A perfect spot for new training, I thought as I looked around with satisfaction. Too bad it's far from the village—I won't be able to come here often. And it's beyond the safety zone around our settlement. Not the nearly bare sand encircling the village, but that vast imagined ring where anything edible was hunted to extinction years ago. Except for small quyrgals, quartiks, and sand rats. All herbs of the Ancients that absorbed the energy of the world have long been dug up here too. If there's nothing to eat, there's no reason for predators to linger. And if the strengthening herbs are gone, even Beasts won't waste time. But I'm now almost half an hour past that mental border—and that's in a season of abundance. Right now, it's peak heat: all the Wasteland's grass is yellowed and dried. A jackal—or worse—could easily be lured in by a fat quyrgal and stray into the ruins. Better stay alert. Not Black Mountain territory, but close.
Long ago, if the printers from Frosted Ridge are to be believed, 366 years back, a colossal bridge stood here—connecting two halves of an Ancient city across the river. Not much of the city remained on the day of its demise. But the bridge was tougher. It survived the solar flame that swept this land and only began to crumble decades later. Unlike other structures that disintegrated into rubble, this one shattered into massive fragments—preserving at least half its original bulk. Now, dressed in foaming currents, its black remains protrude from the water.
In three months, I'd tried all kinds of odd and outright insane things that came to mind. I carried buckets on my forearms and neck—only when the overseers were Porto or Larg, who paid me no attention. Around them, I acted normal. I scrubbed myself with sand twice a day; at first, when blood surfaced, I feared infection from the scratches. I built a bed of jagged stones in my hideout, lying there for hours on days I searched for rocks. I whipped myself with thorn branches and stabbed myself with acacia spines—every home has those. But it wasn't enough anymore. My body had grown strong enough to ignore such torment—reclassifying it as minor nuisance. These days I could easily harvest acacia blooms for Leila without earning a single scratch. And today, I came to test a new method.
I spent a good hour scouting the area and setting up. I'd prepared a solid length of rope, acquired via Rat. Our relationship improved after that flower-gathering trip. Last time, I gave him three of my prime stone bundles, and he spent his work credit on this rope, claiming it was for himself. Lately, he'd earned a reputation as a lucky stone collector—but each time someone praised him, he just winced. No one knew better than him whose glory it really was.
Normally, those who surpassed the fourth star were released from children's labor and granted apprentice status in the hunting teams. Porto overseeing irrigation only made sense—he was on rest duty: half a day on village work, half-day off. Me? I was certain I'd hit star five, but still collected rocks. With my new strength, speed, and stamina, I barely expended effort scouring the riverside ruins—easily climbing upper levels others couldn't reach. I'd claimed massive caches built up over the years while kids mined the leftovers. I turned them into several secret depots. Now, every two weeks I scout new spots. The rest of the time I draw from reserves, always delivering just below my quota. Rat, though, often overshoots—because through him I've acquired a new soft-leather shirt to replace my shredded jute one, a gourd flask always waiting in my hideout, and this very rope. He's even begun to suspect I know some wondrous secret—like a method to destroy Ancient walls. He no longer believes my tale about simply being a lucky rock-hunter. I had to sell him a new story: that I found a miraculous room where every wall crumbled into good stone. He still doubts.
I started anchoring my safety rope. Interesting… I bent close to a pile of stone fragments at the edge of a giant slab and uncovered something more like a colossal desert acacia thorn than a rock shard. What a find! It's almost the size of Father's dagger. Seems I was wrong about the bridge breaking into clean chunks. I tossed the shard atop my clothes pile—not bringing it to the village. Glad this thorn waited for me.
I made my way across the bridge remains as far as I could. Before I'd trained my dexterity scaling the ruin rooftops, I doubt I'd have reached this crevice. It was wide—too wide for even a fifth star like me to leap across. And at the bottom of this stone maw stood a lone tooth. The river, squeezed into this sudden narrows, surged with rage—slamming into that obstacle. I'd borrow its fury for my training.
One last jump put me atop the "tooth," and after hesitating, I slid into the water. Perfect! I'd feared dangling on the rope like bait—but no. The stone beneath the surface resembled a stepped pyramid. The first tier put me waist-deep; a second step took me up to my neck. I braced my back against the stone, spat out the water that hit my face, and grinned: this would be an interesting session.
The water struck me, changing direction constantly—trying to rip me from the rock, flip me, break this new resistance to its flow. It took real effort not just to withstand it, but to keep the image of incoming energy clear in my mind. One odd thing: the blue threads, appearing in the water, seemed brighter than usual. Strange.
My first water training didn't last long. Even as I cheated a little—leaning into the rock to save strength—it still wore me down. After fifteen minutes, my legs shook and buckled. Enough, I decided. This was becoming endurance training. I grabbed the rope and started climbing out.
But just as I rose one height above the surface—I fell back in.
"What the darss!" was all I managed before the river slammed me into the stone, pulled me from the crevice, and hurled me downstream.
Took ten minutes of walking the bank before I found a place to climb ashore. Once out, I assessed the bruises—and sighed. The return run to the bridge ruins would be memorable. At least twenty minutes of cautious movement.
I shook my head and realized: I really didn't need villagers gossiping that the outcast had gone wild and now ran the Wasteland naked. Thankfully, as I'd hoped, no hunters had wandered into the riverside ruins—so my sprint remained secret.
As for the fall? Rookie mistake.
The rope had frayed against an edge sharp as a blade. Lesson learned.
Measuring out three quarters of the basic stone quota from my secret stash—still twenty kilograms—I trudged home, exhausted. My battered arm throbbed, my scraped flank burned. I didn't want to imagine what would've happened to me without my tempered body. My legs trembled and barely carried me over the jagged remains of the Ancients' black city. So I sighed with relief when those cursed ruins finally gave way to familiar white sand scattered with pale boulders and clumps of dried grass.
Feeling slightly revived at the sight of the approaching village, I tried to imagine what these boulders might have been hundreds of years ago. And then something hit me. Hard. I crashed to the ground, skull against earth.
"I thought it was some bloated darss gorging himself in the Wasteland," came the voice I hated most, while I groaned and fumbled my way out from under the sack. "Figured I'd knock him down, kick him back to the village, and brag to the senior hunters about my rare trophy. But I was wrong—or was I?"
"At first I thought so too, boss," came Skirto's squawking laugh—another voice I could recognize even in pitch darkness. "But now that he's hit the dust, you know what I noticed, boss?"
"Tell us, Skirto," drawled Virgl, stretching out every syllable like this was some kind of performance. Their darss routine again. Looks like I was about to face that trial I used to fear so much. Would I hold the line, or break? It's been half a year since I landed in a situation like this. But everything's changed since then—especially my Ascension.
"I don't think it's got hooves, boss," Skirto laughed manically at his pathetic joke.
"Really?"
I finally managed to roll over and looked up at Virgl's scornful grin. He loomed over me like a younger sibling of the cliff behind him. Tall, legs wide apart in his broad mecherog leather pants, muscular arms on full display through an expensive sleeveless tunic with a spiral trim around the collar.
"What else?"
"Well, boss… it's too clean. Doesn't stink."
I sat up and glanced around, searching for any chance to escape the circle they'd closed around me. For the weakling I had to play now, that wasn't going to happen. They were just four, but even that was too much.
"Strange darss," Virgl muttered, squinting his black eyes like he was staring into the sun. "Why so quiet, Porto?"
"You got it wrong, boss. It's Legrad."
That—I hadn't expected.
"I'm wrong?" Virgl turned to the brute slowly, thumbed his belt made from mocker-hide.
"Yes, boss," Porto said calmly. I was grateful—though I couldn't fathom why he was defying orders.
"But if I'm wrong, what kind of boss am I?" Virgl's voice turned smooth, almost whispering. "I don't hear you."
"No, boss! You're always the boss!" they all chorused.
"No, no! Don't butter me up! I made a mistake! So now what?" Virgl's eyes scanned his henchmen. Porto's unexpected defiance hadn't derailed his little play.
"Boss! Boss!" Skirto hopped and squealed—his contortions made my blood boil. "I know what to do, boss!"
"Tell us, Skirto," Virgl smiled with almost childlike joy. He seemed to adore the groveling. Disgusting. I glanced at the pitiful fuzz of his first whiskers and sneered.
"I say we fix this broken darss," Skirto declared proudly, finger raised like he'd solved a riddle.
"Idiots!" I spat through clenched teeth, unable to sit quietly any longer, desperate to throw my hatred in their smug faces.
"Boss, it talks!" Skirto yelled with glee.
"That's wrong, too," Virgl sighed like he was disappointed and turned to Porto again. "Fix that, Porto."
"I can't, boss," Porto said, hands raised. "We're three stars apart. I might kill him."
"Fine," Virgl hissed, eyes narrow. "Too early to kill. But you've let me down, Porto. Looks like you'll need extra training. With me... Skirto!"
"Yes, boss!" Skirto shrieked, sprang at me, and began kicking.
I wrapped my arms around my head. Thankfully, everyone in the village wore light lizard-skin moccasins. If they'd been wearing combat boots like the guards in Arroyo that Mom once described—I'd be in real trouble. This was tolerable. Hurts most when it hits my bruised arm.
Good thing I'd hardened my body.
"Skirto, darsses don't talk," Virgl reminded him, his feet practically beside my face.
"Not anymore!" Skirto wheezed, struggling to punch through my defense. Pathetic. How did this coward ever earn four stars? Already breathless. "Take that! And that!"
"Trash, you can keep squirming in the sand, but I'm getting tired. Lower your arms. Accept your fate. Take a hit from the weakest among us. Otherwise... Porto might refuse again—but Shigo won't. He'd gladly replace Skirto. And then you might actually die. Want to gamble your luck?"
Two trials in one day.
Still, who's the real trash—if not those who gang up to humiliate the weak? I was still weak next to Virgl's raw power. But the gap was smaller now. I covered in five months what took them years. A few more steps—and I'll surpass them. I'd already begun climbing that slope—the one that'll carry me out of this village and leave the real filth behind.
All of them.
And so I lowered my arms, accepted the trial, and stared into Skirto's eyes—gray like mine.
"Trash! Stinking garbage! Fat darss!" Skirto yelled, working himself into a frenzy as he pummeled my face and head. The Wasteland around me blurred into a whirl of light and shadow. I couldn't tell who was where. It all melted together.
"Enough, or you'll break our toy," Virgl finally said, amused. "Now let's send this darss back to the muck he crawled out of. Porto—go on. Or will you object again?"
"No, boss," Porto's shaky bass came without delay, and the next moment filth splashed down over me—putrid and vile. The stench hit my spinning head so hard, I threw up.
"Now that's better!" Virgl declared, pleased. "Trash, can you hear me? For the past few months you've strutted around like you own the place. I don't like seeing scum like you—reek of jeyr dung, fail your quotas, despised by hunters—walk through our village like it's yours. I finally found time to fix that. Listen. If I see you raise your eyes off the ground again—you'll eat it. I like how you look now. If I see you clean again, you'll go back into the muck. That fancy leather tunic? Too good for you. Wear your old jute. And don't patch it. Trash should wear rags. Remember that. Got it, scum?"
"Got it," I croaked through split lips and blood.
And lay alone in the sand.