Given enough preparation, he probably could have figured out a way to capture an Otrogon without help. But that was the advantage of having people around that were also trapped in the same terrible situation that he was. He had, ever since he was young, despised asking for help from the people around him. It felt too much like admitting that he couldn’t do it on his own or that he was begging for help, throwing himself at the mercy of their whims. Now, with the threat of death hanging over his head, he’d all too easily swallowed his ego and held out his hand. August had never looked down upon anyone for asking for his help, but the idea of flipping it around disgusted him.

Despite the two situations being two sides of the same coin and despite them being absolutely identical in function, they seemed almost irreconcilable to him. There was something there, he was sure, a standard he’d held for himself that he refused to apply for others—and probably to his own detriment. Without the panic, fear, and unease brought about by the current situation, he’d have probably wasted away in silence rather than concede that he needed the help. This place had changed him, overwritten parts of himself that he’d thought were set in stone—and it left him wondering if even these stubborn parts of his mind could have succumbed so easily if any of the rest of his arbitrarily drawn self-rules really mattered.

Did it matter if he couldn’t lift the things that the Voithos could if they were willing to help him do it? Did it matter if he grew tired long before they did or that he couldn’t accomplish half as much in twice the allotted time when they all working towards the same general goal? Was there even a point in holding onto his pride when all it did was make him feel bad? What was the point in subjecting himself to a dozen flashes of discomfort every day just because he couldn’t compete with them physically? He was holding himself to an impossible standard that he could never have reached in the first place. It seemed so useless, a primitive form of self-harm that must have, at one time, served a purpose—but now, for the life of him, he couldn’t seem to remember what it might have been.

“There used to be this ratty old house at the end of the street back when I was a little kid,” August said, a bit unsure as to why he was bringing it up. “It had been burned down at some point and then fenced off to make sure no one would go inside.”

Boko glanced over at the words, tossing his next shoot onto the ground.

“The grass was always overgrown, the trees had begun to grow into the fenceline, and everything else was starting to rot,” August said, frowning. “It was there for like a decade, and while everything else in the neighbourhood seemed to change, it kind of just sat there, a blemish on the otherwise pretty street.”

“If something like that had happened on Hekaton,” Boko said, “It would have been cleared away after a week.”

“I guess the owners didn’t have the time or the motivation to take care of it,” August wondered, “It’s only been a week since I woke up here, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s still there.”

“Why did it burn down?” Boko asked, “Accident, or on purpose?”

“Now that I think about it, I never actually asked what had happened. I must have been curious about it at some point,” August said, hesitating. “I used to walk past it just about every day, so it was always kind of there—I guess it kind of faded into the background at some point.”

“I can understand that,” Boko said, fiddling with the axe head. “You spend enough time not looking in a specific direction, and you start to forget what was there.”

“Yeah, but ten years though? There must have been dozens of complaints sent in about it,” August wondered, “It must have taken some serious effort to just avoid cleaning it up—makes me wonder if the owners were just being stubborn.”

“People do seem to get fixated on strange things from time to time—I doubt we’re any different,” Boko admitted, “Spend enough time digging your heels in over a burned-down house; it’s probably going to be tough to climb out of the mud.”

“Probably,” August agreed, “Sorry—kind of a weird thing to bring up out of nowhere.”

“No weirder than taming giant beasts or making spears out of their bones,” Boko said, shrugging. “Actually seems kind of mundane in comparison.”

August let out an amused hum and moved on to vanishing more of the bamboo—they’d made a pretty big dent in the corner of the forest, Boko’s scythe-like swings setting an impressive pace. A check of the inventory showed him that they were in the triple digits for lengths of bamboo—if only just. They were approaching midday now, and the sun was well overhead. The shade provided by the bamboo was a decent respite from it, but the walk back to the lake was going to be rough.

August found himself peering through the mess of bamboo at an angle he thought would coincide with where the ring had been. The next trip, he’d make a point of actually going in to check on it—perhaps they could time it with their attempt to tame an Otrogon. Actually, considering that they were supposed to be summoning the next Voithos tomorrow, they’d potentially have at their disposal someone who was reportedly more familiar with runes than the rest of them combined.

That seemed like the kind of person to bring with them to investigate the giant ring that was covered in runes—depending on whether or not they actually wanted to go. Either way, he’d have the chance to fire off an [Analysis] on it, which should tell him something about its purpose.