ã€ŠThe Overzealous Healerã€‹


 Announcement

    Roadmap, Status & Tentative Titles

    This describes the blurbs for each segment.

    Vol 1: Coyote and Spider

    Alpha Draft (30k words): Generally gramatically correct, lacks descriptive details; pacing may be off

    Blurb:

    Timo is a child who commits magical murder, and the farm sends a witchhunter to investigate. Without modern social nets that we take for granted, he is shunned, consumed by inexplicable loneliness. To survive, he must find an acceptable outlet for his powers and his moral insanity. However, Timo plans to have fun while he''s at it, and mayhem is on the menu.

    The Scorpion, a jaded witchhunter, tracks down the suspect. As he digs further, he must ultimately make the hardest decision of his life.

    Vol 2: Clinical Trials

    Alpha draft wordcount: 80k

    Current Blurb:

    In the Sect of Numentum, medical training starts young. An apprentice named Timonius works at a clinic. Timo follows the rules to the best of his ability, but sometimes, impulses get the better of him. Few things excite him more than opening up a ribcage, and he uses magic to cleanse disease and annoying morons alike.

    After a monsoon sweeps away houses, refugees overwhelm the system. Among them, an oracle visits for checkups. During times of trouble, the oracle will be taken to the summit and sacrificed to a deity. Concordia was raised as a pi?ata, and she accepts her fate, but acceptance cannot soothe her anguish.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Timo befriends Concordia and attends to her, counting down the days she has left. There are many things he doesn''t understand, so he won''t step out of line. He shouldn''t stretch a finger beyond his garden¨Cyet sometimes, a friend feels like an extension of yourself.

    CONTENT WARNING: animal abuse, graphic subject matter, self harm, suicidal ideation

    Vol 3: Inquisition

    Planning

    Tentative Blurb:

    Timonius joins forces with a hopeful gladiator: real name Metus, stage name Aurum Kai. Coach to a star, shadow of the sun, Timo''s knowledge of biomechanics and nutrition keeps the athlete in peak condition. The duo compete in underground pits for street cred and prize money. At this rate, it feels like they can succeed forever.

    Timo hungers for first-class tickets to gorefests and a weaselway into the echelons of the upper-class. Metus worries about a purpose beyond gang life. Timo may have dropped out of medical school, and he constantly mumbles strange things and disappears for days at a time. Suddenly, Metus finds himself accused of burglaries and crimes that he didn''t do, and his celebrity persona is tanking in ratings.

    With his reputation at stake and only an inkling of an imposter framing him, can Metus escape the demands of the public? He''d prefer to keep out of the business of retribution, but nothing can prepare him for a new shade of overkill, and a knight is but a knave.

    Vol 4: Campaign

    Not in scope

    Vol 5: Rehab

    Not in scope

    -------

    Mar 06, 2021

    Still doing a lot of research at this point. Clinical Trial''s setup and introduction is mostly complete. The middle section (build-up) takes the longest. Climax and ending are still up in the air, because I have several endings. Hopefully I''ll be able to untangle the knots.

 Book 1: Coyote & Spider (Prologue)

    Can we choose to be happy?

    After graduating from a fighter''s guild, the knighting ceremony was a crowning moment in his life.

    It was a short joy. He had been plunged into the battlefield to fight on behalf of a spineless lord. But he lived. He got away from all that.

    Though he made all the right choices, life doesn''t guarantee happiness. Just ask Verius Felicitum.

    A man of about forty years, he itches his scraggly beard while resting in a room that smells stale, an empty flask laying next to his hand. He squats in an abandoned house, and as a result the villagers have spread rumors.

    "Does he have problems with his wife?" The speaker is neutral, but curious.

    "The poor man can''t function now. Maybe there''s bad karma from his past life." Genuine concern from this tone.

    Footsteps and comments seep through the stripped planks. Stowing inside, but not really trying to hide, the man fiddles with his pipe overflowing with cud, courtesy of his wife. With a snap of his fingers, Verius lights a flame, and the crackle of sparks distracts him from the whispering, superstitious voices. Cold air blows through a broken section of the roof, toying with the flame like a cat to a mouse.

    In the province of Caelum, its military branches had been decommissioned since losing to Rubrum in a territorial dispute. Having survived with his limbs intact, Verius met a preppy alchemist named Remelia, married her, and moved with her to her small town. While it wasn''t intentional, engaging an herbalist comes with a nearly unlimited grass supply.

    "Haven''t you heard? A monster invaded their home. He''s scared of the future."

    "Stop fooling us. If that was the case, he would take his wife with him." The voice is shrill and breathy.

    Their chatter is so annoying. I wish they would do me a favor and ask me directly. Alas, Verius is a male with stoicism drilled into him, so he cannot complain out loud. With his back to a wall, he slinks further into the floor. To be honest, even if they did ask him, he has no verbal answers. What would happen is that he would tear up and blubber like a baby, embarrassing himself. Maybe it''s better they didn''t ask.

    Several days had passed since he left home. The smoke revives his frozen lungs, driving off the numbness that had nested into his sinuses. He brushes at the scraps of cud littered around his reach, sweeping them into a dust pile. Before the hallucinogen whisks him to the realm of nectar, he mulls over his troubles.

    He had just returned from a hunting trip. Their modest house his father-in-law had built quite well, with cleanly shaped bricks and straw insulation, and it was a welcomed sight for sore eyes. He hung the pheasant carcasses off the ceiling beam, high enough to be out of reach from a dog or a kid.

    "Good girl," Verius said as he knelt, petting Ursi''s head. He gave her a rub through her long, wavy coat, and her sharp ears flopped at once. She panted lightly and closed her eyes. It was a snip chilly outside, so Verius decided to let her sleep inside the house.

    "Welcome back. How was it?" Remelia asked, wearing a simple apron and her hair tied loosely in the back. Her head poked out from behind the central chimney in the single-room house. She had turquoise eyes and chestnut hair. The warm glow and the slosh of vegetable stew had a calming effect on Verius, but they were nothing compared to his beautiful wife.

    "We''re good for the week," he reported matter-of-factly. "Where''s Timo?"

    "I sent him out to fetch water. He should be back soon."

    Verius continued petting Ursi and making cooing sounds at her. "Yush, do you like dem scritches?" He started examining the walls and whether they needed repairs. Ursi followed Verius step by step.

    The sky gradually darkened, and the soup was getting mushier. Remelia said, "The fire needs a lift." She reached for the wrack beside the hearth, but her hand paused. "Where''s the poker? I swear I put it back."

    "Do you need more wood?"

    "That would be nice. While you''re out, can you check on Timo? He hasn''t returned, and it''s getting dark."

    "Aye aye. Why don''t you start eating first?" Verius patted his thighs and called, "Ursi!" The two of them went outside, where the sky was dim and the sun partially sunken into the earth.

    A pepper-scented wave from the nearby spike-leaf trees greeted the man and dog. Verius went to the well the family had dug themselves, thinking his son had gotten distracted and lost track of time.

    When he arrived at the well, a pit in the ground surrounded with rocks and a thick pipe jutting out of the middle, nobody was around.

    Maybe it''s dry today? The village is nearby. There''s a deeper communal well. He gathered a few sticks and realized he forgot to bring a torch. "It''s not good to spend too long after sundown. I hope he''s there."

    He quickened his pace and headed down the worn path, stepping aside the occasional low-hanging tree branch and tall stalk. Ursi sniffed through the brush and roamed near Verius''s legs. A tiny knot of discomfort was forming inside Verius, but he swallowed it down, not letting it distract him. He carried a light bundle of dry sticks, but stopped gathering any more wood.

    The forest started to clear as the path grew wider, leading closer to the main village hub. Little stone houses with thatched roofs dotted the far side of the horizon. Ursi stopped and lifted her chin high, her nose trembling. Her great neck stiffened, then she veered off into a wack direction.

    "Where''re you going? Ursi?" The man turned heel and followed. He whistled and snapped his fingers, but Ursi simply paused, looked back to make sure he was following, then continued plowing the ground with her nose.

    Despite his best attempts to stay with the hound, she bolted further into the forest and left him behind. Verius stumbled into the vegetation, but it was harder for him to push through the branches. He decided to conserve his energy, as her barking will alert him of the location soon enough. He was sidetracked with three tasks at once: finding his dog, finding his son, and finding firewood, thus becoming extremely frustrated.

    From the distance, there was a bark. Verius snapped his head towards the noise and jogged. Then, a high-pitched whine morphed into a gutteral scream.

    That was unlike anything he had ever heard before. It was so piercing that Verius froze, as if his toes had been nailed down by the sound.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    Ursi''s garbled growl rose and fell like a wave. "I''m coming! Ursi, return!" Verius summoned a tongue of flame in his hand and ignited the bundle. He threw the sticks outwards and they floated around him, suspended by a shell of mana. He clawed at his thighs and plucked his feet up, regaining the energy to move. As he dashed, the hot tips singed leaves and branches that would have scratched his face.

    He stopped. "Ursi! Speak!"

    She did not bark in response. Verius twitched and panicked, and resumed in the direction of what seemed correct. "Speak! Speak!" He commanded louder and louder.

    "I''m here!" a human voice responded instead.

    Finally, with a reference point, Verius arrived at the location. "Timo? Is that you?"

    Before him, he saw Ursi and his son, laying on the ground, tangled together in a bloody, mottled mess. Verius screamed and jumped at both of them, cutting the air with expletives. "Titanfall! Ursi?" He knelt down and his hands shook.

    Ursi whimpered and craned her neck across the dirt, her eyes shining and her breathing heavy. An iron rod stuck out of her belly. It took him a second to recognize the fireplace poker. The entry points of the prongs gushed with dark globs as she exhaled. He averted his gaze and scanned his son''s body, whose tunic was splattered. "Timo? Are you hurt?"

    "I''m fine, I think," Timo said. He rolled over slightly, his hair covered in twigs.

    "Ursi?" Verius strained his throat. His lungs felt sticky inside, and his scalp felt like it was about to explode, such was the extent of his shock and confusion. He turned to Timo, and the floating sticks drew closer, washing the area with an orange glow. "What happened? Did she attack you?"

    Timo sat upright, swaying back and forth. "Ursi barked so loud, I got scared." A mix of blood and sweat on his upper lip flowered as he spoke.

    "What were you doing here, Timo?" Verius gripped his son¡¯s shoulder.

    The child presented a grin and laughed with quiet, hnng hnng, noises. "I was playing hide ¡®n seek, but I didn''t want to be found so fast," voice trailing off.

    Verius furrowed his brow. His eyes flitted around the scene. "Timo, Mama asked you to fetch water. Where''s the bucket?"

    "Obviously, it''s in the well," Timo said with a hint of annoyance.

    Verius made another pass of the area. "You didn''t bring it with you?"

    Timo shook his head.

    "Why is Ursi hurt?" Verius debated if he should take the poker out, or if doing so would harm her worse.

    "Oh." Timo leaned over and laid a hand on Ursi, who breathed weakly. As he felt his hand rise from her chest, he said, "She''s not dead yet?"

    "Timo!" An inexplicable sensation rose in Verius. He grabbed the child firmly with both arms. "What do you mean? What did you do?"

    Timo formed his hands into fists and brought them together, holding an imaginary stick. "I did this," he said as he swung down a few times, "then this," as he raised and thrusted it into the ground.

    Verius shoved Timo so hard the child choked on his own saliva. As he tumbled and wheezed, the father rose to full height and kicked. His boot sunk into softness, rebounded against ribs, and sent the kid flying across the grass. The floating sticks exploded and whole branches engulfed in flame.

    He bellowed, "What''s wrong with you?! Ursi is a sweet girl! She would never hurt a person." Saying that out loud, he felt a small relief, but only a tiny bit, like watching a fly buzz off a manure pile. A disgust within him loomed higher than the heavens. Hardening his face, he towered over his son. "Why would you do this?!"

    Timo curled into a ball and grabbed his knees. With his mouth full of contempt, he mumbled, "You love your dog more than me."

    "What did you just say?!" Verius picked up his child by the collar and shook him loose. "You think you can spew lies like that?!" He held him higher until the limbs dangled.

    "Verius! What''re you doing?" From behind, Remelia shrieked. "Timo!" She stomped her way across the uneven sod, and another woman and man from the village followed behind.

    During the distraction, Timo bit his father''s hand. Verius yelled and released his grip, dropping the child.

    "Providence!" Remelia ran to Timo and hugged him. The neighbors circled around Verius, eyeing Ursi and him cautiously.

    "Who have you been sleeping with?!" Verius yelled. His spit flung onto Remelia''s face.

    "What''re you talking about?" Remelia brushed off the moisture, then with her arms, guarded Timo. "Are you hurt?"

    Her son burrowed and snuggled against her. She glared at her husband. "Why''s he covered in blood?"

    "Someone who hurts dogs can''t be a son of mine!" Verius regretted saying that as soon as it came out of his mouth.

    Remelia''s jaw dropped and her eyes widened. To make the situation more ridiculous, Timo started crying. Remelia hugged her son tightly and said, "Hush baby, it''s gonna be okay. Mama''s here."

    "I--I''m serious! He killed Ursi!" Verius pointed directly at Timo''s face.

    The woman from the village said, "First, you need to extinguish the flames." Her husband held up a torch and waved it, indicating they still had a light source.

    Remelia cried, "He''s only six! How can you accuse him of that?"

    Verius wanted to slap all of them. They didn''t know what Ursi meant to him. They hadn''t seen it. They hadn''t seen the truth.

    He saw the truth, in all of its ugly and hopeless glory. It was like the key had clicked, the final piece of the puzzle had erupted in place. He was forced to confront this truth with his eyelids taped open. There was no relief and no saving grace. Hollow and incomplete, the dread inside of him had stirred. It brewed, it absorbed his denial, it gained critical mass and it manifested into physical flesh, a rotting piece of carcass that paraded around as his son.

    They don''t have a right to judge.

    He dropped his tone by an octave. "Remelia, step away."

    "I refuse," she said. "You need to explai--"

    Verius ignored her and reached for Timo''s hair. He pulled him out of Remelia''s arms. The mother flailed and threw herself onto Verius, to no avail. Without thinking, Verius shoved his wife aside, and she landed onto the ground.

    The village neighbors intervened and grabbed Verius by his arms. Branches exploded in their face, the heat almost searing them. They let go and retreated.

    Timo escalated his cries as his father dragged him by the head and whiplashed him. Verius leaned over Timo, drawing close to snap the little neck. The child fell silent.

    In a hushed tone that only his father could hear, he said, "I''m glad I could see the real you." His face was devoid of emotion.

    Was that something that should come out of a child''s mouth? Verius froze with chills up his spine.

    As if reading those thoughts, Timo twisted into a sob and his cheeks bloomed red. He stretched out his arms, stretched out his fingers, trembling like the weeping willow. "Papa."

    Verius mirrored the word with his lips. Papa.

    "Papa," Timo repeated. Streaks of tears gleamed and danced across his face like the rivers in their valleys.

    Verius dropped his arms and lingered for an eternity. He stared at his son. He started at the stare that had somehow become so innocent. He stared and stared, and the memories of his son''s birth flooded him. The intensity of her labour. Her smiling face, her triumph over her darkest hours. There were so many promises of joy, so many kisses of love. His knees buckled and he melted into the ground. In that fleeting moment, it was enough to see a vulnerable human being, crying and offering a hug. He broke, and the floating sticks burned to their end, crumbling into ash.

    He let out a cry that came from the deepest reserves of his core, so unspeakable and unbearable was his pain. In the corner of his eye, he saw his wife rise, her dress covered in dirt and a scalding glint in her eyes. He saw his neighbors standing afar, siding with Remelia. He saw his son, standing in front of him, pasted with dried blood and snot.

    He moaned and screeched, tore at his hair, shedding clumps of burnt brown, the most ancient and primordial of instincts waging war within him. What kind of a man was he? He would like to think he was an honest man and a good father.

    As his own sobbing quieted down, Verius extended his arms and guided them around Timo. He nudged the child close, electrified by the small body of heat, and locked arms with him. "My son, my son," he sang to himself.

    Their shoulders touched, and they embraced.

    "Papa," Timo whispered, "I love you."

    Verius glanced at Ursi, who had stopped breathing. Since when did she¡­? Needles and thorns stabbed at his heart a thousand times.

    "I¡­I love you too," he whispered back.

    When he said that, was he telling the truth?

    The images of his mind dissolve into the present time, forming into the blanched planks of an abandoned building.

    An exasperated voice says, "What a shame. Who knew that Remi''s husband had such a violent temper."

    "That''s what happens when you marry a Vagrant; you never know what they''re up to. Now, their son is like that."

    Verius lifts his hand to adjust his pipe. Cradling his cheeks with his knuckles, he wipes the steam and the tears away, painting dreams over nightmares.

    There''s an old saying from the homeland: anger issues are happiness issues.

 1.01 - Timonius

    Timonius Felicitum had been sold off as a slave to a larger estate, as his parents accrued no small debt.

    An optimistic nine-year-old, he blew off the affair as ''no biggie.'' After all, he had been sent to a convent, much like a boarding school, to be instilled with the tenets of Providence, and he did not last the whole year, but was returned after two months.

    Yet indeed, after two months of working on a grueling farm, it becomes apparent he won''t return home anytime soon. If there''s one thing he hates most in this world, it''s vegetables. There''s nothing particularly awful about how vegetables taste, he just hates the concept of plants and how boring they are. They stay rooted in the ground and take several days to transform into something meaningful. There''s also the part where his mother named him after an herb, so he hates his name.

    And, he made the mistake of working hard in his first few weeks.

    The supervisor is a decent man named Harcus. He organizes the kids'' meals and tells stories in his free time. He wears a scraggly tunic and a moth-eaten sash across his shoulder, which indicates his laughable rank as a trusted serf on this stupid farm.

    Regularly, Harcus turns the child slaves loose to fields, tasking them to pull weeds. On melon-field day, children of various ages, about six to twelve years old, were spread out amongst the trenches of melon plants, the fruits green and immature. They all wore the same simple threads, a cotton tunic and baggy pants. Most walked barefoot.

    A particular newcomer caught his eye, who had the countenance of an ashen chestnut. Harcus was told that his mother, an herbalist, passed her affinity for plants onto him. He watched Timo perform. It was one thing to hear about, but another to see.

    Every weed in his grasp decayed into dust, and so did all those in his vicinity if they shared the root system. Destroying weeds was easy for him, and probably the only plant-related activity he enjoyed. He got his section done early and goofed off the rest of the time. He digged for bugs, slept amongst vines, and wandered into the wilderness of undeveloped land.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    The rest of his peers bridled with envy. As all children interpret it, they too deserve recess. Harcus thought about his daughter''s delicate hands. Every time he sees the rawness and blistering skin, Saela''s fine nails chipping and packed with dirt, his heart aches.

    Harcus observed for several days to confirm it was real and not some parlour trick. The children whined about Timo constantly. Could they shut up? Harcus can''t do anything about serfdom. They must till the earth, and most people are born Igniarius without a lick of a green thumb.

    Harcus approached the boy who sat relaxed in the dirt. "You have a talent for this, huh?"

    Timo''s stomach dropped. From the supervisor''s tone, he knew exactly what was coming.

    "Each should work according to their ability." Timo''s a boy, he can handle it. "Here, why not help Saela?"

    Saela is somewhat slender, but not so frail that she would disappear in a sneeze. Most girls look as grimy as the boys, the only difference being longer hair and longer obedience. Timo shuffled over and poked at the weeds reluctantly, a kind of crabgrass. Harcus lasered in on Timo, standing too close for comfort. "I know you''re not doing as much as you can."

    He weeded. It wasn''t a big deal.

    Over the next few days, Lazy-Weed girl believed she could command Timo. "Do the whole patch. You''ll get whipped if you don''t." Pretty soon, Timo''s herbicide business flourished. The other kids digged for bugs, slept in vines, and wandered wild. If it wasn''t done, guess who got whipped.

    He once told Lazy-Weed, "You should help us, so we can all get done faster."

    And she said, "You''re the best at it, you should help the others."

    Timo now works slowly on his tasks, often sparking the supervisor''s ire. When Harcus gets mad, his eyes animate with fire, and when he sees Timo''s unflinching face, his belt comes down faster. It turns out that Timo isn''t much of a green thumb either, for the paltry fields stayed paltry; not a single garden has improved in greenery or grandeur. The slave trader probably lied.

    Under duress with his own quotas, Harcus only knows how to discipline kids by whipping them, and he whips Timo the hardest. What other delinquent husks corn with massive welts on his palms? Or some days couldn''t bend down to collect manure off the ground? Whipped outside, whipped inside. Whipped, whipped, whipped!

 1.02 - Meet the Butchers

    On the farm lives a butcher. He gets his own little cabin, mostly because a loyal butcher is valuable enough to be rewarded one, and also because most of the non-butchers avoid him as much as possible. Even after he thoroughly washes himself in the river once a month, the smell of blood clings to him. He keeps his beard stubbled or shorter, and keeps his head bald because of sticky work conditions. Every day, he wears a bandana, and only dons a dark, thick apron during his shifts.

    His social life tends to fall flat, but that''s okay because he''s somewhat introverted. Still, he feels a tinge of loneliness when he is the only person in the room whose day nobody wants to hear about. There are plenty of juniors who come and go, but most of them drift away without taking the butcher trade seriously.

    When the bossman passes on the quotas, the head butcher Kazerus is called to the pen. "We need more pork," the boss had ordered. Kazerus trudges through the mud field, where the animal caretaker awaits. Jaqui, his straw hat nodding solemnly, unlocks the gate and passes a bucket to Kazerus. Even though Kazerus is a giant hunk of muscle himself, he tips his head like a swan. The pigs bumble out of the gate, four in total, before Jaqui closes the latch. They swarm the feet of the butcher who carries the manna from heaven.

    The troupe marches to an open field, where the slaughterhouse sits on a gently sloping hill, and fresh grass grows all around. Kazerus lets the pigs wander and play. They uproot grass and sniff out buried nuts, or sunbathe with a frivolous unawareness.

    In time, the assistants lead each animal into the dark house. Ventilation holes near the roof allow sunlight to stream in, but if they make a mistake slitting the vocal cords, the thick walls muffle the hellish squeals.

    When voices from outside seem to be squabbling, Kazerus takes it upon himself to check out what''s happening. Upon exiting the building, the thick drape of suffering unclasps from his shoulders. He basks in the sunlight and enjoys the moment of respite.

    "Alright kid, get going," the assistant says. His apron and gloves, ill-fitting and about to slip off his wiry frame, have trademark maroon stains. "We gots real work to do."

    A boy had been petting and talking to one lardtub of a pig. Kids and adults alike sneak away to slack off, but usually not in the direction of the butchery. Kazerus walks over, carrying a massive cleaver by his side. "Sorry, the swine belongs to us. Why don''t you go back to your place?" He doesn''t like using his imposing stature against others, but sometimes it''s necessary. He blocks the sun and casts a large shadow.

    "Okay," Timo says obediently. He crawls between the fence, and the crew watches him disappear.

    They lead the final pig into the final house.

    They spend an intense day separating the cuts of meat and delivering them to various clients, cooks and preparation facilities, until sunset drives the workers to retire for the night.

    The first to arrive and the last to leave, Kazerus takes a glance at the empty station. Chains clank as he locks up the slaughterhouse. He eagerly walks home, if only to change out of his work clothes and enjoy a cup of wine before bed.

    Once at the cabin, he heads to an attachment room, taking a rusty candleholder with him, and slides the heavy door open. About as large as a closet, the room is filled to the brim with sacks of salt. Hooks from the ceiling hang meats, just like how the slaughterhouse cures ¡®em, and the stench has a force of its own. From the nearest steak, Kazerus picks off strands to nibble on, delectable and soft the texture. Satisfied with his handiwork, he leaves the salt chamber and seals the door.

    He enters the main living room, fluffs out his bed and pillow--bales of straw and hemp--and crawls under a thin blanket. He promptly falls asleep.

    A knocking sound interrupts the stillness, and Kazerus shoots his eyelids open. The torrent of rain drums against the walls, dull and humid the thudding. He cocks his head left and right before slipping out of bed like a slug. He drags the slat from the door peep, where his eyes strain under the dim moon, croaking, "Who''s there?"

    "Hi," a pipsqueak says.

    Kazerus looks down and barely makes out a face in the shimmering darkness. "What the hell are you doing at night?"

    "Um, I got lost. Do you have a place I can sleep?"

    Kazerus massages his eyes. "One moment." He steps away from the door and fumbles around for a candleholder. When he feels a waxy object, he rubs the wick a couple times until a small flame ignites, and returns to the door. He unfastens the chain and opens a small crack for the light to shine through.

    Indeed, the visitor is a child and not a ghost. Kazerus ushers him inside. "Ya got lost, huh?"

    Timo hurries into the cabin, sopping hair sprinkling droplets. Kazerus shuts the door. Not used to having guests, he watches this one shake off the rain. It would be cruel to leave him outside, but he isn''t sure where the boy could sleep. "Well, I''ll be sleeping there." Kazerus points at the pile of straw. "You sleep wherever you find room."

    Kazerus puts the candleholder on a shelf and blows it out, then crawls back into bed. He hears an almost inaudible "thanks" and listens to the tiptoeing until they fade into raindrops. In a single room with sparse furniture, he snorts and focuses on dozing. Work can always wait for morning.

    Before the crack of dawn, the rooster crow wakes Kazerus up. Forcing himself upright, he glances at the window and sighs at the muddy ground. "Ah--" he blurts. He almost forgets there''s another person inside the cabin.

    Kazerus crouches and rolls the boy''s shoulders back and forth. Timo unfurls like a newly sprouted leaf. The face belongs to the same kid who played with the pig yesterday, albeit with floor grain imprints. "Ya gotta go now, ''cause I gotta go work."

    After he metaphorically kicks the child out of his cabin, Kazerus gets dressed in his apron and filthy boots, then heads to the slaughterhouse. Along the way, a prickling sensation bothers him until he catches a head dashing behind a thicket.

    "Yo," Kazerus yells into the sky, "I''m going to report you to the bossman if you''re up to no good!"

    To his surprise, the boy leaps out of the bushes screaming and undulating, "NoOoOoOo," and crashes into Kazerus.

    "Hey twat, watch it!" Kazerus shakes Timo off, yet he slips out a laugh. "You''re gonna make me late!"

    Kazerus widens his stride, outpacing the child and arriving at the pen early. He prepares the equipment, setting up tables and benches and cutting boards. In due time, the boy catches up.

    "Are you supposed to be here?"

    "Yah," the kid replies.

    "What''s the name?"

    "Timo."

    Timo isn''t a name Kazerus recalls in recent memory. At this point, the kid needs to buzz off. "Unless you''re here to be useful, you better scram. Ain''t got time for children."

    Timo looks side to side, confused. Kazerus groans and heads inside the slaughterhouse. He emerges with a dead goose, neck in hand, then ties a rope around a rack to hang it. "Can you pluck this?" He throws a shallow basket at the boy, who catches it with a flump. "Do a few feathers at a time. Don''t rip off the meat."

    As the sun rises, the assistants filter through the gate and start their shift. They notice the random boy working on the goose and ask of his origin. Kazerus tells them, "I don''t know. He followed me ¡®round like a lost puppy, so I gave him an easy task."

    "What''s his name?" an assistant asks. His ankles are thick, and his knees protrude from under his apron.

    "It''s¡­" Kazerus shuffles his feet and taps the back of his neck. "I forget."

    For the most part, they ignore ''I forget,'' as he''s too young to do much.

    Timo works diligently on the goose. At one point, a downy feather lands on top of his nose, and he snorts, vacuuming the foreign object inside. He sneezes and drops the bucket, and a fantastic confetti scatters in the wind. He clutches at the heavier feathers, but the rest had blown away to oblivion.

    Timo approaches the goose and rips at the half-plucked wings in a fit of rage, breaking the shafts of the valuable flight feathers used for quills.

    Kazerus notices the flurry of movement in his periphery and lays his knife down amongst a half-chopped ham. He rushes over. "Kid, what are you doing?!"Stolen novel; please report.

    Timo releases the greasy feathers from his palms. He gives Kazerus an expression of pain. "The feathers wouldn''t stay in the basket."

    Kazerus purses his lips. "It''s not a big deal. Here, just pick up the big ones." The goose has deep depressions and a broken breastbone. "Look, you ruined it."

    Timo shrinks into himself. "Sorry."

    Kazerus sighs. The bird won''t be good for aesthetic presentations, but he can repurpose it for broth or sausages. "If you get upset, at least say something. You don''t have to act out by yourself."

    Around noon, the team cooks a pot stew on the spit racks, and Kazerus feels a little guilty that he forgot to feed the kid beforehand; maybe he was hungry and grumpy. Holding a piece of flatbread, Kazerus lifts the lid off a tall pot, releasing the aroma of celery, meat and peas. With a dipping spoon, he skeeves the top layer and slathers it onto the bread, then gives it to Timo. The lion''s share of the pottage is for his team, who own proper spoons and breadbowls.

    During break, they gather around the cooking fire. The senior butcher, a stout man with cloudy, soft eyebrows, competes with the youngsters in wild tales about masculine exploits. Wiry-Monkey hankers for bets on how long Timo would stay here. While they try to get a rise out of him, Timo watches with disinterest, and eventually the men switch topics. All in all, they forget he exists sometimes, and don''t mind if he does. Corrupting the innocence of children with vulgar talk is quite fun.

    Coming up the entrance gate, Jaqui calls, "Kaz, you''ve got a bull."

    Kazerus locks his knuckles and stretches his arms outwards. "Whew! Today''s a big day!"

    Cloud-Brow winks at Timo and says, "Ya wanna watch this?"

    As the butchers open the gate, Jaqui leads a black bull into the back of the pen, leading it with a long rope tied to a nosering. A shining coat bulges from the shoulders and haunches. Its horns are burnished copper, striking awe into the hearts of men.

    "Stay back and sit tight," Cloud-Brow tells Timo. He brings him to a spot far from the intended area of slaughter. "Try to keep your eyes open for as long as you can. This is real men''s work." He laughs before rejoining the team, and Timo sits on the fence. Cloud-Brow rubs his lower back and curses at arthritis.

    The men gather around the bull, and Kazerus pats it on the back. "The Great Spirit calls to us. Our brother will return to the Hall of Stars."

    The men say in a messy chorus, "Congratulations!"

    "Say ''hi'' to grandma for me?"

    "You are so blessed!"

    Such phrases are aimed at their ''brother,'' the bull.

    Kazerus lifts his palm, and the chorus dies down. He continues, "His journey will be arduous. We hope he has been given plenty of help and support."

    The men, in murmurs and grunts of a congregation, speak, "If you need anything give us a call!"

    "You''re always welcome to visit us!"

    Kazerus says, "Bring us lots of souvenirs, will ya?" He rubs the bull on the nose and closes his eyes. "Are you ready?"

    "Farewell, our brother!"

    "May peace be unto you, and your journey safe."

    "Don''t trip and fall into Hell!"

    Kazerus steps back from the bull with his arms spread wide. From the side, Big-Knee approaches the calm animal with an axe held low. He raises the handle end slowly, and a swift movement bashes the skull right in the center of its forehead.

    The bull sways, stunned and unable to keep balance. Immediately, Wiry-Monkey inserts a pithing rod into the dented wound, sawing in and out, while the others hold the body steady. As its muscles go limp, they gently lower the bull to the ground.

    Kazerus supervises them, waiting until the animal breathes its last. When he gives the signal, the rest of the assistants haul the carcass to the slaughterhouse, where they tie chains around the ankles and hang it.

    The blood flows out of the jugular, collecting in a deep pan. After they skin and separate the beast into manageable chunks, they store it on hooks for aging. Cloud-Brow pokes his head outside the doorway. "Where''s the kid? Did he leave?"

    Big-Knee laughs. "You didn''t see? He sneaked inside and hid in the corner." He points to the direction with his thumb, where a pair of legs show under the curtains of meat.

    "Well, well! Did you watch the whole thing?" Cloud-Brow swats a couple of hangers away, finally revealing Timo''s face.

    "I did."

    "What did ya think?"

    "It was interesting."

    "It sure is, huh?" Cloud-Brow looks wistfully into the distance, surely reminiscing of the first time he witnessed a slaughter.

    Kazerus says, "The kid really stayed? He didn''t run away?"

    "His balls were so heavy that he couldn''t," Wiry-Monkey jests.

    "That ram''s sack practically kissed the ground and still chased you plenty fast," Kazerus responds in a snap.

    "Hey, I don''t know why it hated me! One moment, it was chewing grass, and the next, tryin'' to raze my ass!"

    At the end of another exhausting day, Kazerus makes the rounds counting the weights of products. When he retrieves the basket of goose feathers, he nods and figures it''s enough to sell. The workers hang and chat around the cistern, a shallow stone pool that collects rainwater, to wash their knives before heading home.

    Kazerus strolls down the hill, passing through the paved dirt and gravel. Indeed, when he glances behind, Timo follows.

    "Kid, don''t you have a place to sleep?" Kids should be at the longhouse, where his supervisor is. Actually, his supervisor should be freaking out right now. Unless...he''s a trespasser who wandered onto the farm? Kazerus drills his eyes into Timo with suspicion.

    "I can''t sleep with the other kids."

    Kazerus yawns and rubs his neck. "Who''s your boss? I''ll take you back."

    "You''re the bossman," Timo says.

    "Haha--what?" Kazerus frowns. Sure, he is the head butcher, but he''s not good with children. Ugh, it''s not his job to take care of babies. He''ll have to return this kid. He approaches Timo and nudges the tiny shoulders. "Alright, playtime''s over. Let''s get you home."

    Timo fusses his arms and wriggles away from the butcher. "I don''t wanna go back! If they find me, I''ll get whipped."

    "If you did something bad, you have to face your punishment." Kazerus pushes a little harder at the child who won''t budge.

    "All the other kids hate me," Timo pouts. "I don''t wanna go back!"

    Kazerus stops pushing and asks, "Why do they hate you?"

    "I don''t know. They blame me for everything bad that happens."

    "What do they blame you for?"

    "If the crops are spoiled or the quota is too short or someone got scratched, they blame me and I get kicked out for the day. Then I have nothing to do but wander around."

    Kazerus frowns. He''s too tired to carry this kid all the way across the farm. Kazerus scratches his bandana. "Okay, let''s head back to my cabin for tonight. I''ll take you back tomorrow." He''ll have to apologize to the supervisor later. What a pain in the butt.

    Outside the cabin walls, the butcher hangs his apron and bandana on hooks. Kazerus pulls a set of keys out of his bootheel and unlocks the door. The two of them step inside, and Kazerus waves awkwardly. "I don''t have a bed for you. Sorry." Kazerus pulls up a small, knee-level table that had been tucked away against the wall. On the surface are nearly folded blankets, and Kazerus pads the floor with them. He requests, "Can you light the candle?"

    Timo steps inside and casually observes the room. He stares at the candleholder on the shelf and says, "I can''t."

    Kazerus snorts. "Stop being difficult. Is it really that hard to reach?" He looks behind to affirm.

    Timo grabs the holder off the shelf easily. He taps on the old wick. "I can''t actually light it."

    Kazerus opens his mouth with a large, "Oh." The kid is useless? We''re off to a great start! Starting a fire is a basic survival skill for any human. Maybe the kid is--to put it kindly--mentally slow? It would explain his cheekiness. "Can you use magic at all?"

    Timo says, "Sometimes."

    Kazerus takes the candleholder and rubs the wick. A small flame perks itself into existence. He points at a cushion and tells the kid to sit. "Stay here and don''t touch anything."

    He opens a sliding door in the back to his saltroom. After a few moments, he returns with a plate of jerky and grabs a jug of wine from atop a barrel. "Dinner."

    He sets the table with wooden cups and pours a little alcohol for Timo, and a lot more for himself.

    "It''s not like I expect that much from you," Kazerus says, "but don''t fuck anything up." He sits down on a floor mat, across from Timo.

    "Okay."

    "Butchers are the most important members of society." Kazerus nods with a steady gaze, completely serious about his statement. "Without us, civilization would fall apart. We''re dirty, but we have to be proud of ourselves."

    Timo holds a strip of meat and chews at it absent-mindedly.

    Kazerus gasps in a low breath, realizing he was about to launch a monologue. He bites a strip in tandem and gargles his mouth with wine.

    Some time later, Kazerus asks, "If you can''t use magic, why do the kids blame stuff on you?"

    Timo rolls his eyes. "I can use magic. Just not Fire."

    "Ooh, my bad," Kazerus says. He rests his elbows on the table and leans in closer. "So what kind of magic can you use?"

    Timo leans back and shrugs. "Doesn''t matter."

    Kazerus decides not to probe further, as it''s clearly a sore spot for him. He''s probably some kind of Naturalist. Maybe the others force their work onto him. "How do you feel about the other kids?"

    "They''re stupid, so I don''t care about them."

    His story sounds sad and all, but some details are missing. Kazerus says, "What did you do?"

    "I threw some cockroaches at a girl."

    "Man, that''s not nice." Kazerus puts his hands on his cross-legged knees and rocks back and forth. "But it sounds damn funny. How did she react?"

    "She screamed, of course. We all laughed at her, until an adult walked over and asked why she''s crying." Timo squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, his small body shivering. "I got whipped for treating ladies poorly. The other boys pretended they never laughed in the first place."

    Kazerus unstifles a laugh. "You were responsible for it. That can''t be helped."

    Timo pouts again. "A few bugs aren''t dangerous. I didn''t even hurt her."

    That last statement strikes Kazerus as odd. "Some people are sensitive. It''s not good to throw bugs around anyway; cockroaches are dirty." By experience, he knows a slaughterhouse is prone to pests, and a cockroach infestation is no joke.

    "Yeah, I know."

    Kazerus rubs his blushing cheeks. Nothing works better than a little booze to open the heart. "Growing up, I wasn''t liked much. My father was a butcher, so I ate more meat, and I was taller and stronger than the other kids."

    Kazerus watches Timo, making sure he''s paying attention. For a farmboy, his eyes are not soft and healthy, but rather empty and penetrating.

    He continues, "If I go to a pub late at night, there''s a good chance someone will pick a fight with me, just because I''m big and smelly. I don''t like fighting, though." A blink of sadness washes over Kazerus''s face. Then he smiles. "I guess it can''t be helped. People get jealous easily."

    "What do you do when you get into a fight?" Timo asks.

    "I try to make jokes and lighten the mood. Usually the other patrons will side with me as long as I don''t throw punches. Or I''ll run away. I don''t have to get sucked in with a drunk fool."

    "Have you ever killed anyone?"

    Kazerus laughs. "No. Do I really look like I have?"

    Timo says, "Kind of."

    It''s hard to forget the way people wrinkle their noses when Kazerus mentions he''s a butcher. Do they secretly think he''s an axe murderer too?

    In good humor, he swallows down the sting of insecurity. "I''ve never taken these cannons to war, but maybe you''d like to find out how much firepower I can pack?" He raises his arms and flexes his beautiful muscles, growling playfully. "Oh wait, we did send off our brother today, didn''t we?"

    "I''m not sure if I''d want a cow for a mother and the heifers as sisters," Timo says.

    "You know, when I was young, my sister had this mermaid phase? She tried so hard to become one and asked me to help her with rituals. To be honest, I was scared I''d turn into a manmaid with her. Wait...that doesn''t sound right¡­"

    "Isn''t it supposed to be ''merman?''"

    "Oh yeah! Anyway..."

    As the night wears on, they talk about life, they wipe and sort the dishes, they imagine random scenarios, of dragons and knights, and fall into the grasps of sleep.

 1.03 - Mercy

    Kazerus took Timo back to the sharecropper longhouse, where the slaves reside. The house is one elongated room, ceiling beams curved, and walls packed with sticks like a beaver dam. The center has an old hearth that is rarely cleaned, polluting the lodge with smoke and dust. Outside the house, the constant foot traffic renders the dirt bare, and leftover tools and firepits litter the premises.

    That morning, Timo got whipped as an example to the others.

    The next day, Larko The Jerk lit a section of the pumpkins on fire as a ''welcome back'' gift. Timo drained water from another quadrant to quench it, killing off nascent corn stalks. But even though he doesn''t use fire magic, he''s the troublemaker and took the blame. Whipped for going missing, and whipped for trying to save the farm. He should''ve broken Larko''s leg and left him burning in his own hell.

    Finally, on a morning with no major incidents, Timo catches the supervisor, tugging on the sleeve. Before they head out to the beanfields, he asks, "Can I work for the butchers?"

    Harcus scoffs. "No."

    "Why not?"

    "You¡¯re assigned to my jurisdiction. Besides, you¡¯re too young, and I will not tolerate deviant excuses." If an adult is unable to handle a mere 9-year-old, how would that look to the bossman?

    <hr>

    Running away as usual, Timo hid in the wheat fields, pretending to be the Lead Architect of the Imperial Court, tasked to make an amazing maze for the citizens. He mowed a path, discovering a litter of wild piglets. The hog mother leapt into the air and snorted, commanding her piglets to disperse into the golden prairie.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    The family got away except for one wobbly runt. Its clumsy movement excited him, and he reached over and plucked the piglet off the ground. It squealed louder and struggled to pry out of Timo''s hand. Its precious fate was his.

    He could go back to the others and show them the piglet. It was very cute, after all. Then he remembered, he overheard a group of farmers who always talked about exterminating hogs, as they were pests that ate crops.

    Who were the pests in his life? All the stupid kids, like Lazy-Weed, who didn''t understand the idea of mutual cooperation. Why was he always singled out?

    He looked at the piglet. Should he show mercy? What is mercy?

    If he released it now, the mother would reject it for wielding the scent of the enemy. It would be abandoned for being a liability to the family. What more cruelty was there than to let it die lonely?

    Using both hands, Timo twisted the head and the body, wringing the piglet. Bruises formed all over the runt''s torso. He held it until it became very still, then threw the corpse into the ground, and he rubbed the blood off his hands with soil and friction.

    He went back to the others. Larko and the boys were working on breaking an empty lot. With their hoes, they drew giant military diagrams of imaginary battles, sowing seeds at the hard, endless dirt. They threw seed bullets at each other, going, "You¡¯ve been hit with a critical shot! Your arm falls off!" Someone would retort, "My anti-focus barrier nullifies it!"

    When they saw Timo, they sprayed the seeds at him, saying things like, "Sorcerer!" and "Dirtsucker!" Before Timo could breathe a word, everyone put up faces of disgust and ran away.

    What''s wrong with these kids? They gobble scraps of steak like starving coyotes, and lick gravy off their fingers. No one is innocent from the cycle of destruction.

 1.04 - Forbidden Fruit

    At sunrise, everyone goes to work the fields, but Timo was held back specifically to get belted. Only him and the supervisor remain inside the polluted longhouse. Dried squash and corn bushels hang from racks. Blankets and hides sit in folded, neat piles along the walls. Pieces of a board game lie half-buried inside a sandbox. A clay bowl, full of shiny apples, poses on a nightstand some distance away.

    The backs of his knees had turned red, but they¡¯re so calloused that they couldn''t swell. The apples are red too, and Timo really wants to eat them. He could snatch one on his way out, but the stingy man would notice it missing.

    Behind him, a voice says, "Let this be a lesson to you, for going where you''re not supposed to."

    Harcus cracks the leather. Whap! The supervisor''s voice fades into background static.

    There were so many "supposed to''s" in life. Maybe Timo is a little dumb, and he isn''t perfect, but how can anyone remember all of them? Aren''t there basically just two rules: serve Providence, and be nice?

    Whap! The belt cracks in tandem with the logs in the hearth.

    Full of misery, he does what all kids do: he daydreams. Whap!

    He sat there, alone, surrounded by endless dirt. He argued with himself, saying he didn''t need anyone, that he was good on his own. For a bit, he calmed down. Still, the echoes of his thoughts wearied him.

    In the distance, the black and ominous crows cawed, and they flew in unison across the horizon. Evil creatures they may be, yet they had friends and families. The butchers, who were gross animal killers, had been warm and welcoming. The clouds were beautiful in the sun and fatal with the moon.

    Whap!

    Why isn''t he dead yet? Are they too chickenshit to kill him? Did his parents ship him off, hoping someone else could orchestrate his demise? Whap!Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    His heart, which had been beating anxiously, slows down. A calmness settles into his mind. There is a place for him, but he''d have to take care of something first.

    His eyes well up, and he makes sniffing sounds. The supervisor likes to whip until you cried, thinking it a sign of penance.

    "Have you had enough, Timo?"

    "Yes, sir."

    Harcus lifts his heavy hand and rolls the belt back around his waist. "You may rejoin the others," he says.

    On his way out, Timo veers left, where the fruit bowl sits. He takes it off the stand and carries it back to Harcus, who had leaned on a stool to put out the fire. Harcus tilts his head, squinting at Timo. Without a word, Timo smashes the bowl into the man''s face with all the force his nine-year-old arms could muster.

    Although he imagined the man would instantly fall unconscious, like how people in amatuer theatre died, his victim screamed instead. The fruit bowl shattered way too loudly.

    Panicking, Timo slammed into Harcus, knocking the wind out of both their lungs, and pushed him off the stool.

    He wished the man wouldn''t scream again, and he grabbed at the slick throat. As Timo did with the weeds, the threads of his will rooted themselves into the man''s body, invading every cell and ripping the bonds apart. Harcus batted at Timo, fighting to free his purple self.

    The events that played in Timo¡¯s mind reflected onto reality. From the throat, the vocal cords fanned out like flower petals. The ribcage split open like a fresh pomegranate, and the sharp bones reared upwards. The skin flew like a white sheet slipping off a bed of muscle. Plump intestines splayed out. The front of the supervisor''s cranium was caved in, and his eyeballs were a little too close to each other.

    Timo exhales violently and the air hisses. Harcus¡¯s head slumps sideways, brimming froth, and his arms drift apart, ticking, before thumping onto the rug. The boy holds his breath, unsure if the man would suddenly leap at him, or if he had truly died. He stares at the body until it has settled. With his curled fingers stiffer than steel, he wriggles them loose, squick by squick. I did something bad. Very, very bad.

    He steps backwards, and in his dizzy mind, the walls squeeze in on him. What a spectacular mess! Nothing like the clean cuts that the butchers make. An acrid odor fills his nostrils, and the multicolored rug blends into a monolithic brown. Blotches of translucent slime drape over the individual fibers in that viscous way, like syrup that won¡¯t let go. Chunks of red fat found a home on the ceiling.

    Convinced he¡¯s going to die, Timo stands with his hands at his sides, his palms facing forward. He lifts his chin and closes his eyes, waiting for a lightning bolt from the sky to strike him.

    He waited and waited. The cicadas started chirping again.

 1.05 - Aftermath

    He had stood there like a fool, truly expecting divine retribution that never came.

    The corpse is in bad shape. Timo picks up parts of the mush, but it¡¯s too slippery to hold in his small hands. Shoveling the mass into the fireplace would be time consuming.

    Timo runs his hands over his clothes, sucking the organic matter onto them like a magnet, and flicks it off. If anything, he has to look immaculately clean. He has to act normal.

    Cursed thoughts race in his mind. What if people find out he did this? How would they react if he tells them? The prospect of becoming infamous is infecting him.

    No! That''s stupid! No one gets famous on this shitty farm. Nobody would believe he is actually a murderer, and if they do, they would dump his lifeless body off the side of the road.

    When his tweed shirt and slacks are spotless, and his sandals relatively tidied, Timo picks up an apple that had rolled to the doorframe. He wipes it on a window curtain, and as he steps outside, he bites into it with a juicy snap.

    The broad daylight crashes into him as he leaves the smokey interior. If he gets caught, would he be shot at with crossbolts? He keeps chewing his apple that makes crunchy sounds. If anyone spots him, he''ll come up with a sob story and lead them to the body. They would be too shocked to shoot him.

    The world has a foggy clarity to it; such is the nature of paranoia. Timo clenches his teeth whenever movement flashes in the slightest breeze, as if ambushers encroach at every step.

    His legs take him to the fields, where the rest of the kids are. They ask him, "Where''s the supervisor?"

    Timo answers, "He had some errands to wrap up."

    Was it supposed to be this easy to kill someone? Timo had assumed that people used weapons because they had special magic imbued into them. Well, he did throw the fruit bowl, but there was nothing magical about it.

    The Lazy-Weed girl is bending over, picking up rocks and pebbles. Does she know her father''s murderer is standing next to her? Would she faint if she finds out?

    Throughout the day, Timo scrutinizes faces down to each and every dimple. When a woman comes running towards the children with a particular tenseness, he knows that the corpse had been discovered, but she wouldn''t say it to them directly. At that point, she takes over as the de-facto supervisor. Her frame is all skin and bones, but at least she has volume where it matters: her bosom and her hair. However, her hawkish eyes grate on his nerves.

    A maid had discovered the supervisor''s body in the longhouse. Her scream alerted people as far as the livery, and made the crows migrate.

    Those who had seen the mutilated silhouette were utterly shocked. Who, or what, could have done this? The workers call the butchers to examine the scene, as anyone else who catches a glimpse is too busy vomiting.

    "It was like a wild animal had invaded and thrashed the corpse, but the blow to the head and the bloodstains on the ceramic fragments cinches that it was a murder," Kazerus says.

    Before long, the rumors reach every corner of the farm, and the children sense something amiss because of the chain reaction. For Timo, the next few days become the most lively he had seen the inhabitants act.

    It took three days to clean up the body. On the first day, the butchers argued about what to do. Wiry-Monkey, the most artistic of them, suggested an illustration. They quieted and nodded at the logical solution, and he spent all the sunlight hours completing the drawing on parchment.

    The farmers buzzed like bees, adopting new movement patterns, repairing windmills and towers and fences like never before.

    Fifty percent of the men attended night patrol. The suppliers imported more pitchforks and torches than usual. The children were curfewed.

    The next day, the butchers hauled out the human remains, while the farmers hastily prepared a funeral pyre. Everyone became temporarily vegan, so the butchers had a change of pace from their usual job.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    When the smoke blew to the east, the tears and the wails from the mourners at the funeral--whether those tears were fake or not--were loud and annoying.

    Timo overheard conversations all over the emotional spectrum. Some of them expressed dismay: "Harcus deserved better," some of them sympathy: "I hope his daughter is faring," some of them bloodlust: "We''ll lynch the mutherfucker who done it," and some of them denial: "This can''t be happening, can it?"

    Timo felt pleased. He had lit a spark to this dull existence. People instantly became cooperative and friendly. What better outcome could there be?

    As stress accumulated in the adults, it was piss easy to escape from the new supervisor. Timo wandered over to Kazerus''s cabin, pausing outside the door with a light conscience. He went around the corner to the back, climbed a tree that had two trunks, and concealed himself in the dense leaves. He spent the night there, yet didn''t sleep much, as the branch was bumpy and uncomfortable.

    On the third morning, Kazerus headed out for his duties, and in his haste he forgot to lock the door. Timo had enough of the tree and climbed down.

    The maids and the butchers united on this day, cleaning the interior of the longhouse with three years'' worth of soap.

    As Kazerus returns to his cabin, covered in sweat instead of blood for once, he hopes to finally catch a break from the frenzy.

    He takes out his keys and they refuse to turn in the lock. He pushes the door and it instantly opens. Already unlocked? A coldness drips down his neck. He grabs the candleholder and lights a flame, sneaking into his own home.

    Behind the short table, Timo cowers in between the beams. Kazerus yells and takes a step back, clutching his chesthairs. "How''d you get here?"

    "H--help me!" Timo squeaks. His arms wrap around his head and knees, and he rocks back and forth. His eyes are wide as a doe''s.

    "What''s wrong?" Kazerus steps down to the kid''s eye level and gazes firmly, trying to exude strength and security in times of worry.

    "It--it''s gonna eat me," Timo stutters.

    "It? What''s gonna eat you?"

    "Monsters, monsters!"

    Kazerus says, "Nothing''s getting past our watch. It''s gonna be okay." Hopefully, saying that out loud will make it come true. Kazerus strokes the boy''s hair. "You need to go back with the supervisor-in-charge. She¡¯ll keep you safe."

    "No! I''ll die if I go back!" Timo squeezes his face and starts crying. "The other kids said they''ll throw me out to be werewolf bait!"

    "C''mon, they wouldn''t do that--"

    "Noo!" He screams at a fever pitch and then muffles his mouth as if he made a mistake, holding back his spasms. "They really would," he says through his fingers. "Once, they''ve tried to set me on fire."

    Kazerus widens his eyes and leans closer. "Shit, I didn''t think they were that cruel." He looks around his barren living room, then at Timo. "Do you want to stay here instead?"

    He had finally passed the tipping point. He would never have to go back to those kids. Timo nods as his fake tears pour out.

    <hr>

    About a month passes, and business on the farm returns to its lethargic pulse. Timo had begun working with the butchers, doing errands and cleaning the corners of the slaughterhouse that adults couldn''t reach.

    He thoroughly enjoys spending time with adults rather than children. Ever since he ruined the goose, Timo keeps his temper in check and engrosses himself in pleasing the butchers.

    Kazerus notes to Cloud-Brow, "He''s quiet most of the time, and a bit simpleminded."

    Whenever Timo delivers meat parcels to the other units on the farm, he would see some of his peers. Most of the time, they ignore him, and he ignores them. Once, Yosef The Loser made a face at him while they passed each other on a road, and he made the meanest face back, and the wimp scurried away!

    The adult butchers act childish in some ways. They crack jokes and snide comments, but their tone is comedic and doesn''t contain the malevolence that one would expect from their vocabulary. Since they work with knives, there''s no tolerance for violence or anger, but plenty of toilet humor.

    The ritual slaughter is interesting and only performed with important animals. When Timo grows older, he''ll join the butchers directly, and currently he''s allowed to gut fish. But ''growing up'' seems to take forever. When will he be ''grown up?''

    To appease his impatient heart, he would make excursions into the forest and find small animals to play with. Garden snakes, toads, beetles, and salamanders would suffer dismemberment and beheadings.

    Timo likes to gather leftover parts from these excursions and take them behind the barns, where stray cats gather. For bringing little bits of meat, and sitting still patiently, a cat would soon lick out of his palms. Then, he would lash out and strangle the unfortunate feline. Even if it yowls, tomcats quarrel with each other all the time, and nobody bats an eye at them. A couple weeks later, a new cat would move into the vacant territory, and the process repeats.

    One night, before blowing out the candle, Kazerus notices that Timo isn''t laying on hardwood anymore, but on a couple of small pelts, striped and spotted. He had even fashioned a pair of fur slippers. "Where did you get those, boy?"

    "I didn''t steal them, if that''s what you''re wondering." Timo rolls his head on the soft fur. "I got them myself."

    "If you get caught hunting, no one''ll be able to save you." Kazerus wags his finger, but truth be told, nobody likes the rule about how hunting is reserved for nobility. He glances at the slippers frequently. They look more like socks, and have a crude sewing job.

    Timo asks, "Do you want a pair?"

    Kazerus pauses, wondering what gave away his desire. "They look really comfy."

    The boy flashes a cheerful smile. "Then, I''ll make you some."

 1.06 - The Witchhunteréˆ¥æªš Arrival

    The bossman, a landlord who adorns himself with jewels and finery, comes to collect tribute every month. Messengers and bodyguards and fanfare clamor outside the estate walls. He expects good service whenever he visits, so the servants prepare a party for him, pitching a carnival tent in a courtyard.

    In the middle of a feast, at the announcements of expected earnings, the bossman expresses outrage. "What do you mean you''re two boatloads behind schedule? Have you guys gotten lazy over the summer?"

    "We are deeply sorry, your liege." A servant bows with his hands clasped together. "There was a murder."

    The bossman loses color from his face. Most workers die from accidents, not homicide. Foreign raiders, unscrupulous nomads and all sorts of undesirable people had to be dealt with swiftly.

    He finishes his visit by draining all the good wine. His entourage buzzes around him like planets to a star, as he departs to check and feed on another unfortunate farmstead. Life continues uneventfully, until one day, a witchhunter shows up.

    While scrubbing a series of cutting boards lined against the slaughterhouse walls, Timo catches a glimpse of the hired professional. The witchhunter dons a high-collared black coat, covered in relics and leather pouches. A lock of white hair drapes over his sunken face. Slung over both shoulders are leather straps, fastened in the center with a circular metalwork that sits over his chest. When his unclasped coat flutters, the inner buttons twinkle like the night jewels, and so does the pommel of a bladed weapon snug against his hip. On his back, he carries a crossbow, made of light basiliskwood, lacquered and shining like snake scales, riveted with cast-iron screws. There''s no denying it: this guy is awesome!

    "If you wouldn''t mind, I''d like to watch for the day," the witchhunter says.

    "Be my guest," Kazerus says.

    "Don''t worry, I only want to get a feel for the area. I''ve been observing the whole farm."This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    So that''s what a bounty hunter looks like? Where does he come from? Can I be his sidekick-- Timo pinches his cheeks. If he associates with the witchhunter, he would put himself in danger. The safest option is to play innocent and wait for the investigation to go cold.

    Timo stares at the soap suds leaking out of the sponge. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. A witchhunter only shows his face when something terrible happens. It might be the last time he''d ever meet one. He needs to know the rules of the game, and at least he should gather information on the strange visitor to satiate his curiosity. What are his accomplishments, his abilities, and his motivations? His scrubbing grinds to a halt and he drops his sponge.

    Timo saunters over to the men. "Sir Hunter?" he says.

    "Hello young lad," the witchhunter replies. He waves, wearing thick gloves and sleeves with bulky cuffs.

    "What''s your name?"

    "I am called The Scorpion." His voice booms, rich yet hoarse, compared to Timo¡¯s wimpy kid noises.

    "The Scorpion, I hope you catch the bad guy soon." Timo makes a cutely serious face. "If there''s any way I can help--!"

    Scorpion laughs. "What are you called?"

    "Timo!"

    "I will beseech you when I need to, how does that sound?" He gives a crooked smile, some of the teeth shy.

    Timo blushes and beams. "Can I really make a difference?"

    "If you see anything suspicious, let me know. I''ll take all the help I can get."

    Ah, The Scorpion is so cool! Timo smiles sheepishly and his eyes glitter. He would love to befriend such a guy; it would be absolutely thrilling!

    "Alright, back to work youngin," Kazerus says.

    Scorpion is a real hero, here to catch criminals! When Timo used to live with the other kids, his favorite game was (and still is) manhunt. There are many variations: knights and bandits, ghosts and exorcists, vampires and villagers.

    In the vanilla version, there''s a dungeon area where the bandits could tag other prisoners to free them while distracting the warden.

    In the vampire version, the ''villain'' got special powers. Vampires could convert others, but once they got tapped by a stake or had holy water splashed onto them, they were out of the round.

    In the ghost version, the starting ghost picked another to be a ghost. The first ghost could only harass people, while the second ghost could knock people out of the game with a special handshake. The round ends when enough people chant the exorcism while encircling the second ghost, but it also knocks out anyone innocent.

    The fun memories wrench his heart. Was separating from the other kids a good idea after all?

    Kazerus scolds Timo for leaving the boards a mess, unsatisfying streaks of grime still gripping the edges, but the words barely register.

    The game of ''childhunt'' has just begun.

 1.07 - The Secret Lab

    On his days off when the weather is nice, Timo heads to his Secret Lab. To get there, take an offshoot path behind the saint statue that''s missing a nose, and turn right after you see the second honeysuckle bush. Then, climb the sycamore tree to the fifth branch and find the knot and rope cradled nearby, which is actually tied to a branch above. Push off with medium force and swing to that giant oak tree with a hollow. When approaching the oak, stabilize your toes in the hole (but not too deep, there might be knives stashed inside) and cling to the trunk. On the other side, the nearly horizontal branch is large enough to support a capacity of one.

    Or if you don''t feel like doing all that, you can find the oak tree itself and climb it, with the help of little grooves that Timo made.

    The large branch retains a butt-shaped imprint where Timo typically sits. You never know when you might have to cast spells through your buttcheeks, because kids think that practicing how to fart-cast is a productive use of time.

    Timo climbs higher to his personal tanning station, which consists of nails sticking out of branches, and a stretched cat pelt between them. It took a while to find a solution to hang medium-sized pelts, and even longer to develop a poison that stops animals from chewing them. For the most part, he mashes caterpillars and mushrooms together and slathers the juice on the pelt, hoping it works. He unhooks the fur and limbers back down.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    A rope and bucket, most likely stolen, hang on an upper branch like a pulley, with a stone tied to the other end as a counterbalance. He tugs and heaves the rope, bringing up the bucket full of loot. He rummages for a spool of sinew, then gropes in the tree hollow to retrieve a pouch. Unwrapping it reveals several bone needles, varying in straightness and length. As he lingers over the needles, only Providence knows what criteria he uses to select one.

    He spends the afternoon sewing. Puncturing and pulling the needle through the hide taxes his fingers, and smells eggy.

    Free of worries, Timo cooks up another prank in his head. He would like to craft a dragon-sized kite and load a flamethrower on it, but that takes too much fabric. Besides, he can''t fire magic no matter how much he wishes for it. He could craft gliders and pretend to be a gargoyle, but fur is better served as gifts to win favors. Maybe he can put a cow on a roof! That would be amazing, but the logistics of such an operation would be too much for a lone person.

    One day, he would like to expand the Secret Lab into something substantial. First, build a treehouse with waterproofing so rain won¡¯t be an issue. Then, furnish with luxury granite countertops, infinite shelves of tools and rocks, and glassware for distilling poison. Dig out a basement, and it¡¯ll become a cellar for his hoard of food and goodies. Of course, illusion spells to hide the Lab¡¯s existence, but he might not be able to master those any time soon. Maybe he can raise vipers in a pit and feed intruders to them.

 1.08 - As Coyote

    Exasperated, Jaqui visits the guest house. It¡¯s a hybrid between a tent and a cabin, with a raised platform made of logs, steps leading up to a deck, and a faded green tarp postulating a triangle. He knocks on the flap and says, "Scorpion?"

    The witchhunter opens the flap, the inside of the tent bare, with a lantern hanging from the top beam, and a coat hanging from a mast. To the side, the cot lies partially hidden in shadow.

    Wearing brown overalls, Jaqui crosses his arms and taps his foot, sighing deeply. "Something attacked one o¡¯ the chickens last night."

    Scorpion responds, "You need me for this?"

    "Well, I figured you could identify what happened."

    After Scorpion dons his overcoat, they head to the chicken enclosure, where a small hut constitutes as the coop. Various chickens wander in the distance, their feathers shining in hues of maple leaf, dark jade, silver, nightlake obsidian, and more. Unusually, dry pine needles mix with the glade floor, and clusters of pine trees dot the landscape.

    Jaqui gestures to the empty side, where a puff of feathers had crowned the grass. Partially concealed by stalks, the hen¡¯s corpse has its bloodied, stringed guts scattered. At first glance, it looks like something the size of a coyote did the damage, because the opening is cleaner. A smaller predator, like a raccoon or a possum, would strike multiple times, leaving more of a tatter around the edges. However, a coyote would not waste their food, and they are capable of transporting it. If an animal did this, it was interrupted.

    "It lookin¡¯ like a coyote," Jaqui comments.

    "Agreed. I¡¯m not sure why you need my help."

    "If a coyote could pass through walls." Jaqui widens his eyes and throws his gaze upwards. "I swear on grandmama¡¯s grave I locked the coop and counted every head last night."

    He beckons towards the wired hatch and the hut. "Where the break in? Can you see anything?"

    Circling the coop a few times, it¡¯s confirmed that there are no signs of damage through the hexagon wiring.

    "Normally, chickens be spooked for a couple days. The pullets would hide under logs, and the cocks would patrol, yet they scratching like nothing happened!"

    It becomes clear Jaqui suspects a human culprit at best, and a ghost at worst. Scorpion holds up his hand and nods. "Alright, I¡¯m interested."

    For several minutes, he inspects the far perimeter of the scene, crouching and minding his footfalls. There are some animal tracks circling wide around the edge of the pasture. Wild beasts had detected the chicken, but did not have the opportunity to scavenge, so something else was present between the time of death and when the workers arrived.

    "Who¡¯s the earliest person to come here?"

    "Be me, at the first ray of sunrise. I only let out the chooks when they woke enough."

    Scorpion approaches the corpse, and he clasps his hands together in prayer. Closing his eyes, the peripherals of his magic activate, tracing the lines of astral energy. Letting himself ride along the journey, the motions are smooth and cyclic. Unfortunately, there are no irregularities around the corpse or the enclosure, ruling out paranormal activity.

    For now, it¡¯s safe to say the hen died of natural causes. He opens his eyes and returns to the physical world, and does another examination, gingerly brushing aside feathers. Around the shoulder, there are puncture holes, arranged in a jaw pattern. Did the burglar drop the chicken on the way out, and some other beast helped itself? No, the animal tracks don¡¯t approach near enough.

    His gloved hand pulls at the neck. When he bunches up the hen¡¯s skin, the marks fail to mirror each other. Instead, the impressions seem to be made individually, like from a tool rather than teeth.

    Scorpion regains his energy and stands upright. "It''s not unusual for someone to steal a chicken." Perhaps they have a large family to feed, some desperate reason or other. "But leaving it here is strange."

    Jaqui scratches his head. "I¡¯m gonna report it as coyote so the bossman won¡¯t dump coal on our beans. We ain¡¯t got time to sniff out thieves. You get me?"

    "Coyote attack. Got it. Any incidents before I came here?"

    "Nope. You know we repaired every little fence and picket after Harcus died? We made this farm so iron-clad, not even a snake could slip in." In places where building a wall is too expensive, the guardian briar is cultivated. It¡¯s a nebulous, greenish-red bush with thorns, maintained as tall henges.

    On the merged path towards the privies, the adults encounter the plow driver. They exchange morning formalities, take dumps in nature, and stir up a chat. While the conversation starts friendly, as they travel closer to the crossroads, it somehow devolves into accusations. Hiding behind a tree, just out of reach of the briarhenge, Timo eavesdrops them arguing.

    Jaqui clutches his straw hat with both hands, holding it by his chest. "You seem the type who¡¯d ¡®borrow¡¯ a chicken. Ain¡¯t your wife craving chicken lately?"

    "Chicken is just one of her pregnancy cravings," the plow driver Nero retorts. "But my wife¡¯s been making squash dishes all week, and I¡¯m already sick of ¡®em, but I bear with it because it''s what she wants."

    "Oi, witchslapper, make the man confess to his crimes."

    "My main task is to investigate a homicide, not to give legal advice." Scorpion coldly turns a shoulder.

    Nero pounds a fist to his hand. "That¡¯s right, don¡¯t go spewing fishdung just ¡®cause you¡¯re desperate. If you keep this up, the bossman¡¯ll find out."

    Jaqui spits at the ground. "You know how these things go. If it happen once, it happen again. Unless I do something, it¡¯s gonna blow up in my face."

    Timo thought he disguised the killing as animalistic, but the witchhunter already knows a human culprit was involved. What a bummer. I¡¯m not as smart as I thought. Pretending to be animal is a waste of time. Timo is human, his methodology looks human, and a human will recognize human techniques. He crouches towards the ground, and idly turns pebbles with his finger.

    Then, what would be incomprehensible to Scorpion? What would be so crazy, it would be superhuman--no, supernatural? How good is Mr. Scorpion with magic?

    More importantly, how good am I with magic?

    A long time ago, a priest had visited to examine him, who then told his mother, "Your child has mana farts." The priest had used words more sophisticated than ¡®mana farts,¡¯ but Timo can''t remember exactly. His mother explained it was a condition of "always leaking mana, like farting a lot."

    Timo isn''t very good at magic, as far as he''s concerned. There are prodigies out there who already bounce off walls and weightlift barrels. Him? He''s supposed to be good at gardening, like his mama. It was the only thing Remelia cared about.

    He loves his mama, which makes him all the more confused. One day she expressed, "I wish my hair was longer." Apparently, helping her grow out her hair was bad, and he got yelled at. He doesn''t remember why it was bad, when he wanted to help her. Timo wracks his brain, trying to recall Mama''s face. Oh! He remembers what she said: "You''re supposed to ask before you touch someone."

    Maybe that''s why his father was always grumpy? Timo would sneak and jump on Papa without a word. All he wanted was to play wrestle. He liked being held in his father''s arms. At some point, Papa stopped doing all that. Timo tried asking politely, "You wanna play?" He made the pose with his hands out, ready to grapple.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    His father sneered and turned his back on him. "Only when you stop trying to kill me."

    Timo wrinkles his nose. Why would his father think he''s trying to kill him? There''s absolutely no benefit in doing so.

    It''s kinda funny: Timo asked if Kazerus had murdered a person before. If you look strong, people will think you''re a murderer.

    Maybe Papa was trying to tell him he was good at killing, but didn''t know how. Actually, Verius always praised the dog. He withheld praise from Timo on purpose. How annoying.

    He knew Papa used to be a soldier, and Timo was constantly curious about his past life. Other kids and their pops played war, with sticks and forts. Timo used to play with the neighbors, until eventually they became ''too busy'' to visit or invite the Felicitums. It was strange how only his father was reluctant to participate in mock sieges.

    Timo figured Papa was bored of pretend play. If Verius had been through the real thing, then fake war must be boring. Thus, Timo set out to entertain his father. One night, after supper, Papa went to take a nap. The thoughtful son crept up to his side, pulled out a knife, and began stabbing the bedding.

    His father woke up with loose straw glued to his sweating cheeks. The look on his face contained so much energy.

    I''ve succeeded! so he thought. He asked, "Are you having fun yet?"

    Timo got spanked out of the house for two nights and two days, during which his father sold every knife they owned. The family had to eat vegetables for a month, until, after many concessions, Mama bought new cutlery. That sucked really bad.

    As he combs through his past, he has difficulty remembering anything he had been praised for. For the most part, he has to give himself affirmation. Wow, I¡¯m such a talented hunter!

    If Papa would ever say to him, "Wow, you''re such a talented hunter!" he would be elated. Why does it always feel better when the same words come out of someone else''s mouth?

    How good is Mr. Scorpion at hunting?

    Scorpion bids the men farewell, trudging uphill. Underneath his coat, he wears normal clothing without protective gear, suited for general labor. Earning his share is the only way he can gain the people''s trust, so they will talk casually and spread rumors around him. Damn, he really needs a haircut.

    The first day he had arrived here, he immediately went to the scene of the murder. They had long since swept the longhouse, but nobody had entered it since the deep cleansing. The energy around it was definitely altered, as he''d expect from a mage.

    Casting magic leaves ripples behind. The source of mana would eventually flatten and equalize, but indoors, the settlement takes longer. While it was faint, he saw the "dent" where the culprit stood.

    One of the workers handed him a parchment, a lifelike drawing of the victim''s final state. At first, he thought it was a joke. "What''s this? A meatball with eyeballs?"

    "Don''t make fun of him!" a stout butcher cried out. "He¡¯s good at art! He makes our packaging for clients!"

    The beardless artist frowned and said, "It really looked like that. If you don''t believe me..." He scrounged out some old flyers and wax paper with doodles and unfolded them. Proportional and accurate were the inked portraits of boars, bulls, goats, lambs and dressed meats meant to entice buyers.

    Scorpion looked back at the depiction of a ¡®meatball¡¯ and whistled. "Wow. Okay." If the picture was to be believed, it was something on the level of pure, unadulterated rage. Even the most severe of burn victims keep a human shape.

    Naturally, Scorpion set out to find whoever had a grudge on the late supervisor. So far, all his leads feel cold.

    If Harcus was alive in the morning, and his body was discovered in the early evening, the crime took place during the day. If the attack was magic based, then anyone who is a proficient Terrarius would get it done quickly.

    He had pondered whether a beast could inflict such damage, but in his gut, something about it felt human. Expert''s intuition?

    Was there an argument that led to an accident, and the perpetrator tried to cover it up? According to eyewitnesses, the longhouse was filled with smoke, as the fire in the hearth wasn''t put out. The killer either forgot to cremate the remains, or couldn''t be bothered to.

    Harcus was last seen herding out the child servants. Speaking of children, the ones he talked to said that Timo was the last to see Harcus alive. Timo started working for the butchers shortly after. Perhaps he should visit.

    Scorpion exits his headspace, leaning over a fence. Tall corn grows in serene trenches, and beanstalks curl around them. Skinny posts with flapping ribbons stipulate the fields, and a cool breeze carries away his sweat. He stretches his arms and kicks up dirt with his boots.

    "How''s it going?"

    "Hmm?" Scorpion looks down, and by the winds of fate, the boy is leaning over the fence next to him, grinning, a side tooth missing. The witchhunter replies, "You mean me or the case?"

    "Both, I guess." Timo watches the field, imitating Scorpion''s weathered gaze.

    "I''ve got promising leads. It''s just gonna take time to check up on each of them."

    Timo looks back at Scorpion with intensity. "What do you do with criminals after you catch them? Do you send them to jail?"

    "Sort of. I¡¯d tie them up and send them to the chief, or whoever hired me. I''d present my findings, then the people decide what punishment is deserved." He shifts his weight to the other leg. "Say, can you answer some questions, to the best of your knowledge?"

    Timo tilts his head before saying, "Sure?"

    "When you were last with the late supervisor Harcus, what were you doing?"

    "He needed someone to help him out of bed, so I stayed behind. He wasn¡¯t feeling well and I took his dirty clothes." Timo leans close and cusps a hand around his mouth. "He pooped his pants at night but he didn''t want anyone to know."

    "Why would he ask you in particular?"

    "Well..." Timo falters. "I¡¯m handy with chores. Not even his own daughter can do laundry like I can. I guess that''s why he asked me. Diarrhea doesn''t ask for permission."

    "Did you see Harcus again after that?"

    Timo shakes his head. "I never saw him again."

    The witchhunter fishes out a small copper coin from his pouch-belt. "Here," he says as he tosses it towards the boy, who skitters to catch it. "What makes you good at laundry? You an Aquarius?"

    "Aquarius? No, nothing that special."

    "What element are you?"

    Timo bites his lip. "I haven¡¯t been able to use anything. I heard ¡®if you can¡¯t master magic, then master the mundane.¡¯ So I mostly do chores all the time."

    Scorpion scratches his chin. "Maybe you¡¯re a late bloomer."

    "Will I really be useless forever?" Timo makes a pitiful face and stares at the witchhunter.

    Not knowing how to respond, he gives a cookie-cutter answer: "I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll discover your element eventually. Why did you start working for the butchers? Their chores are even harder for you."

    "The other kids leave me out of things, you know. They make fun of me. They said if there really is a werewolf prowling about, I should be sacrificed first to buy time for everyone else to run, because I¡¯m the most useless. That¡¯s why I ran away from them. I ran far, far away. When I was cold and alone, Kazerus saved me."

    Oh, I''ll have to be extra careful about using magic around the witchhunter.

    The hard lines on Scorpion¡¯s face had lightened. "Are you gonna be a butcher when you grow older?"

    Timo darts his eyes round and round, in the fashion of an imaginative and pensive person. Finally, he connects his gaze back to his conversationalist. "I want to be a hero, like you."

    A dry chuckle falls out of Scorpion''s throat. "Your esteem of me is flattering."

    Finding the tone of cynicism relatable, Timo asks, "You fight ghosts and the forces of evil. Isn''t that right and good?"

    "Yes. I wouldn''t have it any other way." Scorpion twirls his fingers, possessing an invisible knife. Do outsiders admire his profession? It''s wildly romanticized compared to what his cohorts think. "It''s challenging, and you make hard decisions."

    Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, he says, "Isn''t it time we get back to our duties? I don''t want to hold you here."

    Timo climbs up the fence, balancing his feet on the beam. "Let me walk with you."

    Interspersed between fences are crumbling stone walls, remnants of wells or houses. With his arms sticking out, Timo makes it a game to pass over obstacles as fast as he can. "Today would be a great day for candy."

    "Why is that?" The witchhunter walks briskly, shaking his head at the child¡¯s shenanigans. But, he was once a boy, and it would be pointless to stop boys from their folly.

    "It would make a nice day nicer."

    Keeping pace with Scorpion, Timo hops and skips. A rotting part of the fence retains dankness and moss. Timo slips. The foot shifts, the arms dance, and Scorpion sees cloth and hair flying towards him before the wind abandoned his lungs.

    Scorpion grabbed the boy, holding him close to his chest. Without the burden of his gear, he tilted his shoulders. His thighs and calves strained as they powered the twist of his body, and his hips rolled lightly over the dirt, bounced once and skidded to a stop. The freshness of clipped plants, humus and human, wafted in the darkness, until he opens his eyes.

    Lucky for him, he still has the Aerius touch, otherwise the damage would''ve been more severe. "Are you okay?" he asks, half grunting.

    Timo hugs the adult very tightly. For what seems an unusually long stretch of time, Timo gradually tumbles off Scorpion, plopping onto his knees and palms. His eyes rove slowly, not at his environment, not at the ground, not checking his own injuries, but at the witchhunter. For that unusually long stretch of time, those eyes scraped him, as if to devour him.

    Like the flicker of a shadow, Scorpion could not put his finger on it, but it¡¯s not a positive feeling. A disconnect.

    The boy¡¯s face went back to normal. "Sorry Mister Scorpion!" Soft and worried. That¡¯s considered normal.

    The witchhunter pushes aside concern for now, releasing a hale and hearty laugh. "Mister Scorpion, huh?" He rises from the ground, patting his hips and elbows. The form of address teases him jolly, combining his business moniker with human formality. He almost never talks to children, but their use of language puts a smile to his face.

    Timo quivers his lip. "I¡¯m so sorry, I¡¯ll be going now."

    "It¡¯s fine. Don¡¯t be so reckless next time."

    The two of them walk in silence, until they bid their part. Timo heads to the familiar sight of lush grass and the slaughterpen. A smoke trail rises from the distant hill, where the butchers are preparing a meal.

    Hot like molten steel, Timo clenches his teeth and fists. Something had blocked him from being able to murder Mr. Scorpion right then and there. It was tougher than an iron castle. The mana that he thought he could splash freely, was frozen, like squeezing ice in the dead of winter. That was the difference between a layman like Harcus, and someone with combat training.

    The failure displeases him greatly. He takes a few breaths, relaxing his shoulders and arms. Patience! Oh, patience. Soon, Mr. Scorpion will die. But first, lunchtime.

 1.09 - Exit Lane

    The Angel Lane clinic is several kilometers away from the estate. It is a single-story wooden building, flat and inconspicuous. Renovation of the stone porticals has begun, with bricks and laborers milling about.

    By Timo¡¯s side, a sheep bleats, scrawny after a fresh shear. Timo pats the sheep, who¡¯s as tall as armpit level, and tugs the leash. It reluctantly follows, a harness securing its head.

    Every so often, the butchery receives special requests. The clinic solicits donations from surrounding estates often. The bossman agreed to send goods as a token of charity and social obligation. Initially the butchers were supposed to slaughter the lamb, but Wiry-Monkey mentioned that "they like their mutton fresh, because it¡¯s good for the ill." Thus they sent Timo to deliver a live animal to the clinic.

    One of the construction guys, seeing Timo bumble around, points to the detour. Timo and the sheep cross over sandy arenas, sidetracking the disturbed, red dirt. The side entrance resembles saloon gates, as they do not protect from intruders, but simply mark a boundary. Stealing from religious centers is asking for divine punishment, and hospitals aren¡¯t exactly tourist attractions.

    Timo is fascinated by the clinic, which resembles a creaky tunnel. Whenever the wind blows, it amplifies inside the hallway, lapping at his ankles. The sheep clods on the paved stonework.

    From the first room on the right, an earthy scent leaks out. The imposing door is shut tight, but has a diamond-shaped hole with metal bars. He stands on his toes to peek inside the dimness. Dried herbs decorate the concrete walls. Bushels of garlic and cloves impart a sting he can almost taste. The cargo: roots shriveling in baskets, labeled jars of seeds on the shelves, and huge clayware pots with cloth lids sitting on the floor.

    The left room¡¯s door is a sliding panel left ajar. Behind the desk sits a middle aged woman, and shelves of books and tomes. Timo speaks through the opening, "It''s my first time here. I have a delivery."

    "Where from?" she responds with an unexpectedly cranky voice.

    "Rastincorsa."

    Her eyes trace the rope in Timo''s hand, and the sheep at the end of it. She rises out of her chair and widens the panel gap, poking her head into the hallway. "Gornius! The mutton¡¯s here! Hurry up!"

    An old man, whose eyebrows sag over his eyes and a waterfall of a beard, emerges from the back. Slow, like a tree, he appears out of the fog and beckons. Timo passes the leash, and Gornius leads the sheep down the hallway, exiting through a backdoor.

    Timo wanders further into the clinic. One doorway has a grey mantle hanging down to his shins. A strange aura presses from within, striking his very being. Brushing aside the split in the middle, he lifts a flap and peers inside the room, a warm rush of air greeting him.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    In every available space on the floor, blankets and mats are crammed. Even the wooden pillars that support the ceiling pose no large obstacles, as nearby patients, in the barest of white robes, clutch and gather around them. Sunlight streams through the only windows in the complex, rows and rows of glass squares, shining and perfect like geometric scales. People lay on their beds, resting, tossing, murmuring. It would be an unforgettable rainbow of pox, gangrene, urine and sourness.

    The nurses scuttle amongst the crowd, with their aprons and their polygonal hats and sweatbands. Some are male, some are female. Some wear their sleeves rolled up. Others wear sleeveless robes, shredded to tatters where sleeves should be.

    At the far end of the room, a panel slides open with a draggled growl. Most striking of all, when the Angel steps into the room, every head turns. Timo¡¯s head follows in tandem.

    Her appearance isn''t very special. With a headband and her hair split into two thick ponytails, she looks like a wild village woman. Her apron is thick and weightsome, a stiff frame embedded inside, like the ribbings of a sail. Her robes have two layers, the outer one beige, the inner linen only visible at her legs.

    The patients beam their hopes and their prayers onto her. Even if an assistant is handling them, they ignore whoever is at their bedside to stare unrelentlessly at the most important person.

    The Angel walks up to a man who suffers from blue lesions on his skin, similar to lichen that covers a tree. He trembles, his breaths sharp.

    "I think I¡¯ve figured the problem," she says to him. Kneeling, she unsleeves her arm, revealing the stringed beads and charms coiling even further under the cloth, a hypnotic wave of trinkets, crosses, medallions, and long faces of legends.

    "Mercy has come," the man rasps, his robes ragged and sorn, his blue infection already shrinking from his face.

    "By the Dancer and the Aegis, the impurities are banished!" She places a hand on his cheek, and he grabs the whole arm. As he sobs, the lesions flatten and smooth, the color fades to skin tone with the burden being carved away.

    Timo grips the doorway hard enough for his knuckles to turn white, so enraptured is he.

    A female nurse bumps into him, her arms carrying a trayful of supplies. "Sorry, are you new here?"

    Timo blushes, feeling more embarrassed than when he had killed the supervisor. Without the chance to see the healing arts to completion, he scurries down the hallway and bursts out of the clinic doors, at which the secretary lifts an eyebrow while bookkeeping. He forgot to pick up the receipt.

    Running down the road that returns to the farm, running for his legs to match the rhythm of his pulse, almost tripping over puddles, running out of steam, running until his toes feel numb, everything up to his ankles completely brown, Timo grinds to a halt, panting and sweating.

    Back there, he had felt eureka, a pure and distilled elucidation. He saw his future path, a crucial decision for survival, and the only pursuit that Fate would grant him.

    How was he so blind, that he had never considered this before? A tinge of regret emerges, for he had wasted his first opportunity at a convent. He couldn''t help it, he was immature and the teachers were boors, and they taught the myths slightly different from what Mama told him. Next time will be different.

    When the nurse had bumped into him, he felt he had been caught red-handed in a misdemeanor. Indeed, he was salivating at a personal fantasy, forgetting he had no more business there.

    He wants to be like that. Someone who could walk into a room and command everyone''s attention. Someone who could fix all biological mistakes, and become an arbiter of life and death. People are more useful alive. He wouldn''t have to kill anymore. He would have choices.

    He could be a healer.

 1.10 - Spineless

    Prowling the forest, Timo saunters between thickets and trees, identifying landmarks: the boulder with a snail-shaped crack, the layers of sediment between tree roots that create stairs, the crisp scent of wild gooseberries. Then, flicks of mulch and leaf fragments between a sapling¡¯s branches. To his delight, one of his snares had caught a dawdy hare by the leg. When it sees Timo, it thrashes and pulls away, but the nettlebranch wire only cuts further into an injured and darkened leg. It¡¯s still alive!

    As Timo draws near, the hare exposes its incisors and pulls back its giant ears. Ignoring its powerful kicks, he grabs the scruff of its neck. He rubs a hand down its spine, and the hare screams, very much like a human infant, convulsing and thumping. Upon reaching the tailbone, he clamps down and pulls out the spine. The fur breaks open, and he pops the vertebrae from the base of the skull.

    The hare limps like a rag, and Timo drops it onto the ground. The remainder of the animal''s lifeforce is used to flatten the curve of the spine. He pushes and taps on the red and white clay, morphing the living calcium into a tapering skewer that''s as long as his forearm.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    There aren''t many artists on this farm. Strenuous manual labor develops the hand muscles, but has a caveat: thickness gets in the way of fine motor control. He heard about it from a woman, who said that after she was forced to pick crops for several months, she couldn''t weave as well as she used to. If Timo has to choose between brute strength and finesse, he would prefer to work with finer things. It''s also possible that she was just complaining, and he could achieve both.

    Timo picks up the hare by its ears and travels to a brook. The treacherous downhill of the ravine really challenges the legs: slate and sandrock jut out in odd places, intuitive flexing of the toes is required, and the decaying leaves trick the eye where the ground truly lies. The coursing river sings over the wet rocks with clarity, and the air settles cooly. Batting the dangling leaves aside, he arrives at the water''s edge, crouching on a rock elevated from the dark beach. Taking off his apron, he soaks it and wrings out most of the stains. Stain edges never want to come out, leaving ombre splotches. He dips his spine stick, watching the water and light bend around like hair. Splashing, he scrapes off the flakes of unwanted debris with a fingernail, then places it onto the wet apron. This is by far his most beautiful stick yet.

 1.11 - Screening

    It happens to be another one of those days where Timo ran away from work. He kept begging for assignments to Angel Lane, and when there were none, resorted to excuses: "My cousin is sick! I need to visit him!" Timo zoomed away, leaving behind a bewildered Kazerus.

    Unfortunately, children tend to be fast and dastardly, shimmying through crevices and fence gaps without a second thought, while grown men have to contemplate consequences. Timo rolls past the fields golden and green, skips over silt runoff, and congeals within shadows when the sentries pucker up. Most of them are weary farmers, and while their hearing is functional, they lack the child¡¯s eye. They¡¯re more concerned with inbound visitors. Trawling a vine-ridden stack of forgotten barrels, the tips of the fence posts worn dull and flat, Timo slips over the pickets to freedom.

    After traveling the outerworld for some time, he finally sees the stone porticals rise from the ground, half-complete, a tetromino-arrangement of bricks. Timo smoothes out creases from his shirt, and bypasses the construction site, entering the clinic.

    He taps on the ajar panel. In the room with the secretary, she peers up from a long scroll.

    Timo swallows. "Um, do you take apprentices?"

    The lady stretches her eyebrows and lowers the scroll flat to her desk. "That¡¯s up to the Magess. You want to join us?"

    Timo digs his foot into the stone and fidgets. "Can I?"

    She looks left and right, as if the answer would exist in a book on the shelf. With a deep sigh, she says, "You can follow Gornius. Help him out, get your feet wet." She walks to the door and slides it open, then crosses the boundary between wood and stone. "Come."

    When they reach the end of the hallway, it fans into a large, square room. A giant furnace, curved like a spoon and taking up the whole back wall, chuffs away, blasting them with steam and heat. Shoveling at the coal is the ancient man.

    "Go say hi." The secretary grins and nudges Timo forward. "The Magess has her hands full. If you do well, Gornius can put in a word for you."

    Timo staggers forward. "Hello."

    The old man ignores Timo, grunting and shoveling more from a sooty sack. Timo glances backwards, and the secretary already distanced herself several paces away on her return to the office.

    At the top of his lungs, Timo screams to Gornius, "Hello!"

    Gornius sticks his shovel into the bag. Slowly, like a jammed cabinet, he turns around. "Hello? Who are you?" he shouts back.

    "My name is Timo! I am here to help you!"

    "You¡¯re an herbalist? About time they found one of those." Gornius grooves his back, bending it to and fro. He walks up to Timo and scans him. "You¡¯re short. Are you old enough to be one?"

    "No, I¡¯m here to help!"

    "Oh, another help!" Gornius lifts a skeptical eyebrow, and his eye shines. "You really are short."

    "I¡¯m nine years old!" Timo hops up and down to release his frustration.

    "What¡¯s Brena doing these days? They keep getting younger and younger." Gornius clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Just kidding. What are ya here for?"

    His throat sore from yelling, Timo says in a quieter voice, "I¡¯m here to kill you."

    "What?"

    "I would like to apprentice as a healer!"

    Gornius sends out an arm and says, "Ah, you¡¯re one of those. Where¡¯s the coin?"

    Timo yells, "What the hell are you talking about? I don¡¯t have a goddamn cent on me."

    Gornius pats Timo on the shoulder. "So you¡¯re here to work?"You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    "Yes!?"

    The old man rocks the shovel handle back and forth. "You good at digging?"

    On the first day at the Angel Lane, Timo does not catch a single glimpse of miracles. He helps the old man ferry the dead from the patient room to the furnace. It¡¯s nasty, as you can imagine. The slow burn of cremation takes time. It is also incredibly efficient. There are grates on top of the furnace, with many brown pots roasting on them. The heat slow-cooks all manner of brews and potions.

    Using a great iron paddle, Gornius scrapes out the ashes and bones, while Timo switches the urns for refilling. Not everyone can afford a healer to visit them in the comfort of their home, and not everyone has relatives who will attend their funeral.

    When it is finally late afternoon, they take their urns and head to the farmstead out back, a great stretch of land granted by imperial mandate. A flock of sheep graze in a pen, but Gornius and Timo veer away towards a downhill avenue. Below, a stream of water rushes through the sapling forest. Birdsong plays in the distance.

    Gornius dips his hand into his urn, then scatters the warm ashes. "May their journey be peaceful." The faint breeze from the stream carries the flecks far and beyond, into the deep orange horizon.

    "May their journey be peaceful," Timo repeats, scattering his own handful of ashes. Like grey moths, they disappear in a chalky trail.

    The both of them repeat the scattering, in a meditative fashion, until they run out.

    They take the bones of the deceased to the orchard. The wind halts where trees shield the garden from convection, wrapping them in dew and mist. Haunting the treetops are a few heirloom plums, most of them having been picked. The orchard swirls with a pleasant cocktail fragrance, pear and peach cultivars also growing in sections beyond. In front of several plum trees, giant holes have been dug out.

    Gornius stops at a pit and dumps the bones unceremoniously. He lifts his nose at Timo, indicating for him to do the same. After they set the urns down, they shovel dirt from a nearby mound into the pit.

    Timo picks a reddish-purple plum and eats it. Gornius glares at him. Timo grins, the fruit skin stuck to his gums, his fingers sticky with juice. Gornius sighs in resignation. They¡¯ve only eaten a few pecks of bread and tofu today.

    Suddenly, with a deep and serious voice, the old man asks, "Will you be back?"

    Is that a challenge? "Of course."

    Gornius smiles, just the corner of his mouth curling. "I see."

    The urns emptied, they return to the clinic. Gornius and Timo loiter near the entrance of the main patient room.

    When the Angel emerges from the flaps, Gornius says, "Magess Vantegia, will the night keep you busy?"

    The healer says, "I¡¯ve got time right now. What¡¯s up?" She tilts her ponytailed head at Timo.

    "Well, this prospective newcomer has been waiting for you." Gornius nudges Timo forward.

    For several moments, Vantegia stares at the boy. "I guess we¡¯ll do the test." She calls to somewhere in the clinic, "Hey! Do any nurses have a urine sample?"

    "I have one from this morning." A nurse pops her head through the flap, appearing next to Vantegia¡¯s shoulder. She asks, "Why do you need it?"

    "Bring it to the Checkup Chamber." Vantegia winks at her.

    The nurse rolls her eyes and emerges into the hallway, making her way down.

    "Let¡¯s go," Vantegia says, gesturing at Timo.

    They follow the nurse through the murky corridor and stop at a red curtain. The nurse drags it aside, lights a flame in a wall sconce, says, "Enjoy," leaves behind a small jar on the counter, and exits the room for something more important.

    Vantegia enters the room, her apron bouncing off her knees and her robe flashing behind her. Timo steps inside cautiously. The main attraction is a wooden cot covered with a mat. Stools, chairs and simple tables surround it. There¡¯s a single small window, but it¡¯s black as night outside. On the left side, there¡¯s a long counter with drawers and cabinets overhead.

    She takes the glass jar and pops off the banded lid, turning towards Timo.

    "Drink this."

    Timo stares at the Magess. She does not seem like an Angel anymore, as the shadows from the sconce enrich her mischievous smirk.

    Noticing his mouth agape, Vantegia clarifies, "Just a sip."

    She jiggles the jar, yellowness glowing along the sides of the glass, and offers it to Timo. The faint stench of piss tickles his nose unpleasantly.

    Timo wraps his fingers around the jar. He brings it close to his chest, raises it lethargically towards his chin, then above his forehead, checking for sediment at the bottom, then lowers it to mouth level. He thinks of Kazerus, who¡¯s attached to his cup like it¡¯s made of gold, and his chugging motion, the way he bends his elbow, his throat swelling in one huge gulp, slamming the cup down, going, "Ah." A salty flavor lingers on his tongue.

    The jar is on the table, empty.

    His face balloons. The look is so priceless that Vantegia bursts into laughter, wiping tears from her eyes. "I can¡¯t believe you drank the whole thing..."

    She trips over her arm holding her stomach, the dregs of her hysteria ringing throughout the room, crawling her way to a nearby jug on the counter. As she holds the hollowed half-gourd, she¡¯s barely able to scoop water from the jug. When she manages a serving, she presents it to Timo, who sloshes it, hurrying to drink.

    It takes a long time for the both of them to calm down and stand upright. Timo''s chin dribbles with water and a damp spot takes up the front of his shirt.

    "This is one of the manaless ways to diagnose illness." Full of curiosity, Vantegia leans forward. "What did it taste like?"

    With a betrayed expression, Timo smacks his lips. "It was slightly bitter, but mostly salty. And a bit fishy."

    "It¡¯s the nurse¡¯s pee. It should be healthy. You won¡¯t die."

    He whimpers quietly, more confused than anything.

    "You want to be my apprentice? Think about it. Come back next week and I''ll make a decision."

 1.12 - Unicorn

    The livery, which simply is a barn that also houses goats, has two gentle and stocky workhorses. One a spotted gray, the other a chocolate brown, both sporting black manes. Like the streaks of a squire''s flag, the brown horse has white stripes on its face and legs.

    Every evening, after a day¡¯s work in the fields, Nero tucks the horses to bed. He ushers them into the barn, brushes their fur, and polishes the yokes. He kisses them goodnight. Stablehands and Jaqui check in and out, and they sleep amongst hay bales in the attic.

    One night, there is a thump and some creaking. It seems to be nothing more than wind, and sometimes the animals kick their enclosures. A stablehand decides to take a midnight piss. He climbs down the ladder, and after securing his foot on the dirt floor, he turns around to see the barn¡¯s quad doors unlocked, slits of moonlight intrusion. He hears the gurgles of a horse chewing and scraping at a trough, before it erupts into a bellow.

    The horse barges through its stall gate, wood splintering, almost tramples the stablehand, neighs, and bursts out of the barn.

    Across the landscape, the thunderous shrieks wake everyone, a flood of hay-poked men growing while chasing it. The sky is still asleep under the predawn, yet the gentle brown beast rampages across the campsite, crashing into rickety cabins and leaving hoofprints all over.

    Armed men burst open from their homes with torches, clubs and hatchets, but their fear escalates to horror.

    The draft horse sprouts an ivory horn from its forehead, straight but knobby. A dark liquid sprawls from its base, flowing down face and neck, eyes pitch black and bulging, foaming at the upcurled lips, black gums and teeth permanently on display like piano keys.

    Alerted by the commotion, Scorpion leaps out of bed, grabs his belt of pouches by habit, and trapezes off the rails. He rushes through the shearscape, but as the torches dot his view, his night vision fails. Circling around the public area, he witnesses the berserk unicorn for himself. He must find the highest vantage point, and he scales the trees for their assistance.

    The farmers manage to wrangle the wild horse with rope, prodding it with weapons. A man had been tossed aside and landed against a building, and women attend to his wounds.

    "It''s no good," a rasping voice calls, "we gotta put him down!"

    The horse rears, creating a ripple in the tug of war against men.

    The subtle twang of wood precedes the great collapse. The men holler as they dash away from its colossal withers, the great beast shaking the air as it impacts the ground. A bolt protrudes from its ankle.

    "Who shot that? You could''ve killed us!"

    Scorpion blinks as he lowers the crossbow. "Did I hit anyone?" The farmers remain silent, most of them focused on the dying beast.

    "No? No harm, no foul." The witchhunter dabs his collar across sweaty stubble, then rustles off the tree, plying himself onto the ground.

    Nero hugs the pregnant woman next to him tightly. He trembles as he watches the horse lying on its belly, whinnying and moaning. Desolate tears marr his forlorn face. "My poor Bravo," he utters.

    Bravo struggles, his legs sweeping arcs in the dirt. His formerly deep, warm eyes are replaced with the whites. The horn is cracked, the top half bent downwards.

    Nero drops his head, unable to look up. "Can you put him out of his misery?"

    With just a nod, Scorpion kneels to reload his crossbow. After tightening the bowstring, he aims at the temple point blank, then squeezes the lever.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    When Bravo has stopped breathing, Scorpion borrows a torch from another farmer and approaches the creature, crouching next to it. The skin around the horn bends inwards, indicating it isn''t a real horn, but punctured. "Someone stabbed him," he announces.

    The crowd shuffles and people murmur to each other with expressions of dismay. Nero says, "Who¡¯d do this? Why?"

    Bracing himself, Scorpion wriggles out the horn. He extracts the pointed end of the stake, covered in slimy material and bone particles. Turning the horn around, it has an odd shape, like a string of knots. Horns from normal animals should have layered ridges, much like fingernails.

    He casts clairvoyance to track mana traces. Around the horn and the stab wound, the pattern is spotty and erratic, unlike most casters who have a consistent line. This is an extra complication: it won''t lead him towards the culprit. Fortunately, it''s unique. He would have to observe everyone casting magic, and anyone with a spotty signature will be given away.

    As the sun rises, a portion of the farmers gradually disperse to start a day''s work. Nero remains behind, having lost an animal under his care. His wife whispers, "I''ll go get ready," and heads for the barn. Volunteers stay behind to help drag the horse to the slaughterhouse.

    His voice sawing between grief and rage, Nero says, "Please, find the bastard who did this." His arms are squeezing himself.

    With the broken horn in possession, Scorpion wonders if he''s able to. "I will."

    He paces around the abandoned campfire, around the log benches and cabins. Daylight banishes the fog of fear, but the fervor of cruelty is no less palpable. The horn has a vaguely familiar quality to it. Its beachy tone reminds him of bone. He brings it up to his face and notes the complex twists.

    It looks like a spine, albeit too straight and the individual vertebrae deformed, but still a spine. He can''t ignore the disc padding and vaguely butterfly cross-section. What a disturbing thought! Someone poured their creative energy into making this. What does that say about their character? Would the chicken''s death be related to this incident? Would these incidents be related to Harcus?

    Timo mentioned that Harcus soiled his pants, so it¡¯s possible Harcus was poisoned to death. If so, the perpetrator might hack up the body to distract anyone from noticing poison in the flesh.

    It¡¯s also possible they wanted to disguise his death as by a savage, unnatural creature. The chicken was shallowly disguised ¡®as coyote.¡¯

    Semi-aware that he is traveling back to the guest house, Scorpion thinks about an anecdote from his childhood: his younger brother was opening a gate, and accidentally stepped on a chick. He cried for hours. He kept grieving how its shriek of agony replayed in his head over, and over.

    The livestock incidents started after he showed up. It was like someone within the farm reacted to his presence. They took place earlier than morning, in the shadow of dawn. Typically the elderly and children would be active during those hours. Soldiers too. Judging from the sleep schedule, the culprit might be an insomniac, they go to bed early, or they skip the afternoon siesta.

    Is the killer trying to communicate? The chicken is the cousin of the phoenix, a symbol of peace and prosperity. The horse is a symbol of power and speed, and the unicorn endows wisdom and purity. Do they seek to plunge order into chaos?

    Scorpion lifts his tent flap and ties it up, allowing the morning''s glory to illuminate the interior. Each death had occurred across different sections: cropfields, poultry, livery. The culprit pollinates between them often.

    On his dresser, a parchment is laid out. He looks at the sketch of the victim, of the dented cranium, thinking hard and slow. The horse had a torturous head injury, which seemed inspired by the butchers, who use a pithing rod to stun large creatures.

    The culprit likes to mess with heads, literally and figuratively, with a flair for idealism. It''s only a matter of time before harm befalls a human. Who will be the next target?

    You want to fight for justice? His master, a grizzled man wearing a flat cap, widened his eyes. You won¡¯t last long with that kind of thinking.

    But sir, if people did not demand for justice, then why should we exist? Before he adopted the name of Scorpion, he was just another lad.

    It was a gloomy day, so perhaps Master was in a pessimistic mood and arguing for the sake of it. His facial scar rippled. Everyone has their reasons. Money to be made, sport to be had, or The Great Spirit compels them to madness.

    I don¡¯t agree with you. The pupil pouted and stood his ground. Justice means to correct a deficiency. We have laws, but they mean nothing if we do nothing.

    If you want to protect the interests of the weak, go ahead. Master gave the lad a long, adamant stare. But you won¡¯t have the backing of another power. You¡¯ll have to do everything on your own. It¡¯s like raiding a hornet¡¯s nest without gear.

    In his ruminations, the witchhunter closes his eyes, mouth grimacing. "I''m the next target."

    But Master, when the nobles pay you, you spend the coin on taverns, weapons, and whores. When the poor village pays me, they give me lodging, a community, and many priceless things.

 1.13 - Prodigal

    Fortifications are enacted against unauthorized entry to the estate, yet complete lockdown is infeasible for business. Rattling off familiar names here and there would be enough to convince sentries to let Timo back in.

    Midday, Kazerus answers a knocking to his door, and finds the prodigal son has returned. He shields his eyes from the sudden brightness. Abrasive in tone, he says, "Timo! Where''ve ya been?"

    "Someone invited me to go camping with them, and before I could say anything they packed me onto a wagon, and then I got food poisoning, so the trip took an extra day--"

    Kazerus raises his right hand. "Ah, forget it." His left arm and palm are wrapped tightly with gauze, crusted blood spotting like cow markings.

    Without missing a beat, Timo enters the cabin and lends out a gently curved hand, a gesture to simulate concern. "What happened to your arm?"

    Kazerus sits down on the floor mat, dragging out the table with his uninjured arm. "Work accident, it¡¯s not a big deal. I¡¯m lucky I get to keep it at all."

    "That¡¯s why you¡¯re home at this hour. Can I see it?"

    "I¡¯m not going to unwrap it." Kazerus lays his arm down carefully, pursing his lips.

    "The dressing needs changing at some point. How long have you had it?"

    "Two days, so it can wait--"

    "Let¡¯s do it right now!" Timo starts rummaging through the shirts that hang off of Kazerus¡¯s wall, searching for a suitable fabric.

    "Hey, hey, hey--"

    "Do you have any extra gauze? I can ask the cheesemaker--"

    "Timo! Don¡¯t worry about me. Just go to the butchery like usual."

    Timo loses his enthusiasm and paces around the tiny room. He sits down next to Kazerus¡¯s arm and strokes his hand. "Did it hurt?"

    "Oh, it hurt like a hound. I tripped and fell over a corner slicer, and--what¡¯re you doing? This isn¡¯t a toy!"

    Timo had begun untying the bandage. Kazerus swats at Timo, trying to get him to stop. Timo presses the arm harder into the table, shouting, "I¡¯m not playing! Don¡¯t move!"

    Detecting that he is perfectly serious, Kazerus sucks in his breath and says, "Ok, you¡¯re allowed to change it."

    As Timo unwraps the dressing, even the littlest vibrations send pain and chafe Kazerus. The butcher shuts his eyes several times, the gash raised and bruised like burnt toast, which admittingly made him queasy.

    Timo fetches a rag and dips it into a jug of wine, then wipes it slowly around the wound. He blows on the alcohol to make it dry. A few words slip out of his mouth, like "mirror" and "cannon," but otherwise his mutterings are incomprehensible. What¡¯s even more strange is the glassy sheen that has taken over his pupils, focusing at an infinite distance.

    As Timo wipes his fingers over the stretches of skin, Kazerus could not believe his eyes. With each pass and iteration, the scabbing washes away like warpaint. On closer inspection, the strands and wrinkles palisade, melding and shrinking until the crumbs dissolve away. When the physical scars are erased, Timo releases the arm and lays down on his back.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Kazerus sits petrified. His arm is sore and wickedly itchy, but he doesn''t dare move for a few minutes. Is the wound closed? Finally, he flexes out of the bandage nest, massaging his arm. He scooches over to check on Timo, who lies underneath the table, breathing laboriously, sweating, teeth clattering.

    "Do you need a drink?" Without hearing an answer, he gets up and selects the mildest wine from his collection, taking the canteen with him. Sadly, he does not own much in the way of water.

    Unable to suppress an earful grin, Kazerus sets two cups onto the table and pours. "In all my life, I¡¯d never expect you¡¯d turn out to be an honest-to-goodness healer."

    Timo crawls upright, holding his chest, and reaches pitifully for the cup. "I went to the clinic." He dumps the wine down his pipe.

    "Really? I guess you¡¯re forgiven. If only you¡¯d stop running away like a rascal!"

    "Buy me candy. I love sweets."

    "You know we can¡¯t afford that." Kazerus shakes his head which turns into nodding. "I can¡¯t believe it! I still can¡¯t believe it! Does it take a lot out of you?"

    "I...don¡¯t know. I¡¯ve always been sensitive." He drained all of his mana in one shot. Timo knows his pool isn¡¯t as full as the average person¡¯s. He might not make a capable healer in the future.

    "Damn, a baby healer born in front of my eyes. I can¡¯t believe it." Kazerus smiles so hard his eyes tear up, and his voice and laughter are extra boisterous. As he takes the day off to tidy up his cabin, he feels bad that Timo has been so depleted, the kid doesn¡¯t even move from the floor until the next morning.

    Kazerus attends work, and when he''s heaving planks of wood early in the shift, Cloud-Brow exclaims, "Back so soon? How''s your arm, son?"

    Kazerus pulls up a sleeve to reveal the unbandaged arm. "It''s all right now. The shrimpling is a healer!"

    In a far off rack, Timo smacks hanging hams with a paddle to tenderize them.

    "No way," Cloud-Brow begins, "Seriously? Did we help him discover his talent?"

    Kazerus laughs heartily. "What did I say? Butchers are the most important members of society!"

    For lunch that day, the crew proposes a toast for Timo, which catches the boy off-guard.

    "To Timo, the healer of Rastincorsa!" Cloud-Brow raises a clay bowl.

    "To Timo!" they say in unison.

    The child, a midget sitting amongst giants, smiles doggedly. Yes, keep the praise coming. He raises a bowl, oversized in his hands, and gulps the cider, feeling warm and fuzzy inside even before the alcohol hits.

    Big-Knee breaks his taciturn demeanor. "What¡¯s it like casting your first healing spell?"

    Timo doesn''t remember how exactly he felt when he healed Kazerus. It was similar to when he killed Harcus, but more constrained and unpleasant. "It''s like swinging on a rope, where everything slows down, then speeds up, like watching a toad''s throat swell and shrink. And then, like popping a bottle, it fizzes all crazy until it ends." To generate sympathy, Timo adds, "Then I fainted."

    "Providence!" Big-Knee slaps Timo on the back. "You need to eat more, little acorn." He nods sharply at Kazerus, who stares dumbly until he understands, then rubs a piece of bread around the empty pot, collecting juices and fiber. Kazerus gives it to Timo.

    Wiry-Monkey asks, "You''re gonna stick around as our medic, eh?"

    Kazerus says, "If you do become a medic, you''d finally have money to buy sweets."

    "Would I have to leave the butchery?" Timo asks.

    "Only if you want to." Cloud-Brow caresses his own back. "But you wouldn''t believe how the cityfolk live. They say everyone is filthy rich, washing down every meal with spiced wine, gold sewn into their netherwear--"

    "It''s not so bad here," Big-Knee says. "You don''t need to go to school for them to teach the same folk medicine with bigger words."

    "Don''t pressure Timo," Kazerus interjects. "Let him decide. But also, don''t tell any other soul on this farm about his healing, or they''ll take him away."

    They all nodded their heads. "Agreed."

    Scorpion flicks his hands, and the funnel winds around his ear cease. Hidden in the dense grass, he had positioned himself at the bottom of the hill. The soundwaves from the butchery naturally fall, although a little amplification magic always helps.

    So Timo lied about his abilities. Prodigy child stories are popular, but in reality, prodigies don''t pop up randomly. Especially not healers. The training and knowledge prerequisites are immense. Physicians and apothecaries start young, and they need access to medical texts and techniques, such as having parents who are well-educated, who more often than not are medical professionals themselves.

    The witchhunter rises out of the grass, his trenchcoat sleek and heavy. He heads to the next patrol point, chewing on a conundrum. Something is wrong. A disconnect somewhere. Where? Where would a slave gain such knowledge at an early age?

 1.14 - Children

    The new supervisor, with her afro and her hawkish mien, herds the children around the field. Leeks and scallions grow in unruly bushels, their innate sulfurous flavor a pest repellent. Behind the trellis gate, the witchhunter yells, "Hey!" and waves.

    The supervisor called Palia opens the gate for Scorpion, and she tips her head formally and brushes back loose hair. Palia wears bloomers and a white crop top with a toga shirt draped over. Her eyebags and erratic movements spark concern.

    "How''s it going?" Scorpion asks.

    "The sun shines," Palia answers, her voice thin. "What business have you?"

    "I''d like to chat with the kids, if that''s alright."

    "Go ahead." She leads Scorpion to the middle of the field, where the cluster of children generally orbit.

    Cautious heads perk at Scorpion''s presence, as the children uproot leeks, split the stalks in half length-wise, and rebury the roots.

    He scans the children, a rollercoaster of heights, until he spots a boy who looks older and put together. "You Larko?"

    The boy nods and trudges over, holding a basket of leek harvest, dirt soiling his hands and feet. Wavy hair and straight-lipped, he looks about twelve years of age. "Yessir?"

    "How''s Timo doing these days?"

    The kids within earshot jerk suddenly, as if static shocked them all at the same time. Larko twits his eyes in a pinched stare.

    Scorpion raises his brows. "I''m not here to judge or anything like that. I just wanna know what happened to him."

    "Sir." Larko looks up with a grave stare. "If you see him, stay away from him."

    "Oh? Why?"

    At this point, all the kids have inched closer towards Scorpion while pretending to work, no doubt trying to hear the conversation.

    Larko brushes close towards the witchhunter, searching for ambushers amongst the broad, fat leeks. "Can you keep secrets? You have to swear by the Arcanist."

    "An Arcanist am I, as Arcanist I die." Scorpion gestures zipping his lips.

    Larko sighs and dials back his intensity. "If we say his name, we''re going to be voodoo''d. He''s a sorcerer, you know?"

    Sorcery is a catch-all term for illegal and immoral magic, such as using the mana of another individual human without consent. It''s about as nondescript as calling someone a ''sinner'' or a ''baddie.'' Playing along, Scorpion puckers his lips. "Ooo, that sounds bad."

    "We''ve been chanting the litany of divines, but Yosef reported that he''s still alive. So far, nothing''s happened."

    "How do you know he''s a sorcerer?"

    "Sir! His presence drops the temperature of the air. If he''s not a ghost, then what else can he be?"

    While highly exaggerated, Scorpion realizes he agrees. "Well? What has he done?"

    Larko fidgets and the strain of his throat manifests as taut tendons. He recounts a tale.

    The one-who-must-not-be-named said, "Larko, can you set this plant on fire?" He tapped his toe at a vine.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    The pumpkins had started rounding and swelling, with hues of orange livening the rinds. "Why would I? What did the pumpkin do to you?" Larko huffed.

    "Larko," he glowered, "set it on fire."

    "Man, you''re acting strange."

    Timo tackled Larko and whipped out a peeling knife, breathing onto his face. "I want to see some red from you." He pressed the dull blade onto Larko''s breast, and motes of metal glitter transferred to skin.

    Flashes of terror gripped Larko. "I''ll do it!" he warbled.

    Timo shoved his hostage onto the ground, the knife scraping against Larko''s collarbone. Larko winced; he stalled by rolling up his sleeves and rubbing his hands slowly. "Gotta warm up," he mumbled.

    Yawning, Timo scraped the knife against something fleshy. "Gotta make kindling."

    Larko squealed against his will, and he heard a giggle. He lasered onto the tip of the pumpkin leaf, smoke curling into his nostrils. Flames ravished the wrinkled leaf.

    The fire was small, and it quelched after burning a sizable hole. Timo shook Larko and growled, "Is that all, weak pussy bitch?"

    Larko exploded the whole plant, its fiery embers spewing everywhere, indistinguishable from pumpkin flesh. Some of the flecks burned his skin, but he didn''t care. He grabbed the knife by the blade and thrust it aside, then lambasted Timo, "You asked for it, fat face." Despite his bleeding cuts, he stood up instantly. He was a few inches taller than Timo, and his frame filled out better.

    He was close enough, so he set Timo''s hair on fire with his mind. The wisps of flame danced like jesters, and Larko felt vindicated when it crested into a bonfire.

    Instead of tending to his burning head, Timo headbutted Larko, who faltered. The flame blipped to smolders and smoke.

    "Burn everything. The whole field," Timo commanded.

    Seriously? This guy thinks he can boss everyone around? Larko lifted his arm to throw a right punch. Other kids had surrounded them, keeping a safe distance. Burnt hair smell gagged their throats.

    They scuffled and wrestled, and without a weapon, Timo was easy to pin down. Son-of-a-bitch, pulling a knife isn''t funny!

    He left Timo bruised in the dirt, tending to the lacerations in his hand. As he went to the knife to pick it up, the other kids screamed, "Watch out!" Larko whipped around, but he was suckered. Timo grabbed his arm and pulled up while he fell down, and his shoulder popped.

    Holding Larko''s left arm in front of him like a cannon, Timo said, "When I say ''fire,'' I want you to make it rain. Nothing like that pathetic fart."

    An unrelenting, hungry stare had scared Larko out of his wits. He wasn''t willing to die standing his ground. Larko thought it was a normal power struggle, but this kid wanted to see flames with a pathological obsession.

    When Timo repeated, "Fire!" Larko would release a jet of flame in the direction of his palm, eventually bombing the whole quadrant of pumpkins. In between Larko''s cries, Timo cackled.

    The sky darkened, the orange patch roared, and the kids fled from the carbonized stench. Larko had crawled off, eventually collapsing nearby. When the supervisor Harcus swooped in with a few adults, Timo stood in front of the blaze, undeterred by the searing heat. He was silent and tranquil, like a priest in prayer. The Aquariuses doused the flagration, both adults and children who could maneuver water.

    The rain was sweet, to make up for no more sweetcorn.

    The young ones are crying and tugging at Scorpion. Timo, on multiple occasions, had peed, scratched, punched, and kicked his way into becoming an unholy terror.

    Larko puffs his chest like a big brother. "When Harcus disappeared, Timo also disappeared for a few days. We all hoped he got carried away by whatever took Harcus." He covered his mouth, realizing he¡¯d uttered the cursed name.

    "You''re not going to die," Scorpion says. "I can ward off stigmas." He fingers a sign of protection. A bit of a simplification, but at this point, what can he do?

    "Please, ignore him. Don''t go near him."

    The witchhunter kneels to boy eye-level. "You don''t have to be afraid. There''s a way to defend yourselves from suckers."

    The one thing he can do today is to teach them how to ward. Scorpion shows them basic yoga poses, such as the Phoenix, where the arms are held out like wings, and the Coyote, where they crawl on all fours, the back is arched and the head held high. Physical stamina and control is important to draw mana to key points, which can be used to shield from external attacks. To his surprise, Palia joins in the impromptu lessons.

    Self-defense takes a lifetime of study, involving different techniques for different elements. The young children simply play around, while the older ones are cognizant of mana as a separate force. They can practice as they work the fields. Maybe he can dedicate time to train them.

    "Sir," a young girl asks, "how do you protect against mushrooms?"

    "Don''t eat them if you''re not completely sure whether they''re poisonous."

    The girl frowns and she picks at the fringes of her braid. "I mean when they grow on you?"

    A fungal infection? Sadly, he doesn''t know much about those. "I think you''d have to bathe with soap until they go away."

    "Sir," the girl scratches her arms and nose, "when a sorcerer grows them on you?"

 1.15 - Bait

    While resting in his cot, Scorpion rolls to give his arms wiggle room. The crickets screech loudly at night, but trying to analyze his premonition keeps him awake. He can only see the shades of grain texture.

    Harcus was not particularly powerful. He had a middle-management position, so an usurper motive is flimsy. Palia does not seem to be the bloodthirsty type, nor does she seem to take pleasure in her role. Symptoms of fatigue cannot be faked easily. However, people are unpredictable and it''s a possibility she coveted the position.

    Then there''s the issue of poison. If Timo''s alibi is unreliable, it''s possible that Timo''s role as a caretaker slave contains a kernel of truth. Although, it''s likelier that Saela would care for her father.

    At least he should confirm that the animal deaths are related to Timo by tracing the mana. If they are, what would the motive be? Would they be distractions to keep him from sniffing out the real crime?

    Over the next couple of days, the witchhunter reiterates through Timo''s roaming patterns, including desire paths and main roads. He settles at a particularly rocky junction, where Timo often passes by late afternoon or evening. On the first day, he does not see Timo, but his efforts pay off on the second day.

    Lowering himself at a ditch, Scorpion takes off his sock and boot. He flips out a bottle of hazy oil and a small handkerchief. Pouring the poultice onto his bare ankle, he rubs it in with the cloth, then stashes everything into a coat pocket. The thudding of his fingers is hair-raising when the hearing spell is active. He waits as Timo''s footsteps grow in volume.

    Timo, delivering a parcel, emerges over the distant bump. Scorpion hunches, a woolen hem rolled up, tending to his ankle and wincing. Timo actually passes by without a second thought. Exasperated, Scorpion groans, "Hey, can you help me?"

    The child turns around. "I''m busy; what of it?"

    Scorpion grits his teeth. "I sprained my ankle." His foot has become red and pink, slowly turning purple, as an allergic reaction to poison indigo. It''s not life threatening, but it''ll be very itchy for a few days. "Can you call someone down for first aid?"

    Timo crouches and examines the rash. "No need."

    Scorpion stares at the boy incredulously. "Look, I''ve been stuck here for a while. Can you fetch--"

    "Be quiet!" Timo flashes a growl before his face reverts to nothing. He presses the parcel onto the ankle.

    Those words would hurt more than his ankle. Scorpion holds his breath from shock. The cool meat can be felt through the parchment.

    "You are not to tell anyone what you see here. I trust you can keep a secret?" The last sentence sounds less a question and more a threat.

    The Scorpion continues acting in pain. "Au! An Arcanist am I, an Arcanist I die."Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    "Do you have any water?"

    The man sheepishly takes out a flask. "Just this." He rummages through another pocket, retrieving a clean handkerchief. "Do you need this too?"

    Timo uncaps the flask and douses the ankle before wiping it clean. He starts mumbling while passing his hands over the sprain site.

    Scorpion comments, "You''re a healer?"

    "Yeah."

    "You''re so young. Can you do this?"

    "Of course."

    Scorpion relaxes. Closing his eyes, he extends his mana like a radar, letting the bobbles inform him. The healer is certainly using his own mana, but only in small, precise doses. It has an elegance to it, a sensation which only certain healers give off. Many of them unleash a waterfall, subjecting you to a deeply spiritual cleansing.

    Whenever Timo lifts his hands off, Scorpion rubs his ankle with a pre-soaked cloth, stripping the dye off his skin, and hiding the stains on the fabric. "I can''t believe it." He wiggles his toes and lifts his foot slowly.

    "Does it hurt?"

    Scorpion shakes his head, but to confirm, he musters up confidence and carefully props himself into crab position. Imagining his ankle is no longer pained but still swollen, he steadies himself onto his feet. "Thank you. This is better than I expected. I can make my way." He reaches down to put on his sock and boot. "You¡¯d make a great healer. I heard there¡¯s a clinic not far from here. Have you thought about visiting?"

    Timo wipes his hands off his pants, then picks up his meat parcel. "Actually, I¡¯m going to check it out in a couple of days." He looks around the scenery, breathing deeply. "I''ll be off." Just as quickly as he had arrived, he leaves.

    Scorpion hobbles along the rocky road in the opposite direction. He tunes the hearing spell farther. No words come from Timo''s direction, although his gait has become haggard. He''s not the type that talks to himself, huh?

    When sufficiently out of range, Scorpion resumes a normal trot. I can''t believe it. The mana signature is a match.

    A crime like horse thievery is punished with death. If Timo gets caught and executed, nobody would miss him--if he was an adult. When it comes to children, public hearings are never smooth.

    Scorpion must prove that Timo, who evaded detection thus far, has a screw loose. A demonstration of the mana signature with the salvaged horn will be most damning. Still, emotions tend to win over logic. The chances of winning a trial are bad for him, and depends on popular consensus. Timo does not show significant mental deficits, as he appears rather normal, and he might try to rally the farm against him.

    However, he¡¯s easily swayed to violence. Is Timo an accomplice? Because there was only one caster at Harcus''s crime scene, did Timo murder by himself? He would be capable of the magic, but if there''s another person behind the scenes, the possibility cannot be ignored. A confession must be extracted from Timo.

    If Scorpion is unable to figure out who is the mastermind, then the boy will have to die for dipping his hand in evil. Still, it¡¯s hard to convince people to help his case, if it potentially ends by slaying a child.

    It gets easier, Master said.

    Scorpion mutters, "Bullshit."

    It never gets easier. You just get better at running away. When wielding a dagger is too close for comfort, you learn to handle a spear. When the tip renders flesh and you taste your enemy''s blood as it sprays into your mouth, you learn to shoot a bow. When you have to salvage arrows from a leaking human cadaver, you learn to brew poisons. When people stop drinking and eating, you learn to delegate assassins.

    If you choose to stick with the dagger, it never gets easier. The spider weaves an ever bigger web to catch and choke all the excuses, stretching more and more silk to keep afloat. One day, it¡¯ll snap under its own weight.

    But not today, nor tomorrow.

    It would be a lie to say he doesn¡¯t feel a wrench in his gut, but he will trust his clairvoyance and his logic. Reality wins--or rather, his vision of justice--over ideals.

    If it comes to the worse case, then he will ensure a quiet assassination: humane, peaceful, poisonous. Timo''s disappearance will be pinned ¡®as coyote.¡¯ Scorpion must accomplish this alone.

 1.16 - Sealed Fate

    "I''m sorry, we''ve been behind." A young woman, hair brunette and long, dress bleached and patchworked, says to the child at the door.

    "You don''t have any netting at all?" Timo asks incredulously.

    "We''ve gotten swamped, and one of our weavers has fallen ill. I''m sorry."

    He crosses his arms, deep in thought. "We really need it for deliveries, but they won''t go out until tomorrow." He looks behind, then at the sky, then back at the doorframe of the cottage. "Can I make it myself?"

    "Yes...if it''s not any trouble for you." She steps aside to make room at the entryway.

    "I have nothing better to do anyways."

    They walk through the dusty house, soft footsteps being absorbed, spools the height of horses guarding the room. Who knows how many miles of string are kept here, how plow rope conveys enduring toughness, and cotton thread the comforts of childhood. With all the dried plant matter contained here, a pungent odor like parched hay pierces the nose. Off to the side, smaller spools of prismatic colors and gentler textures stack amongst each other, overlayed like organ pipes.

    "Most of the yarn is wool," the woman says, "but there are some horsehair ones too." Just a few years senior to Timo, she tries to connect the random tangents to something relatable. "The weaponsmiths request horsehair for spear tassels." She fingers through a bed of red-dyed hairs.

    "That''s neat."

    They step outside onto the porch, where several women are sitting in a circle, weaving something. Off to the side, a bundle of netting lays untinkered. Attached to a net-in-progress is a large, pointed instrument: canoe-shaped, with a prong in the middle. The woman asks, "Do you know how to use a netting needle?"

    Timo gazes at the interesting device. "No. I was going to tie one by hand."

    She hums as she picks out a clean spool of sisal. "Here." She points to a basket. "The other tools are in there."

    Timo leans against the rails, measures out the lengths, and taking a knife from the toolbasket, he cuts the string. The lady watches him for several minutes to make sure he knows what he''s doing. She finds it strangely endearing. "Who taught you how to tie a net?"

    Unenthused, he says, "My mother," twiddling knots into swathes of alternating patterns.

    The answer so obvious, she chuckles. "I wouldn''t expect young boys to know such things."

    "You shouldn''t expect things from anyone."

    The lady keeps her composure, holding back a wince from the prickly response. "Well, I''ll leave you to it. Just let me know when you''re done so I can assess how much the butchers owe us."

    As he works on making nets for transporting large chunks of dry meat, he relaxes. Some of the women gossip about boring things, and some of them make side glances at him, which frays him, but he focuses on tying knots, until the bad feelings pass.

    When he''s completed two nets, Timo gathers them up and bids the weavers farewell. He returns to the butchery.

    After reporting his extended errand, and redeeming his nets, Timo joins Wiry-Monkey who smokes jerky over the charcoal fire. Fanning the heat and absorbing the savory essence, Timo asks, "What flavors will these have? Apple honey?"

    Wiry-Monkey chuckles. "Again with the sweets? If you crave them so bad, go chase some bees." Crouching, he scooches at an angle to poke the fire with a log. "These are rubbed with Vulcano sauce." He keeps swallowing saliva.

    Before long, Kazerus makes the rounds and locks up the butchery, a watchful Timo waiting for him. As they make the trip to his cabin, Timo notices Kazerus''s palm poking out of his sleeve, clean gauze wrapped around it.

    "Did something happen to your hand?"

    Kazerus hesitates and gives a big, cheeky smile. "It''s fine."

    Timo crests his eyebrows. "Roll up your sleeve."

    Kazerus sighs. The youngster becomes awfully demanding in an instant. He trifles with the sleeve, the bandage following a thin stripe of mottled blood up to his elbow. "I rushed too fast, and when I lifted something heavy, it kind of...reopened. It just needs more rest."

    Though Kazerus drops his arm, letting it swing with the rhythm of walking, Timo fixates on it like an owl.

    Wait a fucking minute.

    "Don''t worry about it. I''ll be careful until it''s completely healed."Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    If Timo can''t even fix Kazerus''s scratch, there¡¯s no way he could¡¯ve healed a sprained ankle.

    Timo stays silent for the rest of the trip and as they enter the cabin. He mindlessly helps to set up the table and mats, a shrine to their evening routine. Finally, he says, "I''m getting a rag."

    Kazerus sits cross-legged and lets the doctor examine his arm. Timo unwinds the dressing, revealing scabs and discoloration flagging along the gash. He wipes it down. It''s not as wide as before, but it doesn''t help with his distress.

    The ankle was bruising and swelling, so maybe he''s overthinking yesterday. He''s too inexperienced to tell with certainty.

    No, no, no! The witchhunter faked his sprain.

    Timo chose to heal him because it would be a valuable learning experience. Yet as he mucked about, something felt off. However, he was tired and hangry, he didn''t pay close attention, and he wanted to get it over with.

    Scorpion knew about Timo¡¯s healing beforehand. Were the intel gathering abilities of The Scorpion underestimated? Did one of the butchers let loose? An unpleasant knot forms in his stomach. Well, it doesn''t matter what Timo thinks, or how Scorpion knows. What matters is that the witchhunter is on to him.

    Timo''s face had darkened dramatically. Seeing him glare at the floor, Kazerus stammers, "It''s the thought that counts. If you keep at it, you¡¯ll be a great healer!"

    Relaxing his face, Timo says flatly, "Yeah." He massages Kazerus''s arm with his thumbs. "Let me try again." Wave one, the gash shores at the dermis, wispy collagen threads pulling through, resembling washed up seaweed. Like a lone boy in a canoe, he paddles the deeper tides, attempting the unification of muscle fibers. Yet with every stroke, a morass saps away his fluency, rendering him into nothing more than a clumsy quack. His sweating and tremors return.

    Kazerus says, "Stop. Just take a break. We can try again tomorrow. You''re still new to this."

    Timo smiles and gives Kazerus a light rub over his arm. At least the new skin is hairless and tight, the muscles wonderfully supple. "Okay, bossman. Tomorrow."

    Kazerus retracts his arm, forcing Timo to back off. He gets up to open drawers, eventually fishing out a roll of gauze, and wraps himself a compression band for pain relief.

    If Timo cries foul and accuses Scorpion for molesting him, showing evidence of physical harm, he can get the witchhunter lynched. If Scorpion cries first, he has no idea what propaganda Scorpion is capable of. Keeping silent will deteriorate Timo''s chances; his most advantageous action is to speak fast. People are lazy and would rather believe the first story they hear, and as a child, he has the pathos.

    To achieve that, the adults need unanimous consensus that Scorpion is guilty, and the kids will parrot the adults, and it¡¯ll all become a reinforcing echo chamber. If the kids try to say anything bad about Timo, he¡¯ll beat the shit out of them until their eyeballs pop out of their heads, and claim The Scorpion molested them too. Then the adults will drive their pitchforks into him until he is nothing but a smear on the pavement. But, Scorpion is a tricky fellow; instead of getting lynched, he might convince them that a public hearing is necessary.

    In the case of a public hearing, the stage will be set with Mr. Scorpion bound and gagged to a tree, where the farmers will gather, holding axes and menacing glares. Desperate and cold, Mr. Scorpion will wax poetic about the murder of Harcus, and prattle on about pointless things to delay his demise, his veins will pop out of his forehead, so dedicated is he to prove his innocence.

    Kazerus will wipe off his sweat, defend Timo and scream that he is a healer, everyone¡¯s face will light up, Timo will rise on the berg of the Glacier, the Arsonist will split the clouds with arrows of light, the Aegis will shake the forest, and birds will herald the Dancer. He will sell them a promise, that once he¡¯s gotten the medical school degree, he¡¯ll come back and work as a physician and bless them long happy forever rides with express tickets to the afterlife, although he has no intention of ever returning to this shitty farm.

    He will pray to the Great Spirit and pray to The Scorpion, he will wear nice robes that smell like lavender soap, he¡¯ll step up to Mr. Scorpion, who''s all bruised from the rough rope, and say, "Don¡¯t bother returning," then with a flaming sword he¡¯ll behead Mr. Scorpion, but before he proceeds to stab him a million times, he¡¯ll take the trenchcoat and knives and leave him naked, then rain judgement by stabbing Mr. Scorpion¡¯s limp body a million times and splattering his guts all over the tree. The whole sky will shower with Scorpion blood and as each drop touches the farmers, the liquid will corrode into their skulls and melt all of them, as they putrefy into puddles they¡¯ll scream and cry and their souls will leave their vessels, but before they can rise to heaven, Timo will take the sword and slice off their spirit heads and fashion them into spirit rings to adorn his fingers. Somehow, the butchers will remain alive, untouched by the blood, and they will sing hymns like they did with the bull.

    In a fair jury, Timo would have the advantage to win.

    However, the world is rarely fair. If Mr. Scorpion decides his chance of winning a trial is impossible, an animal backed into a corner becomes dangerous. Mr. Scorpion may try to silence Timo sooner rather than later.

    How soon?

    Tomorrow.

    Tomorrow, Timo is supposed to visit the clinic for Vantegia''s answer. He will be most vulnerable then.

    He wobbles onto his knees and crawls towards his bed of pelts in the corner of the room. The boy tuckers himself and strokes the fur weakly. A bundle of fabric is crammed against the wall, the interplay of candleglow and shadow resembling dunes of sand, where the unfinished slippers and the sewing supplies are kept under wraps. The slippers aren''t important. Gift-giving is a strategic act meant to generate trust in the recipient so he can manipulate them, not because he cares about anyone. In fact, when he realized none of the butchers truly understand him, he had been disappointed. They¡¯re drones who follow a script their whole lives, always floating in the middle of a lake, swimming nowhere like wooden ducks.

    Kazerus¡­ Timo scowls, and his nails grate against the planks.

    Kazerus blabbers about class equality utopia, but is too drunk to stage a revolution. Samiltus always complains about his back but refuses to retire, Arviel chronically makes unfunny dick jokes, Palatius never talks except to recount stale stories of his former ex-champion axe-throwing glory days. They¡¯re all so annoying. They will miss him more than he¡¯ll miss them.

    Too weak to move, an uncontrollable urge denies him peace. He writhes in bed, trapped and suffocating.

    Kazerus¡­ I don''t know if there¡¯s a tomorrow for me.

 1.17 - Town Trip

    Venturing into the mountainous forest the other day, Scorpion had collected frightshade, a type of nightshade that is especially potent. In smaller doses, it causes paralysis. With direct application, it will stop the heart. At high concentrations, it goes well with sugar. He mashed the plants and strained the liquid through a funnel until he extracted a few teaspoons.

    Scorpion rises early to purchase supplies. The artisan¡¯s boulevard is the market hub of the estate, with smoke actively rising from chimneys, and stores lining the streets. There¡¯s no apothecary around, the closest alternative being a spice shop. He browses the shelves and jars of sublime scents, until finally purchasing a bottle of cane syrup.

    At the textile mill, he buys a fresh roll of gauze; from the basket weavers, a circular steamer and lid made from brindlewood; from the bakers, a thirty-brick bag of rice flour. In the center of the hub, a roaring community fire is maintained by chefs and bussers. There¡¯s always food cooking to feed the hungry population. If anyone wants to use it, they¡¯re expected to share.

    Keeping his belt secured, Scorpion ties his overcoat around his waist, revealing a plain undershirt. "I¡¯ll be making sweet rice cakes," he says to the onlookers. They nod and tell him to wait his turn.

    A portly man and his stick-like assistant handle a gigantic skillet, sizzling a stir-fried medley of greens, peppers, onions and wild rice. A dishwasher with pots and pans stacked haphazardly around him scours a plate with water, sitting near a giant cistern and well. Scorpion heads over and grabs a clean bowl to begin the mixture. Water, flour and syrup form a sticky and dense dough. Transferring to a flat board, he sprinkles flour and kneads until firm.

    He makes a huge batch using half the bag. In a smaller bowl, the ingredients are thrown in, but left untouched.

    "Would you like some?" the chef asks, offering vegetables heaped onto a mollusk shell.

    Scorpion resists the flavorful aroma. "I¡¯ll pass."

    The chefs go around the crowd, distributing stir fry. When the skillet has finally been cleared off the griddle, Scorpion cuts his dough into chunks. People offer to join in, ranging from workers on break to amateurs excited for a little dessert. He accepts their help, saying, "Just don¡¯t touch that bowl. I want to make a special-flavored gift for my host." Expert mothers employ technique, covering their hands in flour, pulling the dough up through fingers into a mushroom and cutting off the bottom before rolling. Some children make a sticky mess, creating lumpy mochis.

    Steamers are lined on the bottom with elephant leaves, and rice balls are rolled and placed on them. People use whatever is on hand to cover the pots, whether it¡¯s with leaves, a canvas cloth, or a plank. Huge, deep chambers are filled with water for steaming. In Scorpion¡¯s special bowl, he kneads halfway, pours the distilled frightshade casually, stuffs the bottle back into his pocket, and quickly forms the dough into spheres and places them in his steamer. After a few minutes, his fingers tingle.

    The steamers are stacked three levels maximum, so Scorpion finds a spot to place his. As they wait for the mochis to cook, he stares at his property with unwavering attention. In the meantime, he discreetly tosses some of the poisoned dough, makes a fuss about tripping over it, and spills the leftovers all over the ground. He gets up and stabilizes himself. Beyond the initial charade, a few murmur, "Too bad, what a waste," and nobody bats a further eye.

    He returns the empty bowl to the dirty dish pile. As he glances at the fire, a weasley fellow takes the lid off the top steamer, holding chopsticks to sneak one out. Scorpion panics and runs, and when he invades the man¡¯s personal space, emits a loud noise in his ear. The fellow yelps and drops the cake, highly disgruntled.

    "Sorry, I made these," Scorpion says. "Um, these are really ugly and deformed." He snatches the top steamer, the vapor expanding into their faces, and gestures towards the mochis below. "These ones are prettier."

    The fellow stares at Scorpion, before he shakes his head and picks a cake from the other batch. As he walks away, hand cupped underneath the chopsticks, he mutters, "I don¡¯t notice a difference."

    Scorpion cusses under his breath and switches the batches, searing the new location into his brain. For good measure, he steps on the fallen cake and kicks it towards some weeds.

    At the end of the cooking session, Scorpion gathers extra mochis and arranges them alongside the tainted ones, marking notches in the leaf with his knife. He leaves the flour sack behind, more concerned about the time, and heads to a local soup shop. After grabbing a quick bite, he sits on a bench outside the ordering window, putting his coat back on. A navy blue awning shades the dining area, with enough seats for other customers to spread apart.

    The boulevard is a well-paved road with cobblestone, and most people take it on their way to the clinic. The morning has aged, but there¡¯s a high chance that Timo will pass through. The mochis are dusted with rice flour, pearls hidden in snow. He recounts the ones that are safe to eat, planning which side he will position himself next to Timo to access them casually. When he feeds the snack to him, the child should be rendered helpless, then he¡¯ll tie him up and interrogate him.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    Tapping on the shelf, which is a bar extending under an open window of steam and soup smells, he wrangles the remnants of a pita wrap into a book shape, then eats it.

    He identifies Timo by height, a short figure trawling out of the boulevard. Patiently, Scorpion shifts his body and turns at the last moment, "coincidentally" spotting Timo as he passes the soup shop.

    Waving him down, he says, "Fancy seeing you here."

    Timo acknowledges him with a swivel of his head.

    Scorpion nudges the air. "You got a moment to share?"

    The boy alters his course and leisurely sits on the bench. "What tidings?"

    "Nothing much. I need ointment, but the apothecary is a ways off." Scorpion drags out the steamer and plucks a mochi, biting it in half. "Want one?" he says before munching, and pushes the steamer towards Timo.

    Timo suspends his hand over the steamer, observing the waved leaf lining, and looks at Scorpion, where a speck of flour nestles in the corner of his cheek. He picks a cake at random, then throws the whole thing into his mouth. It tastes mildly sweet, heavy and cool against the roof.

    "How is it? Good?" Scorpion says with a hint of amusement.

    Having difficulty chewing the large object, Timo nods his head rapidly.

    Scorpion selects another cake and finishes it. "What are you doing traveling by yourself?"

    "I''m visiting the clinic. The road there is pretty safe."

    The man nods approvingly. "We''re going the same way, so we can head there together. What say you?"

    "I don''t mind."

    The witchhunter gets up from the bench and stretches his long arms. He leans the steamer lid against the pan. "You can keep the rest."

    "Are you sure?" Timo asks politely, ogling the sanded grain construction and the pile of mochis.

    "I haven''t thanked you properly for the other day." Scorpion gestures at the contents. "I hope this is alright."

    The man and the boy step over the risen sill, which keeps dust out of the dining area. Timo holds the steamer against his stomach, keeping watch as one would a treasure coffer.

    The background shifts from man-made to all-natural. The vegetation grows denser, the roads barer. Cobblestone crumbles into broken compromises, until dirt is all that remains. Toll beats and metal clamors are traded for crickets and thrushes.

    Both of them are fatigued from lack of sleep, withdrawing from idle banter besides the occasional grunt when scaling an incline, or a sigh to rid stale oxygen.

    "I heard a unicorn broke into the farm. Did you see it at all?"

    "Actually, I did."

    Timo widens his eyes, impressed. "Was it angry at us? They say unicorns punish humans who harm the wilds."

    "No." Scorpion purses his lips. "I think it was more sad than anything. Their kind is dying, you know? They want to survive."

    "What happened to it?"

    "We put it down." Upon seeing Timo¡¯s disheartened face, Scorpion adds, "The farmers were afraid of its magic."

    "Are unicorns scary?" Timo picks up a mochi, slobbering over it.

    "Of course. They can cast magic as well as any human spellcaster. The one we fought was greatly weakened, though. I think it wanted to find a resting place more than to fight."

    Timo chews for a long while, his cheeks puffing, before swallowing.

    Scorpion taps his chin, contemplating about the topic in his mind. "I think Nero could¡¯ve murdered Harcus. They¡¯ve had disagreements over which fields the horses should plow for a long while." Someone angry over Harcus¡¯s death would strike down Nero¡¯s draft horse in vengeance. In reality, the question is a test of reverse-psychology: if Timo seems enthusiastic about pinning the blame on Nero, then Nero is likely not the mastermind.

    "It¡¯s not Nero." Timo licks the rice dust off his fingertips.

    "What if Nero had injured the horse and feigned sympathy to throw off my trail?"

    A branch-snapping sound reaches Scorpion¡¯s ears, and his neck cranes a bit. No one is behind the bush.

    Timo says, "Nero never uses the whip violently. The horses have unscarred coats."

    Scorpion keeps silent for a few minutes. Timo pops another mochi.

    "What about Palia? She took over the supervisor¡¯s position rather fast, and used to be the chamber pot janitor." She would be desensitized to grossness, a good trait when it comes to handling corpses.

    "Who¡¯s Palia?"

    "The new supervisor of the young sharecroppers."

    Timo grabs a mochi and sticks his tongue out, carefully setting it atop like a glass figurine. He chews for a while and speaks with a mouthful, "She¡¯s too skittish to carry out a crime."

    The wild grass twirls, and a chipmunk dashes through the middle of the path, disappearing into another bushel.

    "Did you know Arviel had a crush on Palia before? I really wonder if he should confess to her." Saela¡¯s mother is supposed to be dead, but it''s rumored Palia had a fling with Harcus and they altered the narrative. A jealous man may plan his vengeance.

    "When he talks about his crushes, he¡¯s frustrated rather than embarrassed."

    Scorpion scratches his head. "You¡¯re very observant." What¡¯s the difference between frustration and embarrassment? "I don''t really think any of these people are perpetrators." It was worth a try. He will find the answer soon enough.

    Timo plucks a cake and throws it into his mouth, the dessert squeaking with every bite. "These are really good."

    Scorpion smiles lightly. There¡¯s a question that carries substantial risk, but would lower Timo¡¯s guard. "Do you have any other ideas on who might be behind Harcus¡¯s death?"

    The child meets him in the eye. "I¡¯m not very keen at this stuff. I still don¡¯t understand why he was murdered."

    Scorpion shrugs. "I don¡¯t care about the why, unless it leads me to the who."

    "Out of your suspects, Nero seems a reasonable one."

    "Who could have murdered his horse? Perhaps a henchman of Harcus?" He keeps his tone neutral and non-accusatory. He still doesn¡¯t know if the animal deaths and Harcus are truly related, and doesn¡¯t have good proof. This question would give the impression that he suspects Timo to be a henchman. How would the boy answer?

    "Harcus didn¡¯t have henchmen. He was henpecked by the bossman."

    They are nearing the midway between farm and clinic. When is he going to collapse? Scorpion''s pounding heart has made its way to his brain. The lining of his retinas ache, and pressure builds in his temples. The internal swelling makes it hard to focus. Did Timo eat only the normal cakes? Is that why he¡¯s still standing? The steamer is empty. Did I accidentally eat-- Calm down, he planned meticulously. There¡¯s no error, but if there is...

    "Mr. Scorpion," Timo touches the witchhunter¡¯s sleeve, stroking down to the man¡¯s hand, so large and sturdy, and whispers, "I killed Harcus."

 1.18 - The Blade Drips

    It¡¯s funny.

    Snarking back is his initial reaction: Can you repeat that for the record? But, the sarcasm would not roll off his tongue. "Claiming to have killed someone for attention isn¡¯t cool, you know."

    "Got your attention, didn¡¯t I?"

    "Is it true?"

    "Would I lie to you?" Timo wears the steamer upside-down as a hat, the lid gone. He constricts himself around Scorpion¡¯s arm. Somehow, the action appears snuggly, but feels extremely hostile.

    "Alright, how did you kill him?"

    "Mmmm¡­" Timo raises his chin, his face disappearing under the leaf-liner. His voice muffled, he says, "I squished him like a spider."

    All the warmth had left Scorpion¡¯s visage, leaving just an icy surface. "It takes more than that to kill a human being."

    A statement that he thinks true, but perhaps isn''t universal.

    "It''s hard to squish a spider, though." Timo¡¯s fingers oscillate, demonstrating arachnid legs. "When you see a big one, it''s all creepy and leggy." His fingers pause. "You can try throwing a rock at it, but if you miss," his fingers wriggle again, "it scurries away all creepy-crawly."

    He lifts the steamer and looks at Scorpion''s face with a twinkling eye. "Especially if it flies at your face. Then you have no choice but to grab it with your bare hands, and when you''re grabbing it, you''re worried that it''ll bite you. But no matter how scary that spider looks, if you crush it fast enough, you won''t die."

    Since the man seems unconvinced, hesitant, Timo lets out a puff through his lips. "Spiders don''t like rocks thrown at them. Harcus didn''t like the fruit bowl either."

    Scorpion continues walking, barely looking down at the child. The dagger is resting up his other sleeve. The sheathe is loose, and with a flick of his wrist, gravity will slide the goatskin handle into his grip. When he concentrates hard enough, the boy¡¯s jugular vein floats right in front of him, bulging, exposed. A decisive slash is all it takes.

    At some point, Timo adds, "I''m always surprised at how much liquid is inside of bugs. And people."

    Silence hammers into their ears, stretching into something awful, until it snaps.

    "Eh," Scorpion drips in monotone, "there''s a spider on my arm."

    Timo detaches from the arm and bolts for his life. His steamer-hat flies off, lands, and rattles in a spiral. The chase ignites a primitive brain that compels The Scorpion to pursue.

    He is much faster, using a blast of wind to lunge forward. Timo swerves, ducking into the cattail reeds, causing Scorpion to overshoot. Shifting his foot, the witchhunter reveals his true jump height, which is frighteningly high. He identifies the rustling grass from an aerial vantage and cushions a landing next to him. His feet sink into the silt, delaying his momentum. The flattened stalks brush onto Timo''s shoulders, who banshee screams and claws his way back to the main road.

    They continue to play this unfun game for minutes, ducking and weaving between the narrow, puddle-laden road and the vegetation. Timo avoids boulders and rocks like a chicken, knowing that Scorpion can use them as launchpads.

    Timo stops. The boy staggers forward, then his body sways. "I...what...happening..." His eyeballs roll into his head and he crumples atop the mud.

    Checkmate. Scorpion exhales a major sigh of relief, his mouth open, panting, his chest fulminating. Fresh adrenaline rules his veins; he must take advantage of it before his limbs mollify. His coat glides, soaked at the edges, slapping his calves, the sleeves billowing unfettered.

    Scorpion fingers the leather strap of his dagger with his finger, but is abruptly stopped: the sight of a person walking up the road. Feh! Could the timing be worse? He stiffens his nerves.

    The traveler up ahead has come close, near enough to see his moccasins are made of straw. A couple of baskets, which contain a kind of tuber, hang over his hips, bouncing with his gait.

    Scorpion leans over Timo, fanning at the boy¡¯s face. What, should, I, do? He checks the pulse, but it¡¯s hard to detect under the torrent of his own pounding heart. He lifts him up, really quite heavy, rests the lolling head on his shoulder, supporting the tush, and walks, each step propelling him towards an unwanted witness.

    A male with a raisin-like face under a straw visor slows his pace, glancing at them. "Is he okay?"

    "My...son¡¯s being stubborn," Scorpion says with a look of parental disappointment. "He likes to play dead when he¡¯s tired."

    "Hmm," the traveler nods his head, peering at their faces. "Good luck." He addles past them, the witchhunter almost bumping into the swinging baskets.

    Scorpion walks forward without looking behind. Forward, forward, forward, until his legs feel confident there¡¯s enough distance to let the demons come out and play.

    His eyes shuttle back and forth, sweeping the land for signs of movement, reading only the whistle of cattail and the mockery of clouds. He licks his lips, teething on a scab of dried skin. Now.

    Scorpion diverts off the road, cutting into the bank of reeds. The mud softens underfoot as he entrenches deeper. The bog will dilute the blood, and the bushy grass will absorb the deceased. When he¡¯s done, he¡¯ll abandon his gloves and turn his trenchcoat inside out. He lowers Timo onto the bed. It¡¯s cold and muddy and he wonders if the marsh will suddenly drop off into a deep lake. There¡¯s plenty of plants scaffolding the soil, so no.

    The witchhunter flips the dagger in his right, palm curled around the goatskin. Make it quick. Searching his pouch-belt, he takes out a vial of coagulated substance, rusty in color and chemical in odor. Apply extra just in case. Once the poisoned coating makes contact with blood, it¡¯ll be over in minutes, forever. There¡¯s no glint on the metal, only a gritty matteness, as if the sun itself has shunned him.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    He draws near to slit Timo''s throat, heart, steady, heart, slow, smooth, watching the blade court a kiss to the tender neck.

    His vision darkens, and a light force presses against his forehead. His dagger hand jams in space, all of his agency evaporated.

    The boy pushes the weapon away gently, saying, "It''s my turn." Timo sits up, the mud squelches, and Scorpion lurches backwards into the bog.

    Agony erupts in his head. He loses consciousness for a split second; the pain dissipates. But as the sky reassembles into view, he becomes aware of Timo''s hand retracting from frontal view, whose finger slides out of Scorpion''s forehead, slurping quietly as the suction breaks.

    Air rushes into his newfangled blowhole, with the fury of a thousand pins. Coldness clashes with heat, fluid slugs clobbering all over. Through poor vision curtailed with eyelashes, he watches Timo licking his index finger clean, looking down at him, eyes wild and sparkling.

    Timo, wearing a most grievous smile, presses against Scorpion''s torso, fiddling at the buttons near the belt. "I wanna eat you." He inhales, shoulders curving. "Suck out your liver, gnaw on your bones."

    Where¡¯s Providence when you need it? It is difficult to come up with a phrase that expresses a level of disgust where you cannot even damn your enemy to Hell anymore, because Hell would be paradise for them, while simultaneously suppressing the fear of a torturous, brutal ending.

    Scorpion''s chest tightens unbearably, and from his core blasts out a message, "NO, you SICK FUCK!"

    His smile unerring, Timo slides his hand under the witchhunter''s shirt, stroking along the belly with a finger. "You''re hairy."

    "Leave. My. Guts. Alone!" Scorpion exhales forcefully and resists against Timo''s weight. The lightning in his head explodes again, but his arm cracks out of paralysis and flutters up. He will pry this leech off, even if it costs him his life.

    Timo sniffs, his nose twitching. He lunges jaw-first at the encroaching, gloved fingers. Unable to crunch through bone, he realizes his bite lacks force because he recently lost a tooth, so he shakes his head furiously, grinding down harder. Scorpion''s wrist tendons snap, and his hand flops helplessly.

    The man groans, and he blacks out.

    He wakes up to sharp pangs all over his body. How much time has passed? His abdomen remains intact, so he only fainted for an instant. Still not wanting his organs to be eaten, Scorpion grasps at straws. "How--did you resist the poison?"

    Timo crawls forward and slams onto Scorpion''s stomach, causing him grief. He lifts his shirt and shakes it, and the half-chewed, smushed mochis tumble out. He laughs as some of them plonk off Scorpion''s flinching face. "I was saving my appetite for the main course."

    Timo presses down on Scorpion''s chest. "It all started when you came. I knew I could be watched at any moment." He leans low, breath hot against neck. "I yapped about a sweet tooth to make Mr. Scorpion poison me. But unlike other kids, I don''t get the big deal about sweets. I''ve always preferred meat."

    As he hovers over the tormented man, he sticks his tongue into the forehead hole, lapping up whatever wetness is contained within. Aside from the iron tang, the nogg has a consistency of mealy yolk, and quite tastes like roe.

    Scorpion blacks out, but for some infernal reason, reawakens to marshgrass scratching his face, to be greeted by the hellspawn once more.

    "Last night, I realized I was discovered. I thought, ''How would Mr. Scorpion dispose of me?'' Obviously, you would poison me, because I would poison myself if I was tasked to kill me.

    "You made it even more obvious with the rice cakes. It''s a dessert that''s steamed." Timo pats Scorpion''s sideburns, condescendingly, whipping up mud and grime. He pinches at the stiff facial muscles. "Steaming is a cooking method that keeps nutrients and medicinal benefits, and also, toxins."

    Blistering numbness creeps into Scorpion''s appendages. Time is running out, but he won''t let go yet, not until he''s accomplished what he needs to do.

    Scorpion listens to the gloating child, so giddy to prove his magnificent cunning that he stops torturing his only audience. Timo had magically rustled a few plants during the trip. Mr. Scorpion was unusually tense and hyperaware to noises, as if planning something "bad." Timo pretended to chomp on mochis, and his tongue pushed them out of his mouth, down his shirt, when the witchhunter was distracted.

    There are many kinds of poison, and Timo was unsure what the symptoms would be, or how fast it should take effect. Ingested poison kicks in after a few hours, but if poison fumes with water vapor upon chewing, inhaled, it would be within minutes. A poison coated on a dagger would be instant; a heartbeat. Through process of elimination, Timo determined that a mild poison was unlikely, because Mr. Scorpion would have to finish the job back at the farm where there''s too many eyes, risking his reputation. It also cannot be a poison that would kick in while he''s at the clinic, in front of medical specialists who could save him. Mr. Scorpion wanted roadkill for easy disposal, thus he chose a fast poison. Several minutes after finishing the mochis, when Mr. Scorpion seemed to be waiting for a reaction, Timo decided to play "drowsy." Besides, a hunter will pounce at an opportune moment of weakness.

    Timo had to wait for the last possible moment to strike. If he fumbled, Scorpion would put up a mana ward and Timo would lose, very badly.

    He asks, "Do I make a good witchhunter?"

    The witchhunter laughs weakly, even as his lungs protest. He profiled the killer as someone who prized intelligence. How funny that the maniac is an insecure child at heart.

    But, I was too soft. Too complacent. He should''ve assassinated him at that rocky junction, a kinder fate than what a horse-and-man slayer deserves. He shouldn''t have bothered with the desserts or an interrogation. When he departs, he hopes that the living will carry out vengeance in his stead.

    He moans, spurting blood. The hourglass will need to be flipped soon. Hone the words carefully, for it''s too late to have regrets. "You have a gift, and you choose to use it like this?"

    The child''s grin loses its lustre, becoming less ghastly despite his...choice of lipstick. Scorpion gathers his strength. Not enough. A tidal wave rips over him, drowning him in a sea of pain. Swimming to the surface, he fights for absolution.

    Clawing ad infinitum, against all odds, he hangs onto a driftwood of clarity. "You''d make good plant food with me." He said it mostly for his own humorous benefit.

    Just like that, the smile was wiped off the budding psycho¡¯s face. His expression transformed to match the twisted ravines of his soul.

    "You--" For some reason, Timo could not summon eloquence to respond. Pesky emotions entangle his throat, so he snarls, "You¡¯re just a sore loser!" With a turn of his wrists, his anger flares, accompanied with splitting, cracking, and sputtering.

    Scorpion watches the curtain of his memories descending. He exerts his life force, his willpower, on maintaining a smile. He will not let anguish conquer his face. He will not give him a single drop of satisfaction. A fast death is preferable to a slow one. About time I get a quickie.

    "Why won¡¯t you die already, you fat cow?!"

    In some ways, the threshing clears the chaff of unnecessary thoughts from the wheat. Or maybe he''s been through so much pain already, he''s numb. The Scorpion¡¯s adulthood was a lonely existence. He didn¡¯t have time to settle for a wife and kids. Justice was his purpose. Justice was its own reward. In the countless cases that he had the privilege of solving, this was the hardest. Inevitably, it would be his last. If he had succeeded in killing a child, who would congratulate him? Certainly not himself.

    There was no room for emotion and remorse in his line of work, but even now, his own heart surprises him. Momma, are you there? Would you be proud of me? What is he thinking? His parents have long since departed.

    Then, it truly hit him: the reason people call this world The Cradle.

    The death throes had ceased. The murky unknown, filled with darkness, blew away in a violent tempest. Carried along like a seed in the wind, he was brought to a gate brighter than the sun. Though he closed his eyes, the apparitions of his friends and family walk clear as day. Though he couldn¡¯t remember their names, he recognizes them.

    Quintus Lirium chased them, choosing them. He looked forward to rebirth.

 1.19 - Meaning

    Exhausted, Timo realizes he won''t be able to visit the clinic today, but the timeline is lax. All men are beholden to the forces of nature and the unpredictability of life.

    Mr. Scorpion has stopped leaking out of every orifice, his lighter clothes completely soaked in scarlet. Caked mud cracks off his nose, and a smushed rice cake landed at his armpit. Skinny flies flitted around them, landing on nearby boughs, rubbing their spiky hands together like a villainous schemer. Timo knew it would end up like this. If he hadn¡¯t sent out clues, the confrontation would not have come to fruition. If the circumstances were different, maybe they could¡¯ve had a good relationship.

    He couldn¡¯t help it. He likes games, see? He''s a curious young boy; he wanted to see if another man could accomplish what his father could not. The witchhunter assaulted him first, so he became really mad, see? Though he seeks to control other people¡¯s hearts, he hates when he can¡¯t control his own.

    He had sworn he¡¯d never cry again, but the wetness of his face comes from more than the steam of his breath. In his vision, splotches of color expand into a gray blur. What is this pain? Will no one be able to understand him, not the butchers, not even other murderers?

    Arrows, accidents, poison, disease. None of these have the same allure as getting up close and personal. In close quarters, the weak and the strong push the very limits of their being, revealing secrets that would otherwise never surface. Watching this display of life, a spring that blasts into a roaring geyser, was most breathtaking. It was a show that played exclusively for him. He feels, with unshakable conviction, that he knew his victims better than anyone else. To him who craves the ultimate connection, Timo does not have an inkling of regret. If there was, no one would''ve been able to tell him that regret was supposed to constitute something more severe than breaking one of his own toys.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    For a while, Timo thought he was attuned to death. He was doomed to destructive tantrums, exerting power and control.

    After the second murder, it became clear. It wasn¡¯t death that he loves, but life. The relationship between killer and victim was intimate, with a gravity that eclipses any other type of social bond, the inverse of what ties mother to child. In those final seconds, he glimpsed the universe of a man¡¯s soul.

    Can he make Mr. Scorpion come back to life? The witchhunter said some nasty things at the end, but there are still many unanswered questions to ask. He climbs over the dead man¡¯s chest, untangling the shirt buttons, and tugs on the warmly broken flesh. Gathering the energy of the marsh, spinning the silk of the soil, he coaxes the earth. By his feet, verdant sprouts quiver and bend. A few beetles and shrimp-like scuds overturn from their burrows, then flee back underground. Bubbling and churning, the mana crackles to a boil, growing, rising, pop!

    Nothing happens.

    He detaches from the corpse and sprawls on his back, supporting his head on a dry reeds, staring through tears at the canopy pieces of the sky, letting himself be swallowed by the grandness of his revelation. A breeze picks up, the steely comb of autumn smoothing down his bangs.

    "I''m so glad to be alive," he whispers.

 1.20 - Epilogue

    The crossbow was too obvious, so he couldn''t keep it. Timo unlatched it and threw it pathetically, where it got entangled in the rough. He unfastened Mr. Scorpion''s belt and tried it on; too bulky and won''t tighten around his waist. He could sling it over his shoulder, but that''s also too obvious. Disappointed, he rummaged through the pouches, tossing the unknown vials of liquid and crackerbread rations. A wrapped set of darts caught his eye, and he saved them. He took off the boots, shaking out water and twisting the heel to see if money would appear. Nothing. He patted the inner coat lining, splashing, and discovered a bulging coin pouch. Tired of looting, he dragged the body further into the bog, until the water reached his waist, and pushed Mr. Scorpion as far as he could. Then he waded out of the bank, covering his bloodstains with mud.

    <hr>

    Kazerus and the crew hoist another cattle inside the slaughterhouse. They work as they''ve always worked, in the business of death.

    Somehow, it feels lonelier. It''s been awhile since Kazerus had talked to anyone outside of his crew. Timo had been gone for several days, and The Scorpion had stopped visiting.

    Rumors had spread, speculating why the witchhunter dropped off the face of the earth. Was he incompentent and abandoned the investigation? He seemed like a seedy fellow anyway; maybe he was a con artist. No, he really did seem to try, and he knew plenty about criminals. He had all that special gear; you can''t get those by scamming. Perhaps he got bribed to ghost the case. Perhaps a fairy abducted him.

    At the gate of the pen, two people are waving. Palatius lumbers over and unlocks the gate for them: the Angel Lane healer who''s slightly taller than the child Timo. Palatius calls from the distance.

    Magess Vantegia introduces herself. Kazerus thought Timo was gone forever, but he¡¯s glad he made it back. Furthermore, this meeting would be inevitable. Samiltus cocks his eyebrows frequently, mentioning his poor posture is due to age, and not because he¡¯s trying to check out her figure within the cloak. The crew conducts the usual pleasantries of receiving a guest--no, I don''t need a place to sit--no, I don''t need water--yes, I''m here for business inquiries as well.

    The physician takes Kazerus aside onto the lawn. Her purple cape matches her violet eyes, concealing her arms. She asks in private, "What can you tell me about Timo?"

    Kazerus ponders for a while. "He''s thoughtful and quiet. He does a good job most of the time." Shocked that he doesn''t know what else to say, his face becomes disconcerted. "He''s a bit hard to read."

    Vantegia lifts an eyebrow. "Explain?"

    "When I first met him, I thought he was a little...behind for a kid his age. He told me that he got bullied." Kazerus shrugs, his apron flapping. "Well, no problem. If he was so desperate to come all the way here, I figured I''d help him.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    "But ya know, it turns out he''s a good hunter. It made my job easier because he was already used to blood and guts." Kazerus laughs a kick, not admitting that he owns something as silly as cat slippers. "But then, kids who are good hunters tend to be popular. At least, I don''t think anyone in their right mind would mess with one."

    Relieved that he had spoken plenty to not seem awkward, Kazerus continues, "Oh, he did mention that his magical abilities are weak. I think ya''re better equipped than me to help him."

    "You think so? Why?"

    Kazerus snorts. Enunciating properly, he says, "You''re a healer. He''s a healer. I''m a butcher." He makes an expression, as if the reasoning is super obvious.

    "Timo isn''t a healer until he''s been inducted."

    Kazerus leaves his mouth agape and taps on his left flexor. "He stitched my arm right up. I almost cried ugly tears when I saw it. If that''s not healing, then I guess my eyes are beyond salvation."

    Vantegia says with a cryptic grin, "That''s impressive. I''ve only just met him, so I haven''t seen his magic yet." She decides not to mention that most people begin to cast healing spells when they''re teenagers. Talent isn¡¯t really a prerequisite for the field of medicine. It could even be a detriment, if a person grows up deciding they''re bored of their talent, when dedication is needed most. But Providence knows, it''s hard to ignore someone with potential!

    "That''s all I got to say. Anything else?"

    She shakes her head and thanks Kazerus for his time, and spends several minutes wandering around the butchery to get a better idea of Timo''s character.

    Arviel saunters around the corner of the slaughterhouse like a chimp, swiping his long arms through the air. "Demand for beef has been high this month. We¡¯re already running low, and none of the veals are ready."

    He and Kazerus walk into the slaughterhouse discussing the shortage. Timo lags behind, and when he crosses the threshold, humidity vanishes, sacks of salt inhaling the moisture.

    A gray dimness lurks inside, shadows tar black. The glowing outlines of hanging carcasses burst into muted colors when the door swings open for brief moments. The voices clang off the cinder blocks, and Timo browses the aisles, sniffing and judging the meats'' progressions.

    Looming from a particular hook, there''s a pinkish-brown veal slab just as tall as him. Peering around to make sure no one''s watching, Timo touches a rib and sends forth his power. The carcass dessicates into a flaking shell, black and green, with the fat and tendons marbling into ghostly butter. What appears dead and lifeless, contains the littlest sparks, the process of decay merely further along the chain in the process of life. He releases his invisible grasp and shakes the dizziness from his head. Loudly, he announces, "This one looks ready."

    Kazerus follows the elevated pitch, where Timo points at the carcass. The butcher bends and bows at his hips, examining the aged beef from various angles. It''s the perfect consistency, but he swears that a fresh one was loaded here a couple days ago. Already getting old and forgetful? Mentally shrugging, he hums, "Deady, ready, in my belly," and rolls over a dolly with a tub. With a great heave-ho, he unhooks the carcass into it, rusted chains creaking and grinding.

    They all step outside, and the dolly bumps over the sill. Loitering along the fence and the cistern, Vantegia cheers at them. Her hand low, she beckons for Timo.

    Arviel nudges the boy with his elbow. When Timo looks up, startled, the butcher swishes his chin in Vantegia''s direction. "Congratulations, you''ve been recognized as a healer''s apprentice. Go on to do the things that I couldn''t."

    Well aware of what he is capable of, Timo¡¯s lips split into a dazzling smile, the cuspid peeking through the gap. "I will."

 Book 2: Clinical Trials (Frontmatter)

    <h1>Medice Lecis</h1>

    I hereby refresh the sacrifice of the Saints, granting us the Spirit of Providence. I swear to hold the Lecis true, and impart integrity to my practice.

    By the legacy of the Naturalist, I shall treat our brethren with care and compassion, my creed to cultivate and to save, and never to harm beyond recovery.

    By the legacy of the Vagrant, I shall pursue innovation, strive to improve in all aspects of character, and impart my wisdom, abhorring stagnation.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    By the legacy of the Arcanist, silent suffering must be kept silent, and I will not divulge the secrets of my charges, nor wield incomplete knowledge against them.

    By the legacy of the Artisan, I shall enjoy creativity, art, and likewise please through the works of my labor, as laughter is a salve for the unlucky.

    May we disdain the mistakes of the Titans, who succumbed to pride in days of old.

    By Providence, may my will align with the divine mandate, and so Numentum ordains me.

    <h1>Map of the Angel Lane Clinic</h1>