How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)-Chapter 40: How to loot after almost die in a forest

The taste of blood in my mouth had already become a habit. The air reeked of burnt wood, rotten sap, and something metallic that could be magical—or just my imagination trying to dramatize. Every breath felt like I was inhaling soot. I stepped over soaked soil, dead leaves, and shattered branches, like the forest had turned into a cemetery around me. Everything there wanted to swallow me.

My body trembled, but my hand still held the pickaxe tight. The fingers, rigid, ached as if carved from bone. I could barely feel my right arm. My left burned with the slash from the previous creature, though it wasn’t bleeding too much—yet. My breath came out like I was spitting steam. Hot. Shallow. Furious.

Magic pulsed in my bones—weak, but stubborn. It was time to end it. I needed to finish this. For her. For me. For my reputation. Not necessarily in that order.

And so I advanced.

The first bastard came at my flank, fast as a snake. I spun, felt my shoulder pop, and on reflex, hit with the curved end of the pickaxe. It let out a grunt, flew like a broken branch, and landed squirming. The others hesitated—for just a moment, but they did.

I stared them down, covered in sweat, dust, and what may or may not have been the vital fluids of some cursed tree.

"What are you waiting for? A motivational speech?"

They didn’t answer—of course—but gave me something better: a reason to keep swinging. One charged straight in, low, aiming for my leg.

I shifted my weight to the side, spun the pickaxe like a staff, and buried the blade into its trunk. The thing shrieked, and I used the momentum to kick what was left of its face as far as possible.

That’s when I felt it.

The fragment.

Still hot at my belt. Still pulsing.

Without thinking, I reached for it, grabbed the stone, and pressed it against my chest. It felt like touching the heart of a thunderstorm. The magic responded like it had been waiting for me.

The ground froze beneath the creatures’ feet, ice blooming where there had only been damp, rotted earth. They froze for a moment. It was enough. The ice exploded into blue flames—yes, blue—and I surged forward.

The pickaxe became an extension of my fury. I spun, struck, slashed. Roared. A guttural roar from somewhere I didn’t know existed. Fire spilled from my hands, from my words, from the very ground. I didn’t know where my mana ended and my madness began.

I kept fighting. With magic. With fists. With teeth, if necessary. I lost track of time. It was night. It was morning. It was whatever. I only saw shapes and sounds, smoke and heat.

I didn’t stop.

And then the last one fell. Didn’t scream. Just collapsed. A body of branches and curse broken at my feet. And I stood there. Breathing like a bull. Too exhausted to laugh—but wanting to.

The world spun. My eyes barely focused. My arm trembled without command. And I was starving. For a bath, for sleep, for a life with fewer murderous tree monsters.

The pickaxe dropped first. Then my knees. And then, the rest of me.

I collapsed on the hard, cold, wet ground. Morning sunlight filtered through the trees, shyly, as if ashamed of what it had just witnessed. I stared up at the pale sky and thought that if I died right there, at least it would’ve been epic.

But I didn’t die.

Just passed out. From exhaustion. From being broken. From everything.

| ENTITY PROFILE: DANTE || CURRENT STATUS || Health: Critical (full physical collapse after magical overcast)| Mana: None – remaining reserves consumed in final surge| Body: Lacerations, multiple contusions, nervous exhaustion| Mind: Hazy, but active. Reflexes still function under emergency.| Emotion: Drained, ironic, defensive

| ABILITIES |► Trance Exhaustion [Passive – After Effect]→ After overcast state (Stormroot Form), Dante loses access to spells and suffers movement penalty for 2D6 hours.

► Tactical Scavenger [Active – Loot Phase]→ In extreme fatigue, Dante gains +1 Perception to find rare items in the battlefield.

► Predator Sense [Passive – Instinctual Trigger]→ When faced with a disguised threat, Dante gains +2 to Intuition and Reflex. Unconscious effect.

| LIMITATIONS |→ No access to casting until partial recovery→ Damaged pickaxe – likely to break in next battle→ Physical state demands immediate rest

The first thing I felt afterward was pain. The second, a sharp tip poking my face repeatedly. The third, a voice.

"Are you dead? Because if you are, that’s going to be hard to explain to my father."

I opened my eyes slowly, blinking against the light bleeding through the leaves as if the forest had decided to dawn just to mock me. And there she was, standing, with the same expression of someone who just drank bitter root tea—and had to wash the cup afterward.

"I’m alive," I muttered, trying to lift myself with the dignity of a wounded hero and failing miserably. "I was just waiting for a kiss to wake me. Like a sleeping beauty, reversed version."

Thalia frowned.

"You’re a woman?"

"What?"

"You said you’re a ’sleeping beauty.’"

"It’s a metaphor," I sighed. "Never mind. I saved your life. The least acceptable reward would be a kiss. Or breakfast. But I’m modest. I’ll settle for the kiss."

She rolled her eyes and stepped back with a sigh.

"You should be studied."

I stood up slowly, feeling every joint like I was relearning how to be human. The battlefield around us was no longer a battlefield—more like a graveyard. Broken branches, scorched leaves, and distorted creature bodies scattered like pieces of a macabre sculpture.

But among the wreckage: rewards.

I went through each one, poking the remains with the tip of my pickaxe, collecting only what seemed useful—or at least sellable.

| ITEM PROFILE: ROOT-WARDEN RELICS (Looted Objects) |

| Type: Miscellaneous Forest-Linked Artifacts

| Classification: Risky Curios / Arcane Salvage |

| CONTENTS |

• Petrified Root Amulet – Emits weak mana pulses; possible ward amplifier or trigger glyph

• Bone-Crystal Ring – Glows red when rotated; possible cursed conduit or detection charm

• Unknown Vials x3 – Glowing liquids; composition unknown, magical trace confirmed

• Sealed Scroll Fragment – Small, wrapped in cord; origin unknown

| NOTES |

→ All items possess druidic or corrupted essence

→ Interaction without proper identification may trigger effects

→ Can be sold, studied, or used recklessly

One of the larger bodies had dropped something that looked like a petrified root amulet, carved with wavering inscriptions. I touched it carefully, and a faint spark of mana responded. Maybe a ward amplifier? Maybe a trap? Probably dangerous. I kept it anyway.

Another had a rough-looking ring made of bone and darkened crystal, with tiny cracks glowing red when I tilted it in the light. I glanced sideways at Thalia.

"Do you believe in curses?"

"I believe you’re going to curse yourself if you keep picking things off dead monsters."

"Then we already have something in common."

I also found three small glass vials filled with a liquid that looked like drunk fairy spit. I stashed them. I’d survived on worse. Besides, anything that glows when shaken has value — even if it’s just to trick a dumb merchant.

Thalia watched in silence. She didn’t help — of course not — but at least she let me play scavenger without complaining. Once I was done, I tucked the vials, the ring, the amulet, and what looked like a sealed scroll into one of my inner pouches.

I sighed, brushed the dirt from my hands, and looked at her.

"Can we go now?"

She shrugged.

"You still able to walk?"

"If I can cheat death, I think walking’s the bare minimum."

We returned to the path, the sun already high enough to make any thought feel heavier. The forest began to thin; the underbrush gave way to scattered rocks, and the grass looked drier, less hostile. The kind of transition that says, "civilization is still days away, but luck hasn’t abandoned you just yet."

We walked in silence for hours. Maybe too tired to argue. Maybe just grateful to still be alive.

That’s when I saw it.

There, between two rocks at a bend in the trail — a figure. Clothes torn, leaning on a crooked staff, one arm clutched to the chest. Staggering, covered in blood — or something close to it. He raised his head as he saw us and shouted:

"Help... please..."

Thalia stopped. So did I. But what I noticed in her eyes was different: empathy. Compassion. That annoyingly human impulse.

"He’s hurt," she said, already stepping forward.

I raised an arm to block her.

"No."

"What?"

The figure, still distant, collapsed to his knees with a moan that echoed down the path.

She looked at me, stunned.

The wind died.

And everything got a little too quiet.

"This could be an ambush," I said, my fingers slipping closer to the pickaxe.

And in the distance, the shadows began to move