I woke to the dull ache of hard work settled deep in my muscles—a souvenir from yesterday's grass-picking adventure. My body was sore, but my mind was bright and focused. I had ten small copper coins jingling in a makeshift pouch, a tiny fortune that represented my first true income in this world. Today, Jess and I were heading out to cut wood, and I was eager to prove my worth as a partner, not just a dependent.
I met Jess in the kitchen as the rest of the household slowly began to stir. Our interaction was minimal, a comfortable silence passing between us as we both prepared. He was already strapping a long, sheathed knife to his belt and checking the head of a hefty woodsman's axe.
"Wood," he simply stated, pointing to the axe and then to the bag of food we'd packed—mostly loaves of the bread I'd bought.
I nodded, the word for wood still escaping me, but the task was clear. This shared quiet, the unspoken understanding of the day's labor, was the new shape of our partnership.
We walked north, leaving the settlement far behind as the sun climbed higher, casting the dense forest in dappled light. Jess was a machine of efficiency, moving through the undergrowth with a quiet, practiced ease.
He eventually stopped before a cluster of large, dark-barked trees whose leaves were the color of deep amber. "Tahong," he muttered, using one of the new, local names I'd yet to learn. The axe in his hands didn't look large, but it clearly possessed a formidable weight, and he carried it as if it were a feather.
The job was immediately and brutally hard.
Jess began to work, his movements economical, powerful swings landing with a rhythmic thwack that sank the blade deep into the trunk. Sweat quickly slicks his dark hair as the tree began to groan.
I took my turn, gripping the axe, feeling the shock of the impact jar all the way up to my shoulders. My swings were clumsy, my aim poor, and the axe barely nicked the hard wood. After ten agonizing minutes, I was panting, and the small notch in the tree was pathetic compared to the deep, satisfying V-shape Jess had created in half the time.
My mind went back to the lakeside. I remembered the children, the relentless effort of pulling the stubborn grass, and the sudden, effortless strength that came immediately after eating the simple bread.
I stopped mid-swing and gestured toward the sack of provisions. "Mangan," I said, pointing to the bread, then to my own chest, and finally to the axe. I needed to try my theory.
Jess raised an eyebrow, clearly confused by the urgency, but he saw my determined look and shrugged, setting down his axe. We sat on a felled log and ate our bread, washing it down with water from our gourds. It was simple, filling, and bland.
When I stood up again and gripped the handle, the axe felt different—not lighter, but more manageable. I swung. The thwack was louder, the blade bit deeper, and the jarring sensation was now focused power, not just uncontrolled impact. I wasn't Jess, but the work was finally possible. The bread, or whatever magic was in this world's version of food, was the key to unlocking strength.
We spent the next few hours working as a unit, taking turns until we had enough timber to fill the sturdy, two-wheeled cart we'd brought. We were just tying down the final logs when a sound ripped through the quiet forest—a loud, guttural snorting and crashing of undergrowth, closer than it should be.
The sound was instantly recognizable from the wanted posters: the Singab, the massive, aggressive wild boar-like creature.
Jess went rigid. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his knife, his eyes darting toward the noise. He turned to me, his face pale with immediate tension. He pointed to the cart, then to a distant, safe direction, and made a cutting motion with his hand—leave the wood and retreat. It was the only rational, safe choice.
But I looked at the neatly stacked wood, the logs we had just bled and ached to collect. I looked at my tired hands, the ten copper coins I was hoping to multiply, and the pride I had found in being a true partner. We couldn't abandon the fruits of our labor.
I shook my head and pointed to the cart. I mimed pushing it onto a narrow, barely visible deer path that branched off to the west. Then, I pulled the slingshot from my pocket.
My mind raced back to the Kabbab hunt—the strategy was not about confrontation, but redirection. I pointed the slingshot toward the noise, then aimed away, in the direction of a thick, impassable thicket. I pantomimed flicking a stone, then pushing the cart quickly.
I was not a hero. I was not strong enough to fight a Singab. But I could be smart enough to protect our assets.
Jess hesitated. He stared from the sounds of the approaching beast to my determined, logical face. He saw the fire of initiative, the refusal to accept a total loss. He gave a sharp, reluctant nod.
The plan was on.
We pushed the heavy cart onto the narrow path, making more noise than I would have liked. The snorting grew louder, closer. I quickly took out the small, rolled-up paper—a basic noise scroll—that Jess used to divert minor pests, loaded it into the leather cup, and launched it high into the air, over the animal's head, but aimed deep into the thicket away from the path.
The scroll let out a sudden, piercing shriek upon landing. The Singab, momentarily startled and confused, redirected its crash toward the noise. We used the precious seconds of distraction to push the cart as fast as we could down the narrow trail, slipping away from the main forest. The plan worked. The sounds of the monster quickly faded into the distance.
We made it back to the town without further incident, delivering the full cartload. The wood buyer, a stern-faced man, was visibly impressed with both the quantity and the clean cuts. He paid Jess a truly significant sum—a handful of silver coins mixed with the usual coppers.
That night, after a shared meal at the orphanage where I felt an even deeper sense of belonging, Jess and I retired to our rooms. He sat on his bed, carefully counting the coins. Then, he looked up at me.
He divided the coins. Instead of the meager portion I expected, he pushed a larger, almost equal share toward me, including a small, valuable silver coin.
He didn't speak the words, but the message was clear. It was a sign of respect for the wood saved, the risk taken, and the logic I had applied. I was no longer just a helper; I was a partner. A true member of this odd, difficult, rewarding world.
A wave of pride washed over me, a more substantial feeling than the coppers I had earned from the grass. I carefully tucked the new coins away. I looked at Jess, who was already lying down and pulling his blanket up, his face softened by sleep. I nodded a quiet thank you that he wouldn't hear, and I lay down on my separate mat.
My body was exhausted, but my mind was alive. This world was a dangerous puzzle, but I was slowly learning its rules—rules of strength, of value, and of survival. I was ready for the next challenge. I closed my eyes, falling into a deep, well-earned sleep.