The Kingdom of Hunters

Prologue: [Shaya Thunderclap]

All things considered, Shaya Thunderclap was the very definition of a “country bumpkin.”

By that, it meant he was born in the wilds, a rough-hewn fellow of little learning, or to put it more bluntly, an uncouth man from the mountains with little knowledge of the world.

For example, every meal for him had to include meat; his greatest skills were splitting firewood and hunting. Even at sixteen, he still believed the most beautiful woman in the world was Aunt Sophia, the vegetable seller in town, whose waist was as thick as a barrel and who was already mother to two children.

And then there was his name: Shaya Thunderclap.

The name carried a hint of exotic mystery, but in truth, it was given to him when he was three and still nameless. One day, his father got drunk, suddenly recalled his paternal duties, looked up at the sky—summer thunder was rumbling overhead—and so, the boy became Shaya Thunderclap.

One could easily imagine just how irresponsible his father was. Fortunately, it had only been thunder that day—had it been hail or a sandstorm, he might have spent his life skulking in some cave, laboring under a name like “Spring Sandstorm” or “Winter Hailstorm.”

Shaya Thunderclap’s rusticity further revealed itself in his firm belief that coarse hemp cloth was better and sturdier than silk—a conviction, of course, born primarily from poverty. He simply couldn’t afford silk. Call it sour grapes, if you will.

The real reason for his poverty, however, was that most of his hunting earnings were spent