Chapter Six: Char and the Wretched Soul

Chapter Six: Shaya and the Wretched Soul

This time, Shaya Thunderclap helped pry open the animal trap, but the wretched fellow was already too weak to even cry out in pain. He clung desperately to his boots, shivering.

“Hey, let go. Let me check your wound,” Shaya Thunderclap called out, but the fellow didn’t respond. With a sigh, Shaya forced the man’s hands apart and swiftly pulled off both his boots.

The spots on his calves where the sharp teeth had bitten were a ring of mangled flesh, blood gushing from the wounds. Fortunately, Shaya squeezed his legs and found the bones unbroken.

“Lucky you,” Shaya sighed, pulling out a blowpipe and driving several pine needles into the wounds on the man’s calves.

“Ah!” the fellow screamed, trembling with anger, “What are you doing to me?!”

“Don’t move. I’m numbing the pain for you,” Shaya muttered, a little regretful to use his precious pine needles—at this time of year, mud toads were hard to find. These venomous darts were originally meant for the lion beasts, but now they were put to the use of saving a life.

The mud toad’s paralytic toxin took effect quickly. In no time, the man’s moans faded as his calves numbed and the pain eased considerably. He looked at Shaya with terror, “What did you do to my legs?!”

Before Shaya could answer, the man suddenly pointed a trembling finger at him, shrieking, “Ah! I know it! You—you’re going to saw off my legs! No, don’t do it, please!”

He began to flail wildly, his nails nearly scratching Shaya’s face.

Shaya grew impatient and snapped, “What are you shouting about? Saw off your legs? Are you mad?!”

But the wretch burst into tears, his voice thick with despair, “You can stop lying! With such a severe wound… I’ve heard, before surgery, you always get anesthetic. You…”

“Idiot!” Shaya could not be bothered to argue. He glanced around, then strode over to pluck a handful of saw-toothed green leaves from the ground. He stuffed them into his own mouth, chewed them into a pulp, spat it out, and smeared the paste onto the man’s wounds.

Instantly, the bleeding slowed.

“Sit still! If you don’t want your legs sawed off, stop shouting!” Shaya threatened, deftly tearing two strips of rope from his pack. He eyed the man’s robe, then, without asking, reached out his large hands and in two sharp tugs, ripped off a couple of corners from the garment.

The poor fellow seemed utterly stupefied, his mouth agape and eyes fixed blankly on Shaya. Only when his robe was torn did he snap back to himself, shrieking louder than ever before—his cry sharper and more miserable than a wildcat whose tail had been stepped on.

With a huff, Shaya stuffed the remaining medicinal paste into the man’s open mouth, quickly wrapped his legs in the leather strips, tied them off, and straightened up, looking at his patient with disdain. “All right! Stop screaming! You’re not going to die.”

The man stared at Shaya with wide, terror-filled eyes, dumbfounded. Only after a long while did he begin coughing violently, spitting out the medicine as best he could.

“Pah! Disgusting! How could you do that to me? You—you chewed that and put it in my mouth…”

“Disgusting?” Shaya scratched his head. “That’s the taste of the medicine. I don’t have bad breath.” He grinned, flashing his white teeth.

He smeared a bit more of the paste on the man’s forehead wound, then chuckled, “Hey, I just saved your life. Even if you don’t thank me, you don’t have to curse me.”

“Saved…” The fellow’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, but at last, after a moment’s hesitation, he muttered softly, “…Thank you.”

“No need,” Shaya replied heartily, waving it off and turning to leave. He’d only taken two steps when the man called out, “Wait! Hold on!”

“What now?” Shaya frowned, thoughts of hunting demon beasts still weighing on his mind.

“You…” The man was clearly intimidated by Shaya’s rough demeanor, but he had no choice but to say quietly, “You’re just going to leave? What about me?” He summoned the courage to look Shaya in the eye. “I mean, my legs are injured, I can’t walk in the wilderness, and even if I don’t starve, if a wolf comes, I…”

Shaya frowned, impatient, but after a moment’s hesitation, he sighed, stomping his foot. “Fine! You win! A life is a life, after all. I’ll see this rescue through! But listen—no more shouting! It’s dangerous here. If you make a racket and draw a ferocious beast, we’re both done for!”

With that, he hoisted the fellow up.

Scared into silence by Shaya’s warning, the wretch bit his lip, refusing to utter a sound despite the sweat of pain beading on his brow. Once standing, however, Shaya was surprised to find the man was actually slightly taller than himself—a rarity, since Shaya at eighteen was considered tall in Wildfire Town. The stranger’s shoulders were a bit narrow, giving him a frail, delicate look.

“So tall, yet so skinny… sigh.” Supporting him, Shaya felt the man’s weight and laughed, “Ha, you’re lean but heavy enough. You must have muscle in those bones!”

“You—you’re the heavy one!” the man shot back, unable to help himself.

After a pause, he couldn’t help but ask, “Am I really that heavy?”

This odd fellow seemed less concerned about his injuries than his weight.

…

Supporting the pitiful wretch—whose head he’d split open—Shaya walked for nearly half a day until darkness fell completely.

He surveyed the sky and terrain, finally choosing a sheltered hollow to set the man down.

“We’ll sleep here tonight.” He clapped his hands, gathered a pile of dry branches into two heaps, and struck a fire.

As night fell, the Wildfire Plain turned bitterly cold. The man, unused to hardship, huddled closer to the fire. Shaya’s estimation of him dropped another notch: pampered and delicate.

Clearly, this was no adventurer out to seek his fortune on the plains. The way he flinched from pain and cold, his odd temper, and even his attire—a fine black goatskin robe and deerskin boots, both of which Shaya, an experienced hunter, recognized as top-quality at a glance—spoke volumes.

Once the blood and grime were wiped from his face, the man’s true features were revealed: fair, delicate skin that had never known hardship, hands without a single callus.

And those eyes—so large! That mouth—so small!

Shaya stared a bit too long, making the wretch uneasy. The man shrank back, eyeing Shaya warily.

(Damn it, is he getting ideas just because he’s seen my face? Yes, that must be it! If he tries anything, I’ll fight him!) The stranger clenched his fists, staring fiercely at Shaya, who was left bewildered by the hostility.

“What are you glaring at me for? Do I have something on my face?” Shaya touched his cheek.

“…Nothing,” the man replied, eyes darting away. But just then, a loud gurgle sounded between them.

Shaya paused, then another two gurgles followed. The wretch’s face flushed red as he buried his head.

“Hm? The mud toads are making odd noises tonight,” Shaya said, glancing about deliberately.

“It’s not the mud toads, it’s my stomach!” the man snapped, clenching his fists. “Hey, don’t you eat dinner?”

Shaya burst out laughing and pulled a piece of black rye bread from his coat, tearing off a chunk and tossing it over. His smile was broad, but inside he felt a pang—what was meant to last him two days would barely suffice with two mouths. Turns out the old man was right: being a good person came at a price.

The pitiful fellow turned the hard, blackened bread over and over in his hands, but didn’t take a bite. Shaya couldn’t bear it any longer: “Hey, don’t you know bread is for eating, not admiring?”

“What?!” the fellow exclaimed, shocked. “This thing is for people to eat?!”

“Of course! What else—was it meant for the latrine?” Shaya growled.

The wretch, speechless, glared at Shaya, cheeks flaming.

“Either eat it or starve. That’s all I have. Do you realize, that chunk is a tenth of all I own! Bah! If you’re not eating it, give it back!”

He reached to snatch it, and the man panicked. Having never seen such rye bread, he quickly shoved it into his mouth and bit down hard.

That was a mistake.

Starving after a day and a night with nothing to eat—and, given his background, having never known such hardship—the man used all his strength. Unfortunately, the rye bread was rock-hard, baked for long preservation, and now frozen stiff on the winter plains.

Crack!

A crisp sound. When the man opened his mouth, the bread was unscathed, but a pearly white tooth tumbled to the ground.

…

There followed a long, terrible wail.

“My tooth! My tooth!”

…

And so went Shaya’s first encounter with the “wretched soul.” Unlike the romantic color of legendary tales, the first meeting left the stranger not only with two broken legs and a head wound, but also short one precious front tooth.

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