if the Human Ancestor had already been erased?

What if Fracture’s interference had removed someone whose significance Lucien had not yet understood?

What if the person history required simply no longer existed in the form Lucien expected?

Then Lucien would have to find another answer.

And if there truly were no one else capable of filling that place, he would do it himself.

The thought sounded ridiculous.

Lucien found that less comforting than he would have liked.

He was named Lucien in this era.

Luke and Cienna were still his parents.

The people who would one day become Liberators were appearing around him one after another.

Coincidences were beginning to accumulate.

Lucien quietly exhaled.

He refused to jump to conclusions.

For now, the Human Ancestor was still someone he intended to find.

Everything else could remain a possibility.

The burial ended before noon.

The village did not return immediately to ordinary life, but work could not stop forever.

There were walls to repair, wounded people to care for, and more meat than the village could possibly eat before it spoiled.

Dozens of boars had died during the attack.

That created its own problem.

Leaving the carcasses near the walls would attract scavengers, spread disease, and waste food the village desperately needed.

The hunters and butchers began working almost immediately after the attack.

By the time Lucien reached the central yard later that afternoon, the usable meat had already been divided into large portions.

The families of the two dead men received the largest shares.

Nobody argued.

Several injured households also received more than usual, since they would lose working hands during the weeks of recovery.

Lucien approved.

What concerned him was what happened next.

The village already knew several methods of preserving meat.

They salted some cuts heavily and hung thinner pieces to dry. Others were smoked above low fires. Fat was rendered separately whenever possible.

The problem was not ignorance.

It was consistency.

Some cuts dried too slowly.

Others were smoked without enough salt reaching the deeper portions.

Larger pieces spoiled internally even when the outside appeared preserved.

The village had learned through experience, but experience without reliable measurement produced uneven results.

Lucien stood beside one of the tables for several minutes before Tavian noticed him.

"You are supposed to be resting."

"So are half the people here."

"That does not make you less injured."

Lucien ignored him and examined a thick cut being prepared for smoking.

"How long do you normally salt this?"

Tavian looked toward the butcher.

The older man answered instead.

"Until it has taken enough."

Lucien waited.

The butcher stared back.

"How do you know when it has taken enough?"

"The ancestors will tell."

Lucien sighed and closed his eyes.

’Of course.’

He began asking questions.

How much salt did they normally use?

How thick were the cuts?

How long did they hang them?

Did they smoke meat immediately or allow it to rest first?

Which woods did they use for smoke?

How often did preserved meat spoil?

The answers varied depending on who was speaking.

That was enough to identify the problem.

Lucien did not introduce anything extraordinary.

Most of what the village already practiced was fundamentally sound.

He simply made it more deliberate.

Thicker portions were cut smaller so salt could penetrate more evenly. Meat intended for longer storage was rubbed thoroughly, then packed with measured layers of salt instead of relying on whatever amount seemed sufficient.

Lucien separated pieces meant for drying from those meant for smoking and insisted that wet surfaces be allowed to drain before they were hung.

For some cuts, he suggested using a stronger salt brine before smoking so the preservation reached deeper than the surface.

The smoke itself also mattered.

Lucien discouraged the hottest fires that cooked the outside too quickly while leaving too much moisture trapped within. The meat meant for long storage needed steady heat, airflow, and enough time for moisture to leave gradually.

None of the principles were miraculous.

What was new was how Lucien combined them.

He treated preservation like a process rather than a collection of habits.

The butcher listened skeptically at first.

Then Lucien explained why thick meat spoiled from the center even when the surface looked dry.

The man’s expression changed.

By the time Lucien began discussing how rendered fat could protect certain cooked portions from air when stored in properly prepared containers, the skepticism had turned into concentration.

Tavian leaned against a nearby post.

"You know a suspicious amount about meat."

Lucien glanced at him.

"I know a suspicious amount about many things."

"That is becoming apparent."

The villagers had treated Lucien differently since the battle.

He noticed it in small ways.

Before, people had known him as the quiet young man who wandered alone and occasionally seemed to disappear into his own thoughts.

Now they had watched him reorganize a collapsing defense while boars were crashing through the village.

They had seen him use a spear, a bow, and even Tavian’s hammer with a familiarity nobody expected.

When Lucien explained something now, people listened before deciding whether he was being strange.

Some seemed to have reached their own explanation for the change.

Perhaps Lucien had always been clever.

Perhaps his old silence had simply prevented anyone from seeing it.

The idea spread more easily because it required no supernatural explanation.

Lucien did not correct them.

"Geniuses are strange anyway," one older villager muttered while adjusting a rack according to Lucien’s instructions.

Lucien heard him.

He decided that was preferable to the alternatives.

They spent the rest of the afternoon processing meat.

Lucien deliberately kept the changes limited.

He had access to methods far beyond anything the village required, but there was no reason to reproduce industrial preservation techniques in a settlement that lacked the materials, tools, and need to support them.

What mattered was extending the food they already possessed.

By evening, several experimental batches had been separated from the village’s usual preserved meat.

Lucien marked the preparation dates.

Tavian noticed.

"What are those for?"

"So we know which method lasts longer."

The blacksmith frowned.

"You could simply remember."

Lucien paused.

Once, he could have.

Now, memories were no longer perfect.

"We write it down."

Tavian accepted that easily.

Lucien did not.

For some reason, that small exchange reminded him of the diary hidden inside his room.

He pushed the thought aside.

Mirelle arrived while they were checking the last racks.

She had spent most of the day helping divide supplies between affected families and apparently still had enough energy left to inspect what everyone else was doing.

She studied the newly arranged smoking racks.

"This is different."

"It should last longer," Lucien said.

"How much longer?"

"I’ll tell you after we test it."

Mirelle gave him a thoughtful look.

That answer seemed to please her more than an exaggerated promise would have.

She walked around the rack once before looking toward the amount of meat still being processed.

"If it works, we should sell some."

Lucien looked at her.

"In the village?"

"The city."

That caught his attention.

Mirelle continued.

"The village cannot use all of this quickly, even if it keeps longer. Salt costs money, the wall needs repairs, and Tavian will complain about iron until somebody buys more."

"I do not complain," Tavian said from behind them.

Mirelle did not turn.

"You complain constantly."

Tavian chose not to continue the argument.

Mirelle looked at Lucien again.

"I’ll be going once the road is safe enough. Auren can take the cart. If these batches are good, we can bring some with us."

Us.

Lucien noticed the word immediately.

"You want me to come?"

"You made it. You should see whether anyone wants to buy it."

Lucien almost agreed before she finished speaking.

The city meant more than trade.

He had been intending to leave the village eventually anyway.

A larger settlement would give him access to travelers, merchants, records, rumors, and people arriving from other regions of the kingdom.

If the strange disturbances were truly widespread, the city would know more than this village did.

There was also the sound.

If Lucien wanted to understand its conditions, remaining inside one village forever would not help.

Perhaps the sound would appear again somewhere along the road.

"I’ll come."

Mirelle smiled.

"That was easy."

"I was already planning to see more of the kingdom."

"Then try not to collapse before we leave."

Lucien looked toward Tavian.

"Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Because you collapsed."

Lucien considered arguing.

Unfortunately, the evidence strongly favored them.

He looked back toward the smoking racks.

The city could wait a little longer.

The preservation methods still needed to prove themselves, and the village defenses mattered more.

Before Lucien left these walls, he intended to make certain another herd could not reach the houses as easily as the first.

He looked toward the damaged northern side of the settlement.

Men were already clearing broken posts and measuring replacement timber.

For the first time, Lucien did not see the work merely as something the villagers would handle while he observed.

He was already thinking about how the wall should be rebuilt.

The angle of the supports.

The approach to the gate.

The ditch.

The warning points beyond the fields.

The thought brought the faintest smile to his face.

He would not transform the world in a day.

He did not need to.

For now, one village was enough.

Beyond it waited the city, the kingdom, the strange disturbances spreading across the land, and somewhere much farther away, a sound he still did not understand.

Lucien had spent too long waiting for history to reveal where he belonged inside it.

Perhaps it was finally time to start walking.