Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Experiment of Revenge
In front of the entrance to the "Village of the Weak," Harten continued his countdown with a coldness that mirrored the stillness of death. "One... two..." Arsha's features began to dissolve in pure terror. She screamed hysterically, "Harten, stop! I didn't summon anyone! You know we are oppressed—we hate them! Why would I call them when I haven't seen a soul bring us real food in ages?"
Harten continued like a machine: "Three..."
"Stop, please! You won't kill me without proof!"
"Four..."
Arsha's face froze; she fell silent, realizing that words could not penetrate the wall of ice in his eyes. "Five." Harten stepped forward, the ivory blade glinting with a lethal shimmer. Arsha was paralyzed, her thoughts racing: "Am I going to die here? I haven't achieved anything yet... Escape is impossible!" Harten reached out, and she closed her eyes, surrendering to the slaughter... but the pain never came.
She heard a heavy thud. Opening her eyes cautiously, she found Harten sprawled on the ground. The body that had been a killing machine seconds ago was now a lifeless husk, overtaken by a sudden blackout. Arsha didn't hesitate; she saw his collapse as a golden opportunity. "If I kill him now, I'll be the hero who saved the village from the foreign aggressor, and I'll win favor with Kinkepi!" She reached for the ivory dagger, but a familiar voice made her heart skip a beat: "Arsha... where are you?"
It was her teacher, the old man. She tried to hasten the strike before his arrival, but more words froze her in place: "What are you doing, Arsha?" She turned to find Nora standing behind her—Nora, who lived up to her name ("Light"), with her delicate features, fair skin, and eyes that shimmered like stars in the savanna night.
Arsha panicked. "Nothing... I was checking on Harten after he took down five soldiers." Nora gasped in concern, "Soldiers? A fight?" At that moment, the voice of the old man, Morgos, rang out: "My God! What are these corpses?" When Nora saw the blood, she collapsed, nearly retching up the remains of the moss in her stomach. She asked in a trembling voice, "Who... who did this?"
Arsha pointed to the unconscious Harten. The old man approached, his face as dark as the savanna night. "What exactly happened here?" Arsha considered twisting the truth to paint Harten as a reckless aggressor, but she knew Morgos's cunning would uncover her secret attraction to Kinkepi's power. She said shakily, "I was nearby... I heard the soldiers. It wasn't tax time, but they tried to take the buffalo by force. One of them spat on him... and in seconds, he killed them all."
The old man's face hardened. "Killed them? Heaven help us... how will we handle this?" Then, with startling speed, his expression shifted into a devious smile. "Arsha... Nora... dig a large pit now. I'll take Harten into the village to rest." Arsha was bewildered. "Rest? After all this trouble?" The old man replied sarcastically, "What trouble? The man brought us meat and collapsed from exhaustion. As for the soldiers... they never came. Perhaps a lion ate them, or the earth swallowed them whole." Arsha asked in astonishment, "What is wrong with you, Master Morgos?" He answered as he dragged Harten away, "Nothing... I'm just tired of eating moss, and I don't want to die with the taste of filthy plants in my mouth."
Harten opened his eyes to find himself under the same thatched roof. "Damn this Chip." He raised his body with difficulty, only to be struck by the aroma of roasting meat. "My meat... my food!" He ran out, thinking the villagers would devour his hard work. Instead, he found them in a long queue, joy filling their faces as they received portions of grilled meat.
He was about to shout at them, but a small hand gripped his. It was the same little girl, uttering unintelligible words while smiling. Nora appeared and took the child, then looked at Harten and said in a low voice, "Thank you." Harten was stunned; he didn't grasp the utility of the word. Nora continued, "She came to thank you for the meat."
Morgos called out, "Harten! Come and eat!" The old man shouted words in the village tongue, and everyone erupted into cheers, celebrating Harten. In that moment, a strange sensation washed over Harten's body—gentle yet terrifying. It reminded him of the feeling he had in the cave with the girl he killed. He shook his head violently to dispel the memory and sat beside Morgos, who handed him a wooden plate piled with meat. "Eat and think of nothing... nothing happened today," Morgos said with a knowing wink.
While everyone celebrated, Harten was perplexed. The years of isolation and the Chip's manipulation of his memory had damaged his ability to understand or express emotions. His eyes searched for someone missing. "Where is Arsha, old man?" Morgos replied, chewing the meat with relish, "I don't know... she vanished after the buffalo was slaughtered."
Harten felt that something was wrong—something that would shake his stability. He set down the plate and stood up abruptly. "Where to?" the old man called. "There's more!" Harten didn't look back. "I've had enough. I have work to do." He set off into the darkness of the night to find Arsha; it was impossible for the soldiers to have appeared by coincidence without a betrayal.
He saw a massive tree outside the village.
Harten approached the tree with measured steps, wrapped in the pride of his strength. After a period of rest and a hearty meal, he felt his body had become invincible, reaching a state of physical superiority far beyond what he possessed when he crushed the five soldiers. His movement stilled when Arsha's voice pierced the nightly silence from above the branches:
"I see you've come to finish me off?"
Harten replied with cutting indifference: "Kill you? Perhaps... but before that, I want to understand why you didn't flee."
She answered with bitterness and despair, "Flee to where? There is no sanctuary in this wasteland. I either fall by your hand, perish in the claws of lions, or die of hunger and thirst."
Harten scrutinized her answer with a suspicious gaze. "Weren't you part of the Kinkepi clique? If you loathe him so much, why summon his men?"
She turned to him, eyes flashing with resentment. "I am no follower of that tyrant—don't you dare brand me with that shame! I am the one who harbors the most hatred for him; I loathe his tyranny with every fiber of my being. I chose to die in my wretched village rather than submit to him." She continued weakly, bowing her head, "It was folly to think I could use you, a stranger who poses a threat to his sovereignty. I wanted to draw his attention so I could deliver a treacherous blow and kill him... but when I saw with my own eyes how you annihilate soldiers without the lethal tools he possesses, I realized the reality of my helplessness. I knew my patience would run out before I reached him, and I could not endure becoming a concubine in his palace."
Harten eyed her with disdain, his response laced with cruelty: "What a childish, naive plan—it doesn't even qualify as a strategy. Your lack of patience is nothing but pure stupidity if you truly intend to kill. It seems your motive is nothing more than hollow spite, born from the depths of your weakness."
He raised his hand, gripping the ivory dagger, and as he prepared to strike, she screamed in his face: "My goal in killing him is REVENGE!"
Harten froze instantly, as if the word had struck a chord in his very soul. His eyes gleamed with a strange curiosity, and he uttered the word slowly, as if tasting it for the first time: "Re-venge?"
He lowered his hand and peered into her face, questioning, "And what exactly is this 'revenge'?"
She looked at him with a mix of shock and contempt. "Are you truly an idiot? Revenge is reclaiming your stolen rights from a brutal oppressor. The greater the value of what you've lost, the more ferocious and deep the revenge becomes... It is the fuel that burns in your chest to keep you alive! That is why I wanted Kinkepi's head; he slaughtered my family just to pass the time and satisfy his whims."
Harten contemplated her with cold eyes. He wasn't moved by pity, but by the desire to discover the essence of this feeling. "So, this is revenge? No... I don't think so. Perhaps it's just a shell. I want to witness the end. I want to know what becomes of you when you achieve your goal of vengeance." He added with a tone that brooked no argument: "I will lend you a hand in this revenge. But don't you dare think I'm doing it out of mercy for you; I am merely a curious observer awaiting the results of his experiment—to see if you will triumph or be shattered."