A Waste of Time

Chapter 5: Hidden Accord

“Hello! Earth to Daemon… You there?”

While watching Grunt busy sharpening a flat stone with another, Daemon heard his clone’s voice echo right in his ear.

When he focused on responding, Daemon found himself back in Da Niu’s crude shelter, sitting exactly where he’d choked down that miserable meal before finding himself in that strange realm with the iron throne and Grunt.

Oddly enough, he could still feel the link to that other place — deep in his mind, a simple thought away. The allure of that hidden domain, brimming with cosmic power and unknowable mysteries, tugged at him like a phantom limb.

“Hmmm… Why’d you block me out? I couldn’t reach you at all — I really tried, you know. It was like you vanished! But when I came back here, you were just sitting there, drooling like an idiot.” His clone sat cross-legged in front of him, then shoved the wooden bowl into his hands. Daemon started to eat while listening, ignoring the half-mocking look on the clone’s face.

So, whenever I’m in that realm, I’m completely exposed here. I should thank whoever made this clone — my only bodyguard when I’m off playing “Hero.” He snorted at the thought, then wondered if this all meant he was a hero now.

“Doesn’t hurt to try, I guess.” Daemon muttered to himself, washing his mouth out with water to kill the taste of sour herbs still clinging to his tongue. He stood, cursing under his breath when every muscle in his body screamed at him. Still, he pushed through it, raised his hand, and said, “Summon Grunt.”

His clone cocked an eyebrow, amused. But instead of commenting, it coughed into its fist, got up, and headed for the tent flap. “I’ll try to find something palatable this time.” It snickered once outside, but Daemon could hear everything thanks to their link.

He didn’t care about the clone’s mood swings — not now. Right now, he was riding the addictive buzz of raw power. Even in his prime back on Earth, he’d never felt this physically complete before.

His exhausted muscles didn’t scream in pain anymore — they hummed with pleasure, tingling with newfound vitality.

Is it Grunt’s Vitality bonus? Damn… if only I could see my Status— His thought cut off as a screen flickered into existence right before his eyes.

[Da Niu: Tier-0]

[Race: Human (Adolescent)]

[Faction: None]

[Lumberjack/Scavenger]

[Strength: 0.5]

[Agility: 0.7]

[Vitality: 0.2]

[Endurance: 0.3]

[Intelligence: 2.7]

[Magic: 2.1]

[Due to Summoning (Grunt), all Stats and Skills are combined]

Daemon did the math. No wonder he felt like he could wrestle a grown man to the ground right now.

He did a few stretches, working the stiffness out of his joints, then kicked aside the tent flap and jogged after his clone.

“Eh? How’re you moving so well already?” his clone called out, sensing him approach at a light jog.

Crack.

Daemon popped his knuckles, grinning like a predator. “I’m starting to wonder if you did that on purpose, Mr. Olympia.” The clone’s face drained of color. He scrambled behind a tree like a cornered rodent.

“It won’t happen again! I swear! I’m really sorry, alright? I’ll get you healthy food, medicine if you need it — I’ll even ask for your feedback next time! You know how badass it feels to mimic that gritty workout freak… I just acted on your impulses, I swear!”

Daemon snorted at his clone’s babbling. He stuck out a hand. The clone sagged with relief and reached out to shake—

Smack.

Daemon swatted the hand away. “Axe.”

The clone flinched, eyes wide. “Y-you… don’t do anything stupid! You can’t kill me over one slip-up—”

“Less drama. I don’t have time for your whining. Just keep up.” Daemon stepped in, yanked the Axe from the clone’s grip, and marched deeper into the woods.

The clone just stood there blinking, then let out a huff and hurried after him. Deep down, though, the clone was oddly grateful — Daemon could leash him completely, yet never did. That unspoken trust — a bond forged by shared flesh and mind — was its own strange comfort.

“So…”

“Some sort of system. Looks like only the true body gets the full experience.”

“Think we could ever stand toe-to-toe with the guy who gave me to you?”

“Hah. Thinking that far ahead’s pointless. Focus on the next meal. My bones want meat — lots of it.” Daemon said, then raised a hand, signaling for silence. The clone zipped his mouth shut and nodded.

Follow. Stay quiet, Daemon ordered through the link.

Sir, yes sir! the clone answered, overly dramatic, but quiet for once.

Daemon rolled his eyes and slipped off the trail into the thicker brush. Visibility dropped fast; every heartbeat seemed loud enough to give them away.

When he found a thick, straight branch, he tested its weight, trimmed the edges with the Axe, then handed it back to his clone.

“You sure?”

“Mmm-hmm. I can manage with this club for a few hours.” Daemon’s mental tone left no room for argument.

The clone nearly chuckled seeing Daemon heft the heavy branch like a proper Wooden Club, almost as tall as his small body. He wisely swallowed any jokes and stayed close.

Ten minutes later, the distant trickle of water reached them. Checking Da Niu’s mental map, the clone realized where they were — a fork in the woods near a hidden waterfall that fed a small lake. Da Niu had always avoided this place — local hunters said predators liked to lurk there, waiting for prey to drop their guard.

Bad luck, Daemon cursed inwardly, spotting a flock of pheasants near the water. His stomach clenched in protest.

“These bastards are fast on foot and worse when they take off. Any bright ideas?” his clone whispered, crouched beside him in the bushes.

“Distance is the problem. Too much open ground to cover — they’ll bolt. Best chance is cutting that space fast, use surprise, whack as many as we can.”

“Flank them? Whoever they rush, we try to herd them back?”

“Better than nothing — but we’re short on real weapons. We need projectiles. Wait here, keep eyes on them. Don’t spook the flock.”

Daemon slipped away, Axe in hand. He scoured the trail for smooth stones small enough to fit his palm. If only I could summon my Hero right now — six arms, six eyes, perfect aim, a storm of stones…

He found the twig bundles near the tent, untied them, and started rigging up a makeshift fence of branches and ropes. It was crude, but it might steer the birds where he needed them. It took him fifteen minutes, but he bundled the lot on his shoulder and hustled back.

He moved like a ghost — no branches snapping, no careless crunch of leaves. By the time he returned, the flock was still feeding. The only sign he’d missed something was the trail of deer tracks near his clone.

He’s gonna whine, Daemon thought dryly. Sure enough, his clone glared at him — the deer had come and gone while he was stuck with that sad Wooden Club.

“Circle around, push them my way. You’re faster — surprise from your side. I’ll cover here, scatter them, keep ‘em boxed in.” The clone finished tying the last rope between trees, creating a rough fence.

Daemon nodded, then slipped off, arcing wide upstream, staying hidden until he reached the water’s edge.

He checked the water depth and clarity — enough cover if he needed to bolt. He readied his pouch of stones and eased forward, water up to his knees, staying low.

His clone, meanwhile, moved toward the final gap in their makeshift trap — the weak spot they’d left for herding the flock. Two sides, one plan: pin and catch.

Please, not too many fliers, Daemon begged the forest gods as he took a deep breath. He hurled his first handful of stones right into the fattest cluster.

Caw! Caw!

Feathers exploded into chaos. His clone reacted instantly, tossing a bundle of twigs to block the skyward escape. Pheasants flinched, stumbled, changed direction.

Daemon hurled another volley, stones hissing through the air. One bird dropped, two more floundered.

“Booyah, bitches!” His clone whooped, vaulting through the brush, Axe and Wooden Club ready, keeping the flock boxed toward the trap.

Another scatter, another handful of stones — a third volley cut through the squawking mess. The flock hit the treeline and froze — only to find the crude barricade in their way, two small predators closing in.

“Nowhere to run,” the clone growled, brandishing the Axe and branch like a street thug cornering prey.

Feathers flared — the pheasants lunged forward, desperate, talons and beaks out.

Daemon glanced at his pouch — nearly empty. Shit.

He hurled the last stones and squatted, one of his hands grabbed a branch from the ground and braced, the other landed in something soft. Bird shit! Yuck!

It didn’t matter if it was a stick or a rock he's holding — all that mattered was fighting tooth and nail for his next meal.

Survive the battle now and feast later.

Here's a link to my discord server if you want to talk - .gg/HwHHR6Hds