Oru stood over the carcass of the juvenile Spear-Cat, his obsidian spear tip lowered but his eyes filled with a heavy, searching weight. He looked at the jagged wooden stake Mark had used and then at the boy sitting in the mud.
"You killed a juvenile with a piece of rotted wood," Oru said. "Either the spirits are laughing today or you are something more dangerous than a scavenger."
"I am just someone who preferred the cat to be dead instead of me," Mark replied. He felt the cold sting of the Basic Antitoxin skill numbing his shoulder, though his heart was still racing. 'If I look too strong, he might kill me now. If I look too weak, I am useless.'
Kael stepped closer, her eyes scanning Mark's shoulder where the grey, puckered skin was already dry. "The venom spike hit you. I saw it. Why are you still breathing, pale one? Most men would be a cold corpse by now."
"My people have a high tolerance for toxins," Mark said. He leaned on a nearby root to force himself up. "We spent many generations in the Salt. We learned to survive what others could not."
"Liar," Kael whispered, a smirk playing on her lips.
Torin, the barrel-chested hunter, stepped forward and hauled the heavy cat onto his shoulders. "We shouldn't stay. The smell of blood will bring the older ones. Move."
The trek back to the settlement was a gauntlet of silence. Mark walked in the middle of the line, his 12 Cognition working overtime. He analyzed every step Torin took, every flicker of Kael's eyes. 'The points are gone, spent on survival. I have five left. I am at the bottom, but my value to them has changed.'
As they approached the sharpened stakes of the perimeter, the guards atop the platforms shouted down.
"Torin! What is that?" a guard named Harl shouted.
"Meat for the fire!" Torin barked back. "And a story for the Elder!"
They entered the gate, and the atmosphere in the village shifted instantly. It was a cluster of mud huts and hide tents, smelling of smoke and old grease. Mothers held their children back, and older hunters stepped out of their huts, their hands resting on stone knives.
"Where did a boy like that find a Spear-Cat?" Harl asked as he climbed down, his eyes narrowing at Mark. "Did you find it already dead, boy? Or did you steal it from a real hunter's trap?"
"I don't steal," Mark said, stopping in the center of the clearing. "I trade. The cat wanted my life, so I took its instead. It was a fair exchange."
A tall woman named Gara pushed through the small crowd. She was a tanner, her skin stained dark and smelling of bitter bark. She looked at the cat and then spat in the dirt near Mark's feet.
"My son died in the Wash two moons ago," Gara said. Her voice was shaking with repressed rage. "He was a hunter. He had a spear. You look like a ghost that the wind should have blown away. Tell us, Salt-boy. Where do you truly come from? No ghost-tribe lives in the flats. Are you a scout for the mountain-kings?"
The crowd pressed in, the word scout turning their curiosity into something much sharper.
"My home was far beyond the Salt," Mark said, projecting his voice so even those in the back could hear. "A place where we didn't hunt with spears, but with minds. My people are gone, betrayed and slaughtered. I am no scout. I am the last of a line that knows how to survive. If I were a scout for kings, would I be standing here in rags, eating your scraps?"
"He has a tongue as sharp as a crawler's tooth," Oru interrupted, stepping between Mark and Gara. "That is enough. Gara, go back to your hides. Harl, get back to the gate. The boy is a guest of the hunt tonight."
Oru turned to Mark, his eyes hard. "Tonight you eat. Tomorrow, you will be introduced to the tribe properly. We will see if the Elder thinks your mind is worth the meat you consume."
Kael led Mark away from the prying eyes, toward a small, isolated hut near the cliff's edge. She didn't speak until they were inside.
"You speak well for a dying boy," Kael said. She reached into a pouch at her hip and pulled out a dagger. It was made from a translucent green fang, the hilt wrapped in fine leather. "Take this."
Mark took the weapon, feeling the balance. 'System, what is this?'
Item Acquired: Venom-Gland Dagger
Interaction Log: Kael has initiated a Debt of Blood.
"A gift?" Mark asked, testing the edge.
"Nothing is a gift," Kael said, her voice dropping to a low hum. "It is a debt. The Red-Sun ritual is coming. The other tribes will be there. They will see a weak boy and think our tribe is failing. You will use that dagger to show them they are wrong. If you do, the debt is paid. If you fail, I will take the tooth back from your cold ribs."
"I prefer to keep my ribs intact," Mark said.
"Then rest," Kael said, her eyes lingering on his for a second too long. "Jace will bring you broth. Don't leave the hut. Some of the hunters are looking for an excuse to see if you bleed as easily as you talk."
She left, and a few minutes later, Jace slipped inside with a wooden bowl. The boy sat on the dirt floor, staring at Mark with wide eyes.
"Is it true?" Jace whispered. "Did you really kill it with just a branch?"
"The branch did the work, Jace. I just chose the moment," Mark said, sipping the bitter broth. "Tell me about the Red-Sun. Why is everyone so afraid of it?"
"It's the great trade," Jace said. "But it is also where the tribes settle their blood-debts. If we don't bring a great tribute, the mountain-kings will take our best hunters as slaves. Oru is worried because we haven't found a Grade-2 beast in weeks."
'A Grade-2 beast core would be worth a fortune in points,' Mark thought. 'But the system isn't giving me any tasks yet. I have to find a way to earn those points myself.'
"Jace, do you know where the tracks are?" Mark asked.
"The Grade-2s?" Jace turned pale. "They stay in the Deep Shadow. Even Oru doesn't go there without ten men."
"Then tomorrow, you and I are going to do some scouting," Mark said.
"You're either a genius or you're going to get us both killed," Jace muttered.
"In this world, Jace, there isn't much difference," Mark replied.
He leaned back against the mud wall, his mind already mapping out the variables. He was at five points, his body was aching, and a whole village was waiting for him to fail. But he had a weapon now, and he had a voice.
'I need to reach fifty points. One stat point won't make me a god, but it might make me fast enough to survive the Red-Sun.'
He looked at the green-fang dagger and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the village outside. The ritual was coming, and he was still a substandard human. He needed to change that, or the next exchange would be his life.