Life pulsed through the veins of the dilapidated settlement known as the "Village of the Weak." Children darted in every direction, and residents were immersed in their affairs—some engaged in manual labor while others were lost in conversation. The state of the village had transformed entirely from what it had been just a week ago, prior to Harten's arrival.
The scales of existence had shifted from a bitter struggle for mere survival to a serious attempt at improving their reality. At the circular rock table, Harten sat with three others: the old man Morgos, Nora, and a stranger from a neighboring village.
Harten turned to Morgos and commanded in an authoritative tone, "Tell him, old man... we need their village's secret blacksmith. We will barter food or whatever they demand in exchange for his services." While the old man translated for the stranger and engaged him in a heated debate, Harten's mind drifted to Nora's face, seated opposite him. He studied her features closely, sinking once more into thought: "It is her, without a doubt... the resemblance is uncanny, yet the personality gap is vast."
If Harten were to liken the girl he killed in the cave to a shape, he would describe her as a "Fox" or a "Triangle"; she was sharp-tempered, and treachery dwelt in her eyes. Nora, however, was a "Rabbit" or a "Circle"; gentle, calm, clear-contoured without sharp angles, possessing a delicate, innate intelligence. Nora noticed his staring and offered a tender smile, but Harten quickly averted his gaze before their eyes could lock, turning back toward the old man.
Morgos's expression was grim as he spoke: "My boy, it seems they refuse to help. They surround this blacksmith with total secrecy for fear of Kinkepi's brutality; our request strikes at the very heart of their security. He is a demanding man, and they only ask anything of him in extreme necessity to ensure his safety. It's settled—they won't lend a hand."
Harten rested his head in his hands, burdened by thought. "Ugh... if it were up to me, I'd force their obedience at the edge of a sword, but this blacksmith does not fear death, and killing him would be a heavy loss. What do I do now?" A headache began to tear through his skull—a lingering effect of the conversation he had with Arsha a week ago; the conversation that had turned him from a man seeking his own revenge into the "face" of this village.
Harten didn't know how he had slipped into this role, but it seemed the story of the buffalo had made his name echo as a hero who brings prosperity. He thought mockingly: "All this noise for one buffalo? What if I brought a whole herd? Would I be crowned king over these weaklings?" The title didn't matter; what mattered was that the news of him killing the gang leader's soldiers hadn't leaked yet.
Harten had accepted Arsha's help, and their plan began with fortifying the village before "Tax Day" arrived. It wasn't an ordinary day; it was a day from hell. Since the villages had no resources, Kinkepi took humans as payment. Craftsmen and the strong were rare currency, but the lion's share was taken from the women; the beautiful ones were led away as concubines to Kinkepi's palace, while the ordinary ones were left for his soldiers to toy with before being brutally murdered. Nora herself was a survivor from a village burned for mere sport, which was why they had to prepare for the worst.
Snapping out of his whirlpool of thoughts, Harten looked at the old man seriously. "Tell him, Morgos... if they help us, we will be their shield. We will stand at the front line of defense against Kinkepi's convoy when Tax Day arrives. We will protect their village and the rest of the villages along with us."
Harten's motive wasn't love, but geography. This village was the first in the convoy's path due to its proximity to the gang's stronghold. If they stopped them here, they would automatically protect everyone else. He wanted to use this position as leverage, and if they didn't submit, he would use another tactic: "The Exposure." The cunning Arsha had previously scouted the villages and knew the hiding places of the craftsmen and girls. She had intended to use these secrets to get close to Kinkepi before deciding to swap her foolish plan for this alliance.
The old man translated the offer, and the stranger was stunned, beginning to speak with visible agitation. Harten didn't understand the language, but the man's face screamed refusal and fear. The stranger stood to leave, dissatisfied, and Morgos said to Harten, "He refuses. He says this is suicide, and if the soldiers find out, they will all face hell."
At the very moment the stranger prepared to depart, the silence was shattered by a loud cry from a girl coming from behind.
Arsha was racing toward them like a violent gale, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson from running, her breath coming in heavy, labored gasps. She stood before them, eyes flashing with feline fury, shouting sharply: "You outcasts! How dare you begin negotiations before I have arrived?!"
She shot Harten a look laden with blatant reproach for not waiting. Harten pointed coldly toward the old man beside him. "The blame lies with this old man; he claimed you were useless, sharp-tongued, and that your presence would ruin our pursuit... if you doubt me, ask Nora." Nora nodded, confirming Harten's words. Arsha turned to Morgos with a threatening glare: "My reckoning with you will be severe after we settle this matter."
Arsha asked the stranger to wait, and Harten briefed her on the failed negotiations. Arsha turned to the stranger and addressed him in their native tongue with a powerful, grave tone. Silence fell, then the stranger bowed his head after hearing her words and left the village without uttering another syllable. Harten didn't know if that was a sign of success or failure.
Arsha sat down, breathing a sigh of relief. "Finally... some rest."
Harten asked curiously, "What did you say to him?"
She replied while wiping her sweat, "I told him words to wound his pride, hoping it would wake up. I told him life is singular—you either live it at the summit or fight to get there, for death with honor is nobler than a life without meaning. What use is fearing for a life devoid of dignity and food? Here we eat meat; we may die tomorrow, but dying with a full stomach is better than dying hungry with the bitterness of moss in your mouth. I gave him the choice to live as a human or as a piece of filth."
The old man whistled in admiration. "I never knew you possessed such eloquence! But I doubt they will accept unless the blacksmith hears this talk himself. He is a man who seeks pleasure, and the reason he stopped was his hatred for Kinkepi. If he finds a village that meets his needs and respects his art, he will serve it—provided he doesn't fall into the hands of the soldiers. To him, death is easier than serving that thug."
Harten stood up. "Fine... what is the next step?"
Arsha replied, "Fortifying the village with a wall stronger than wood, but this work requires a strength no one possesses but you."
Harten raised an eyebrow. "Even if we bring the timber, who will oversee the construction? We aren't engineers."
Arsha laughed and pointed to the old man. "If they have a blacksmith, we have our own secret... Master Morgos. He is a brilliant engineer. I don't know what he did before coming here, but he is the one who designed these huts despite the lack of resources. Provide him with what he needs, and he will be the supervisor."
Harten looked at the old man, who was pretending to sleep (snoring). Morgos was a baffling enigma, but Harten ignored his questions for now, preoccupied with the "Experiment of Revenge" with Arsha and his desire to know the truth of what he felt in the cave. He postponed his questions until after Kinkepi's demise—which was what he told the old man previously when asked, "Why do you help us when you are a stranger?" Harten had replied, "You will know the answer when Kinkepi dies."
The eccentric old man, whose smile never left his face and who showed no anxiety about facing the gang, was the calmest among them.
"Fine... I'm leaving now." Harten departed, leaving the two girls behind and heading toward the hut that had become his own. The moment he entered, a horrific sensation seized him; shortness of breath, heavy sweat pouring from his body, and the world spinning around him like a hurricane.
"Damn it... what is this? Poison? No... toxins don't affect me. Is it the Chip?" Harten collapsed to the floor, watching the hut spin. He tried to rise, but his legs betrayed him; his lower body was completely paralyzed. He could only move his hands with extreme difficulty. The last thing his eyes beheld before drifting into unconsciousness were the veins in his hands, glowing with a strange green light.
And in the heart of the darkness, a familiar voice emerged from the void... an old voice that brought a sudden sense of tranquility. It was the voice of Joe.
"Am I dying?... I'm starting to hear that bastard's voice."
"No... you won't die."
Harten opened his eyes (or so it seemed to him) to see Joe standing before him in his dignified form.
"Hello... Harten."