HERO OF THE SUPER WEREWOLF

Albert woke up to a stench so vile it felt like a physical attack . It was as if someone had stuffed a drawer full of six-month-old, unwashed underwear into a sealed box, left it to ferment for another six, and then blended it with three months' worth of rotting kitchen waste . The smell hit him like a toxic wave , burning his nostrils and making his head spin. It was so overpowering, he swore it was melting his brain from the inside out. 

His body reacted before his mind could catch up. Driven purely by survival instinct, Albert shot upright, clamped a hand over his nose, and staggered toward the faint glimmer of light in the distance .

With a violent rip , he burst through the thick, greasy fabric , gasping as fresh air flooded his lungs . For the first time in what felt like forever, he could breathe without feeling like he was dying .

But behind him, chaos erupted.

A cacophony of crashing and clattering filled the air as the entire tent collapsed in on itself . Albert turned just in time to see the structure— more like a shoddy pile of rags than a proper shelter—crumple into a heap of debris .

"…What the hell? A death trap?! " Albert gaped, still gulping down fresh air. "Who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick me in there?! If I hadn't gotten out in time, I'd have been crushed—or worse, marinated in that smell! "

Still reeling, Albert took a long look at his surroundings. It was even more depressing than he remembered from the original Albert's memories. 

The tribe's camp wasn't just poor—it looked like it was on the verge of collapse. The tents, arranged in a rough circle, were dilapidated and leaning at odd angles, each one barely holding together with frayed scraps of wool. It was a far cry from the bustling, resource-rich community he'd imagined. 

"This is worse than the favelas in Rio…" Albert muttered, his lips twitching in disbelief.

The tribe was clearly struggling. A third of the tents were missing altogether , and the ones that remained looked like they were held up by sheer stubbornness. There were no signs of wealth—no pottery, no wooden tools, and barely any dried cheese left out to cure. 

The commotion had drawn attention. From a nearby square-shaped tent, reinforced with wooden frames—a luxury compared to the others— a man emerged. His face lit up with relief the moment he spotted Albert.

"You're awake! Bentley told me to keep an eye on you…" His relief was short-lived. The second he noticed the wreckage of the collapsed tent , his expression twisted into alarm. "What the hell happened to your place?!"

Albert squinted at him, taking a second to recognize the man.

Ah.

The other freeloader. 

This guy was a human drifter , one of the few non-Snow Wolves in the tribe. He'd washed up from the southern inland sea with nothing but the clothes on his back and a talent for doing absolutely nothing. 

Technically, he was a grown man— a fully capable adult who could have been a productive member of society back in human lands . But here on the 草原 , his survival skills were worse than those of a Snow Wolf pup. If a predator showed up, he'd be dead before he even thought to run. 

So, while the rest of the tribe was herding, hunting, or doing actual work , he usually stayed behind with Albert to "keep watch" —which, as far as Albert could tell, just meant finding ways to avoid responsibility .

Even so, the original Albert had avoided this human like the plague , to the point where he hadn't even bothered to learn the guy's name. Maybe he had some kind of social anxiety? Depression? Albert wasn't sure, but the kid had clearly gone out of his way to avoid interaction. Since the original had never spoken to this guy, Albert figured it was best to keep his mouth shut too—at least until he got a better read on him. No point in saying something that might blow his cover.

During his journey back to the tribe, Albert had thought things through. The Snow Wolves weren't exactly known for their sharp wits or deep thinking. He could probably get away with playing off his "reincarnation" as nothing unusual. The only real wildcard was this human. 

At a glance, the drifter looked like he'd just crawled out of a cardboard box behind a gas station —scruffy beard, a tangled mess of hair, and clothes that seemed more like a patchwork of whatever he'd been able to scavenge. But he didn't seem the least bit bothered by Albert's cold shoulder. Without missing a beat, he jogged over and started rummaging through the wreckage of Albert's tent like a raccoon going through a dumpster. 

"Must've been put together too roughly," the drifter muttered to himself. "Good thing it didn't crush you. Where've you been, Albert? The whole tribe was worried. Bentley was happy you brought down that stag, but he wasn't too thrilled about you running off alone… Oh, hey! The clay pot's just chipped, not broken."

Albert raised a brow. This guy talked like they were old friends. 

The Snow Wolf Tribe hadn't kept him around just out of kindness— he actually had his uses. His hands moved with quick, practiced efficiency as he sorted through the wreckage, fishing out Albert's scattered belongings—a cracked clay pot, two bundles of animal hides, and a small jar of crude salt—before setting them aside neatly.

"I've been working on that stag you brought back," the drifter said, flashing Albert an easy smile.

"Come over to my tent. I'll fix you something to eat."

Albert's gaze flicked toward the drifter's tent. Compared to the leaning, half-collapsed rags everyone else was living in, this one actually looked stable, its wooden frame keeping it upright. Then he glanced back at the drifter. Still scruffy as hell, but at least he didn't smell as bad as Bentley. Humans probably didn't have the same immunity to filth as the Snow Wolves.

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded.

The drifter's grin widened, and Albert had the distinct feeling that this was probably the first time the original Albert had ever willingly interacted with him. Damn, kid must've been seriously antisocial. 

Inside, Albert quickly saw why this guy had managed to carve out a place for himself in the tribe. The Snow Wolves sucked at leatherworking. Most of the time, they just burned the fur off their kills and ate the meat straight off the skin . Only hides meant for trade—like cow and sheepskin—were properly processed.

But this guy? He actually knew what he was doing. Thanks to him, the tribe's leather output had more than doubled.

"This is the hide from the stag you brought down," the drifter said, sitting down and spreading the fresh deer skin out like it was a prize catch . "The pattern's gorgeous. Once it's properly treated, we could make a few pairs of boots and gloves. This hide alone could get us a small bag of salt."

There weren't any chairs, so Albert followed his lead, sitting cross-legged on a pile of furs. Thankfully, someone—probably Bentley—had tossed him a pair of fur shorts, so at least he wasn't bare-assed on the rough hides .

The drifter looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction.

Albert thought for a second, then nodded, doing his best to look impressed.

The drifter lit up like a puppy getting head pats when Albert nodded. He happily placed the deer hide on top of a sad-looking pile of untreated pelts , then went to stoke the fire, setting up a clay pot to cook something.

 Thank god the original Albert was a quiet kid. I barely have to talk, and this guy is totally fine with it, Albert thought, feeling a little more confident.

Then his eyes landed on the wooden water barrel in the corner. 

Albert: Thirst… water… need… 

The drifter was busy adding firewood, utterly oblivious.

Albert: "…"

 Alright, this guy doesn't seem like the overthinking type. 

Without another thought, he got up, walked over to the barrel, ripped off the lid, and chugged straight from it . He would've preferred to be a little more discreet, but the second he saw the water, all sense of dignity went out the window .

After downing half the barrel in record time, Albert finally pulled away, let out a deep breath—then burped, long and loud.

The drifter didn't even blink. Living with the Snow Wolves had probably destroyed his ability to be shocked by anything. 

Feeling equal parts relieved and mildly ashamed , Albert sat back down, shifting his focus to the drifter's cooking process. Maybe this guy had some decent skills—

And then he saw it.

 The drifter dunked a whole deer leg into the pot—hoof, mud, and all. 

Albert: "…"

 Stay calm. Don't react. Don't give yourself away. 

Next, the drifter dragged over a lumpy leather bag , reached inside, and dumped fistfuls of black beans into the pot.

Albert's left eye twitched . The sight of the beans triggered a faint memory—one of the only times the original Albert had ever felt remotely useful. Every spring, the Snow Wolves did something they called "planting crops." Their technique? Burn a field, scatter some black bean seeds, and come back months later to see what survived. 

Albert dropped his head into his hands.

 This is… this is slash-and-burn farming in its purest form. I've only seen this in history books. I— 

He took a slow breath. Any Chinese farmer with a balcony garden would be losing their goddamn mind right now. 

The drifter, completely unaware of Albert's internal breakdown, looked up and grinned. "Albert, you hungry?"

Before Albert could respond, the guy reached behind the pile of hides, pulled out another crinkly leather bag , and fished out a grayish-white block of cheese . "Here, have some. The stew will take a bit."

Albert stared at the cheese.

The problem wasn't that it was cheese. The problem was how the Snow Wolves made their cheese. 

Step 1: Boil milk until it thickens.

Step 2: Dry it into solid blocks.

Step 3: ???

Step 4: Somehow, this brick of misery was considered food. 

No aging process. No fermentation control. Just a block of protein meant to last through the worst winters.

The block in the drifter's hand had tiny holes in it. 

Albert swore he saw something wriggle inside.

"… gag ."

His stomach violently protested , but thankfully, there was nothing in it to throw up. The surge of stomach acid, however? That was another issue entirely.

The drifter blinked, then let out an "Ah!" of realization. "Oh, right! I forgot you don't like cheese, Albert." He quickly put it away, completely unfazed.

Albert: "…"

 I live another day.