Everyone in the village had a right to meat. It was the oldest rule of the tribe. If you were part of the Osari, you ate. No one could deny it—not even the Tribal Chief, let alone a petty bully. Otherwise there would be no reason for tribe to exist, everyone did their own share of work for tribe and in exchange they got food and safety, that’s how the system work in this savage world
So, Sol didn’t feel anxious. He just stared ahead with cold, calculating eyes, waiting to see what kind of shit they were going to stir.
When his turn finally came, most of the crowd had dispersed to their huts to feast. The group of boys who hung around Vurok like flies on a wound had already secured the best remaining chunks.
The old man in charge of distributing...a withered elder with cloudy eyes...waved Sol forward with a dismissive hand.
"Your turn," he muttered, tired and done with this day.
Sol stepped up, ignoring the fatigue on the old man’s face, though his chest was already burning with a low, steady anger.
Immediately, Vurok stepped in front of him, blocking the path to the meat. He stood with a heavy hand on his chest, smirking like a dog sniffing something rotten.
"Well, well," Vurok drawled, his voice loud enough for the lingering crowd to hear. "Look who crawled out of bed to beg."
Snickers erupted from the lackeys standing in the shadows behind him.
Sol didn’t move the hand off his chest. He didn’t shove back. He just looked at the hand, then slowly lifted his gaze to Vurok’s face. He stared him dead in the eyes with an intense, silent warning...a look that didn’t belong to a crippled boy, but to a predator.
Seeing this look, Vurok couldn’t help but flinch. The memory of that earlier punch flashed through his mind...the shock, the pain. He coughed awkwardly and instinctively removed his hand himself, stepping back half an inch.
But the moment he did, he realized what he had done. His face flushed red. He remembered his status, his size, and his audience. Anger surged back, hotter than before. He couldn’t believe he had just been scared by a cripple.
Sol didn’t care much about his internal conflict. He had already died once; he didn’t give a damn about dying again.
"I’m here for my share," Sol said coldly.
"Share?" Vurok barked out an angry laugh, desperate to regain face, looking around at his friends. "What share? There’s nothing left."
Sol shifted his gaze to the old distributor, expecting the elder to intervene and uphold the law. But the old man just coughed awkwardly and turned his gaze away, pretending to be suddenly fascinated by the edge of his obsidian knife.
Sol lifted a brow. He pointed a stiff finger past Vurok’s shoulder, directly at the pile of remaining flesh.
"Then what is that?"
"Oh... Those are for storage," Vurok snapped immediately, the lie coming out smooth as if he’d rehearsed it. "Winter’s coming. Everyone knows that. We have to stock up."
Sol stared at the pile. There were still decent chunks there...leg muscles, some ribs with fat still clinging to them. Nothing huge, but definitely meat. And he didn’t buy the excuse for a second. Winter was still months away. The tribe never started preserving this early in the season.
"Everyone in the tribe has a right to meat," Sol said, his voice dropping an octave, pronouncing every syllable like a hammer hitting stone. "It. Is. The. Law."
"Oh... is there?" Vurok tapped his chin, feigning deep thought. "Let me think. Oh, now that I think about it, you’re right! There really is."
Vurok’s face suddenly twisted into a sneer.
"But what can we do? You have to think about the tribe. The hunters hunted with so much effort, risking their lives. We can’t waste good meat on waste like you."
Hearing this, the lackeys behind him started laughing loudly, making various mocking noises. They chimed in, eager to please their leader.
"Yeah, right!" one shouted. "My father almost died hunting that beast! Why should you eat his kill?"
"Go eat grass, just like the bastard you are, cripple!" another jeered.
"Feeding him is like throwing meat into a swamp...useless!"
"You can’t even lift a spear, why do you need muscle?"
Sol turned to look at them one by one. They were all the children of hunters or elders, young men being trained as the next generation of warriors. They reeked of arrogance and unearned pride.
He then turned around to look at the few remaining villagers still hovering nearby. Wherever his gaze went, they turned their heads away, suddenly interested in the dust or the sky, acting as if they hadn’t seen or heard any of this injustice.
Seeing this, Sol couldn’t help but laugh. A short, cold sound.
He knew from the previous Sol’s memories that he was ostracized, but he didn’t expect the rot to be this deep. The whole tribe was complicit.
"What are you laughing at like a madman?" The laugh ticked Vurok’s nerves. He stepped forward aggressively, raising a fist, but then the phantom pain of his jaw stopped him. He awkwardly stepped back again, unsure.
Sol stopped laughing. His face went deadpan.
"I. AM. HERE. FOR. MY. SHARE."
He didn’t shout. He just stated it as an absolute fact. Then, he looked at the old man again. This time, the intensity in Sol’s eyes was too much to ignore.
The old man, feeling the pressure of that gaze, couldn’t help but cough loudly toward Vurok’s direction, a subtle signal to just end this.
Vurok understood the signal. Give him something to make him leave.
"Okay, okay," Vurok sneered. "You want your share? I will give you your share."
Saying this, he bent down, rummaging through the dirt near the bottom of the pile. He bypassed the good meat, digging until his hand found something discarded. He stood back up, grinning, and shoved something wet and slimy into Sol’s hand.
It was a piece of connective tissue attached to a shattered shard of bone. Gray, tough, covered in dust and hair. It was barely edible even for the dogs.
"There," Vurok said smugly, wiping his greasy hands on his furs. "Your share. Now get lost."