BOOM.
The loud, guttural horn blew again. The sound rolled through the air, echoing through the village. It felt like the sound rushing through their skulls, shocking everyone present.
And as if on cue, everyone turned their head towards the gate, not caring about children’s fight anymore.
"The hunters!" someone yelled.
That one word flipped the mood like a switch.
Even Vurok stopped mid-swing, blinking in surprise. The fight, the anger, the insults... all forgotten in a single heartbeat. But Sol wasn’t done. Oh no, not even close.
Before Vurok could even react, Sol moved and crouched down a bit with a swift twist of his hips, and his fist slammed right into Vurok’s gut with a solid, satisfying thud.
Varuk instantly felt the air escaping with a single choking gasp, his face paled and beads of sweat appeared on his face.
Seeing this Sol flashed a satisfied smile and leaned closer and said in a voice only they could hear, "This is just the start. From now on, I’ll make your life worse than death."
Without waiting for his reaction, he flashed a cruel grin and slipped away, mixing between people in a flash.
Vurok stayed frozen, bent over, mouth open but no sound coming out. His face went pale, sweat popping out on his forehead as pain rolled through his stomach in waves.
A couple of his lackeys turned around, confused. They’d missed the whole thing, too busy gawking at the gates like idiots.
"Uh... boss?" one of them asked. "You good? Why you clutchin’ your belly? Wasn’t you the one about to punch him? Where’d that bastard go?"
Vurok’s eyes twitched. He took a shaky breath, trying to look normal but failing miserably. "I... uh... I suddenly gotta shit," he managed, voice cracking halfway through.
They blinked in confusion.
"And that bastard?"
Vurok forced a grin... an ugly twisted kind that looked like his face couldn’t decide whether to cry or fart.
"Of course, ran off with his tail between his legs, that slippery bastard," he wheezed out, voice still shaking from that punch to the gut.
His crew nodded right away, not questioning a thing.
They already had their script for Sol, well, the old Sol... that quiet pushover who always slipped out of reach just fast enough to avoid a real beating. Even though they still always managed to find him and always gave him a good beating to vent their anger and jealousy.
Yeah. A roach. That’s what he’d been. The unkillable kind, but still a damn roach.
They bought Vurok’s bullshit story without blinking. Even patted his shoulder like he was some big man for chasing off the "cripple."
They didn’t question why Vurok was folded over slightly.
They didn’t question where Sol went.
They didn’t question why he sounded like every word scraped his stomach raw.
Thinking wasn’t their strength anyway.
Meanwhile, Sol had already disappeared into the river of cheering villagers, the horn still echoing into his ears. Everyone was feverously looking toward the gates, all smiles and laughter, voices mixing together like a drunk song.
And in that chaos, Sol just kept walking, blending in like smoke.
His heart was still thudding hard though, that kind of hard you get after a fight... that messy, shaky rush when the anger’s still buzzing in your blood. And in two lifetimes it was his first real fight, except getting beaten, he didn’t know why his body just moved instinctively,and more importantly the easy he wanted.
And from the various memories, he knew that it was a stupid move, maybe even suicidal, something he should have never done.
But fuck it.
He’d do it again.
The second that bastard threw that punch, something inside him snapped. Maybe it was the leftover memories from the body... the bruises, the beatings, the humiliation.
Or maybe it was just him, as his old life wasn’t any better, even though he wanted to learn fighting and be like those heroes in movies, but alas, life wasn’t a movie.
Every time something happened he would always be the one to get beaten, even though he tried, really tried to fight back, but life is just a shit show, not caring about your efforts or whims. When he trained enough to fight one bastard, they would bring two, and when he somehow trained to face off two, those motherfuckers would bring a whole gang. Man...He really tried but he really wasn’t some main character and didn’t awaken any power mid fight. So, in the end, the result always remained the same, him getting beaten up.
Slowly as he grew up, he made peace with the fact that he was just extra in this world, so he was...
Always quiet.
Always shrinking.
Always hoping someone else would step in and fix the shit.
But...no more.
If this world wanted to test him, he’d hit back.
If this place wanted to kill him, he’d bite its throat first.
He didn’t care if it was stupid.
He didn’t care if Vurok came swinging tomorrow with his whole family behind him.
He wasn’t living like a coward again.
He didn’t care what the reason was anymore.
He’d been through that whole cycle already ... the quiet humiliation, the swallowing of anger, the pretending it didn’t bother him. And for what?
To keep "peace"?
To "avoid trouble"?
Yeah, screw that. Trouble always comes anyway. Might as well swing first.
So yeah, maybe it wasn’t smart to hit Vurok.
Maybe it was the dumbest thing he could’ve done right now.
But he felt alive. Really alive.
And that alone made it worth it.
He spat to the side, still half-grinning, half-fuming. "Whatever happens, happens," he muttered under his breath. "Anyway, ain’t dying a coward again."
The horn blasted again, this time much longer and deeper.
The kind of sound that crawled into bone and made everyone freeze for a heartbeat before exploding into cheers.
Faint sound of footsteps and something being dragged was heard, all of the tribe looked towards the gate with a mix of hope and dread, as the guards rushed forward to open the gate.
The hunters were finally back.
He also paused, and looked toward the massive wooden gate ahead,its logs carved with the tribe’s old scars and victories... and the same one that kept the wilderness out and their fragile little world safe.