Chapter 31: Closer to death
As the tribesmen stepped forward, they yanked the metal bar from the ground. Shimi and Raika gasped in unison, their eyes widening at the sudden movement. Even Dasha looked surprised, rushing forward instinctively.
"Hey! What are you all doing? Where are you taking them? You can’t just.... Darius told me to guard them and keep watch!" she shouted, panic and frustration mingling in her voice.
Veythor’s crimson eyes narrowed, quietly noting the name. So the man’s name is Darius, he thought, his mind cataloging every detail with cold precision. The skinny man, unfazed by Dasha’s outburst, spoke again, his tone flat and authoritative.
"Yeah and that Darius instructed us to do this. Bring them inside the tribe. The tribe chief has ordered it."
Dasha’s expression softened slightly at their words.
"Oh... if that’s the case, then do it," she said, a small, approving smile curling her lips.
The tribesmen nodded and began moving forward, their steps deliberate and quiet. Dasha followed closely behind, her movements cautious yet confident. Only the crunch of leaves beneath their feet and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees disturbed the otherwise silent forest. A cold breeze whispered around them, brushing past Raika and Shimi, who looked utterly broken, their faces pale and defeated.
Veythor’s crimson eyes swept over them. A faint, amused smirk tugged at his lips.
Heh... they gave up on their lives so easily, he thought, rolling his eyes internally.
Suddenly, a distant murmur reached his ears the growing noise of a large crowd.
So... we’re close to the tribe, he noted quietly, lifting his gaze toward the sky.
Above him, the heavens looked dreamlike, the sky tinged with a soft reddish hue. Countless stars sparkled like scattered diamonds, and the large, glowing moon bathed the forest in ethereal silver light. For a fleeting moment, the world seemed suspended, almost beautiful, despite the tension pressing in from all sides.
The noise of the crowd grew louder, yet Veythor remained unmoved. He wanted to savor this rare, quiet moment. Soon, however, that serenity would vanish.... death could come at any instant. There was no guarantee of survival; he was already deep in a perilous situation to him, everything besides himself blurred into the background.
To be honest... I don’t want to die. Not yet. If I perish here, only to be reborn, transmigrated, or reincarnated... it would waste every single effort I’ve made in this life. I have to escape. Somehow, I must escape.
Ahead, the faint glow of huts emerged, clustered closely together as if grown from the earth itself. Veythor observed carefully, noting the structure and layout. As soon as they entered the tribe’s settlement, an eerie silence enveloped them. Every movement, every sound, seemed to vanish.
Veythor’s eyes widened slightly. There were far more people here than he expected sixty, seventy, perhaps even more, their forms barely discernible in the dim firelight. A massive bonfire burned at the center of the tribe, its flames licking the night sky, casting shadows that danced across the surrounding huts. Nearby, a strange statue loomed, its shape unclear, shrouded in darkness and flickering firelight.
For a brief moment, everything seemed frozen... time, sound, and space all converging into this singular, tense moment.
Some of the tribesfolk began making sounds again, moving in strange, erratic patterns around the roaring bonfire. Their bodies twisted and jerked in a rhythm that seemed almost ritualistic. Veythor’s crimson eyes scanned the scene, taking in every movement, every detail.
Suddenly, an old woman appeared before them—the only adult present who wasn’t wearing a mask.
Interesting... the children don’t wear masks either. Must be a tradition... reach a certain age, earn the right to wear one, Veythor thought, narrowing his eyes at the sight of her.
He noted instantly: she must be the chief. Darius was present as well, standing silently nearby.
Those carrying Veythor, Shimi, and Raika set the metal bar down carefully, embedding it into the ground. The old lady’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smirk.
"Nice to meet you childrens," she said, her voice carrying authority and age.
Raika and Shimi didn’t even look up their experiences at death’s door had drained every ounce of courage. Only Veythor stared, his sharp gaze assessing, calculating. A subtle smirk lingered on his lips. Schemes and contingencies were already forming in his mind.
Dasha stepped forward, bowing deeply in respect to the old lady.
"Lady Emata," she said brightly, "Darius gave me my first mission today!"
The chief’s wrinkled hand moved slowly to pat Dasha’s head.
"Is that so... I see," she murmured. "Then, Dasha... tell me, among these three, which one do you favor?" She pointed at Veythor, Shimi, and Raika.
Dasha studied them silently for a moment, her gaze lingering on Veythor.
Let me guess... she’s going to choose me, Veythor thought, his smirk widening internally.
"That one with red eyes," Dasha finally said, pointing decisively at him.
Veythor couldn’t help the dry, sarcastic chuckle that escaped him. Ah... curse you, fate, he muttered internally, amused and resentful at the same time.
Lady Emata’s gaze shifted to him, inspecting every detail. Wrinkles marked her face, and hair loss had left her partially bald, yet she still carried an aura of authority. Her eyebrows lifted slightly in curiosity.
"Oh... that boy looks interesting," she said. "Darius, set him down and untie him."
Darius obeyed immediately, and Veythor’s hands tingled as they were freed. A subtle ache pressed against his ribs, a reminder of the rough handling.
Oh damn, he muttered silently.
"Boy... tell me. Who are you? And why are children like you wandering in this deadly forest?" Emata demanded.
Veythor didn’t answer. For now, silence was his ally. If he revealed that they were powerless escaped slaves, their situation would only worsen.
"What’s this? I’m not hearing any answers, boy!" she shouted, her voice slicing through the tense night. Still, Veythor remained silent. She sighed, irritation flashing across her face.
"Darius... get me my whip," she commanded.
Murmurs rippled through the surrounding tribesfolk. Darius hesitated, hands trembling slightly as he glanced at the chief.
"Yes, ma’am," he replied, moving quickly to obey.
Before he could return, Emata planted her foot firmly onto Veythor’s head with a loud thud, pressing him into the ground. His teeth clenched instinctively, but he dared not move. Any sudden motion could mean immediate death.
"Keep your stubbornness... let’s see how much you can endure," she said, chuckling darkly. Some of the tribesfolk followed her lead, their laughter echoing through the clearing, adding to the oppressive tension.
Veythor’s crimson eyes narrowed, calm and calculating, as he absorbed every detail, every sound. Pain radiated through his skull and ribs, but he refused to let fear or anger dictate his actions. Every second was data, every motion a clue, and every word a thread he could use to weave his escape.