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“I know who you are, but that don’t matter none. If you came here to fish, we’re all equal; we’re judged only by our actions and our day’s catch.”
This harvester, however, searched for a singular thing—souls. Not just any souls, mind you. This harvester had exhaustive parameters that, if boiled down, came to two distinctive requirements: the targeted soul must possess both incredible willpower and must have recently gone through a monumental shift in the application of that will.
It was ubiquitously known that willpower was the main metric by which one could judge the weight of a soul.
when a strong-willed individual possessed the ability to shift the application of that will. It had a multiplicative effect on a soul’s willpower,
“Quake in fear, monsters of this world—the fist of death has arrived!”
There were many things I desired in this second life of mine, but I could reduce them to two key deliverables: genuine interactions with others and as much fishing as humanly possible.
At the mention of spirit beasts, all the novels on cultivation I’d read came rushing to mind. So I’ve arrived in post-ascension Xianxia land?
“What in Poseidon’s puckered butthole . . .”
What in Triton’s throbbing conch
sabiki rig,
What in Poseidon’s salted taint is going on . . . ?
what in Poseidon’s pickled sphincter is a Sergeant Snips?”
The meditation was surprisingly relaxing, given that I was squatting down like a crab—claw hands and all. The cultists surrounding me occasionally made little bubbling noises with their mouths, which was both hilarious and rather endearing.
“Triton’s throbbing conch,”
“Well, MSG is the flavor of the gods, but salt is a good starting point.”
Try as George might—applying his vastly superior, sugar-fueled intellect—he had absolutely no idea what the man’s angle was.
The hat I’d made for her was a black eye patch, covering the scarred shell of her lost eye.
Poseidon’s oiled back hair, how long is he going to make me wait?
What in Apollo’s delicate lute are you planning behind that toe-like face, Trent?”
Trent, first in line to the throne, and only marginally resembling a toe by his reckoning,
Alvey Reel.
Roger’s scowl was well and truly back as he stared down in the roughly three meter by three meter hole. “And what do you call this monument of stupidity, heretic?” The words only made my happiness swell. “This, my good man, is called a pond.”
Crafday, Winday, then Resday today, and Sunday tomorr—
Aberdeen hook.
You’re worse than webnovel commenters demanding that stories devolve into harems—joking or not.”
The days of the week are Sunday, Trueday, Fielday, Moisday, Crafday, Winday, and Resday .
“Thank Poseidon’s girthy shaft that it’s over—
“What in Triton’s girthy conch is going on?”
I laughed. “Not at all. It’s more about the experience than the result, right? Otherwise it’d be called catching, not fishing.”
There’s no Xianxia Liam Neeson to come save me if I’m kidnapped.
improved clinch knot.”
“It’s easy to be kind, especially to people deserving of it.”
“What in Poseidon’s salted sack is that?”
“You can check the temperature of the fat by putting some breadcrumbs in.”
She giggled. “Yeah, it can’t have been comfortable holding a pillar of pure light in like that. Sounds bad for your health.”
“Speaking of—how about I get some brekkie sorted so we can head off?” “Yeah! I’ll, uh, hug the bunny. It’s important we keep her . . . comfortable, you know?” “Thank you for your hard work,” I said, laughing.
“Your name is Rocky, my friend, because you just keep on getting up.”
The flavor of crab, lemon, salt, and assorted spices lingered on my taste buds
Roger just grunted, which I took to be Roger-speak for, I’m happy to help you any time, my stalwart, handsome, and humble neighbor.
He looked at them all, feeling trust for each and every one. “We want you to join the Church of Fischer.”
She made an excited noise, and my soul sang in response, feeling second-hand excitement for what she was experiencing. “O-oh!” she said. “It’s big!”
I need to use the bathroom!” Leroy pointed in the corner. “I gave you a bucket.” “You cannot be serious.” Trent gazed back at what he’d assumed was some sort of peasant drum for entertaining oneself. “That isn’t a musical instrument?”
