Back when it all happened, the program running in the background of his phone was that janky Pokémon game he used to play. After transmigrating, his phone had somehow merged with him.
That was how he ended up with the proficiency panel—a UI that could display Pokémon data.
It couldn't talk. Only showed numbers. And only he could see it.
That part of his past wasn't worth remembering, so he shifted his thoughts back to the lure.
Even without a real lure, he wasn't out of options.
Reiji reeled in his hook, removed the clump of grass, and replaced it with a flat leaf.
He trimmed the leaf into the shape of a little fish and attached it to the hook, then cast it into the water once more.
His plan was to use this makeshift leaf lure to trick a carnivorous fish.
It was a desperate attempt—but better than nothing. If it worked, great. If not, he'd think of something else.
To make the lure look more realistic, he even repositioned the sinker—placing it in front of the leaf lure.
That way, as the sinker pulled downward, the leaf would flutter like a swimming fish.
And when he jerked the rod upward, the leaf would mimic a fish darting around.
This back-and-forth motion resembled a small fish chasing food.
Hopefully, it would attract predators. But he couldn't be sure.
He cast the leaf lure five or six times.
He sighed, already bracing for another failure.
But just as he cast the lure for the seventh time—without expecting anything—the previously slack line suddenly went taut.
The tip of the rod bent nearly 180 degrees.
Reiji shot to his feet, grabbing the rod with both hands.
He quickly raised it upright but didn't dare pull too hard, afraid the line would snap.
Raising the rod upright helped engage the backbone of the rod, giving him leverage in this tug-of-war between man and fish.
He couldn't rush this.
He planted his feet firmly, took deep breaths to calm his heart rate.
One moment of panic, and he'd lose the upper hand.
If the fish darted left or right—fine. He could ride that out.
But if it tried to flee into deeper water, he'd have to pull it back.
If he failed to reel it in, the hook might come loose—or worse, he could be dragged into the sea.
If that happened, he'd have to cut the line and accept the loss.
In fishing slang, a snapped line was called a "cut line." Different regions had different terms, but the meaning was the same.
And with a hand rod, cut lines were all too common.
They were short—only around ten meters with line included—and offered little space for battling big fish like a sea rod did.
Based on the tension he felt, this was definitely a big one.
He couldn't just yank it up.
He needed to wear it out.
Before doing that, he tried taking two steps back—to give himself space in case he needed to counter-pull and avoid being dragged.
But the moment he moved, the line went tight again.
Buzzing as it vibrated from tension and water friction.
Afraid the fish might escape, Reiji froze, holding the rod upright, letting the elasticity of the rod's tip absorb the fish's struggle.
No matter how wildly the fish thrashed beneath the waves, he didn't fight it.
He let the rod tire it out.
Once the fish wore itself out, then he would go on the offensive.
No rest for the enemy—only pressure.
When the resistance began to fade, he quickly stepped back again, pulling the line tighter, giving the fish a sense of urgency.
The hook pulled hard at the flesh of the fish's mouth, making it thrash anew in pain.
That was exactly what Reiji wanted.
He didn't want a passive fish—he needed it to resist, to exhaust itself.
After it tired out again, he pressured it a second time.
Another burst of struggle.
This time the fish's struggle was weaker, slower—its stamina was clearly fading.
Reiji moved to pressure it a fourth time, and the fish lashed out again—its final stand.
But it didn't even last a full minute.
Reiji took several big steps back—and finally dragged the fish out of the water.
The tug-of-war was nearly over.
Victory or failure—this was the endgame.
Even the exhausted Poliwag snapped to attention when it saw the big fish breach the surface.
It stared intently, afraid Reiji might slip and lose their prize.
"Stay back! Don't interfere! Wait on the beach until I give the signal!" Reiji shouted.
He saw Poliwag about to dive in and had to stop it.
If Poliwag entered the water, it would become a variable—and variables meant danger.
As long as Poliwag stayed on land, Reiji had full control.
They were so close to victory. He couldn't let anything disrupt that.
He just hoped Poliwag understood.
Poliwag didn't know what the human was saying, but saw his sweaty face, his labored breathing, and realized he was trying to stop it.
So Poliwag stayed put, deciding to trust Reiji.
Seeing that Poliwag stayed on shore, Reiji exhaled in relief.
One last pull—this would be it.
If he lost, the fish would escape.
He and Poliwag would go to bed hungry.
But if he won—they'd eat.
The fish, meanwhile, would face its doom.
This was the fish's final struggle.
And now, Reiji could finally see what it was.
Officially listed at 0.8 meters in length and 20.8 kilograms in weight.
No question—it was a big catch.
Once it saw the human who'd caught it, the Carvanha flew into a rage.
Its eyes glared with fury.
It thrashed violently, slapping the water with its tail to intimidate Reiji.
It wasn't going to let a human reel it in.
It was a predator of the sea—top of the food chain.
Usually it was the one eating others.
How could it become someone else's meal?
Its struggle grew ferocious.
Reiji's arms went numb.
He couldn't feel them anymore—as if they weren't even part of his body.
But he refused to let go.
The human body's potential under pressure was limitless.
He pushed himself to the brink, squeezing every drop of strength from his limbs.
He would finish this.
This battle between man and beast would decide their fate on the island.
[+50 Power Stones = Extra Chapter]