Chương 239: Chapter : 239

From the far side of the village, a figure emerged from one of the huts. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with deep brown skin and weary eyes. He moved with the careful deliberation of a man whose body had been pushed far beyond its limits. His hand gripped a long spear with a carved rabbit's head at the base of the blade. Chief Paul Dimitri. The last spark of resistance had survived the darkness. He walked toward the 13th Unit, his purple-free eyes taking in everything. The destroyed skeleton.

The unconscious cultists. The freed villagers. And the strange, lazy boy who was yawning in the middle of it all.

"You saved my people," Paul said. His voice was rough and cracked, but it carried the weight of a chief's gratitude.

"All of them. From the darkness of Black Magic. I do not know how to thank you." Iris stepped forward.

"You do not need to thank us. We came here for a reason. We need your help." Paul nodded slowly.

"I know. I could hear everything, even through the control. Like a man watching from behind his own eyes. I know you are looking for the Glayin deer." His eyes moved to Ken for just a moment, then away.

"And I know where it is."

Chief Paul Dimitri stood at the edge of the village, his spear planted in the soft earth beside him. The first light of dawn filtered through the canopy, painting the leaves in shades of gold and amber. The air was cool and wet, heavy with the smell of rain-soaked soil and jungle flowers. It was the most beautiful morning Paul had ever seen, because it was the first morning in days that he was truly himself. The skeleton control was gone. The purple glow had vanished from his eyes. His hands were his own again.

The freed villagers were beginning to stir. Some ate the rations the 13th Unit had shared. Others sat in the morning light, letting the warmth remind them the nightmare was over. A few older warriors already patrolled the perimeter, their instincts sharp. The Dimitri tribe was tough. They would survive this. Princess Iris approached Paul as the sun climbed higher. She looked exhausted, the battle and the corruption wave having drained her.

But her violet eyes were clear and focused, fixed on the chief with a calm determination that belied her young age. Chief Paul, you mentioned last night that you know where the Glayin deer is. Can you tell us? Our friend is dying from Blue Decay, and the Glayin horn is the only cure. Paul studied the princess for a long moment. She was small, barely reaching his shoulder. Her dress was torn and dirty. She looked like a child playing dress-up in a war zone. But her eyes were not the eyes of a child.

They were the eyes of someone who had faced impossible odds and refused to look away. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. The Glayin is sacred to my people, Paul said slowly. We have protected its secret for generations. It is not a creature to be hunted or harvested. It is a guardian of the deep jungle, a living embodiment of the forest spirit. To take its horn would be a violation of the oldest pact between the Dimitri and the wild. Iris swallowed hard.

She had expected this. She had rehearsed her response during the long, sleepless hours of the night. But hearing the words from a man whose people had nearly been destroyed made the weight of her request feel almost unbearable. I understand. I do not ask lightly. But our friend Luna is only sixteen years old. She is lying on a bed right now, with blue poison crawling through her veins. In a few days she will die. The Glayin horn is her only chance. I am not asking you to break your pact.

I am asking you to save a life. Paul closed his eyes. He thought of his own children, their eyes glowing purple, their hands forced to carry stones. He thought of how it felt to be a prisoner in his own body, watching as his hands obeyed someone else commands. And then he thought of a girl he had never met. A sixteen-year-old dying alone in some faraway room, waiting for a cure that might never come. A girl who simply wanted to live. I will take you to the Glayin, Paul said. His voice was quiet but firm.

But I will not help you take its horn by force. The Glayin must give it freely. If it refuses, you must accept that. The pact is older than my tribe. Older than the empire. I will not break it, even to save a life. Iris nodded. That is all I ask. Paul called out in the old tongue of the Dimitri, a dialect that predated the Belmontia Empire by centuries. Two warriors emerged from the village, both tall and broad, their faces painted with green and brown markings. These are my best trackers, Rako and Tima.

They will guide you to the sacred waterfall. But beyond the waterfall, only I may go. Sayma was consulting her copied pages from Hephaestus library. Laxmi stretched and shadow-boxed, her bruised shoulder wrapped in a bandage. Zinia checked the earthen barrier. Ira stood motionless near the jungle edge, scanning the trees. And then there was Ken. He was sitting on the ground with his back against a hut, his eyes half-closed. A thin line of drool made its way down his chin.

His cheap suit was so dirty and torn it barely qualified as clothing. One shoe had a hole in the toe, his sock poking through like a tiny white flag of surrender. Do we really have to bring him? Naomi asked Iris quietly, jerking her thumb toward Ken. He looks like he might actually be dead. He survived the corruption wave, the skeleton warrior, and the jungle, Iris said with a tired smile. Ken is tougher than he looks. Naomi muttered something that sounded like that is not saying much. But she did not argue.

The group set out an hour after dawn. Chief Paul led the way, his spear on his shoulder, his long strides eating up the jungle floor with practiced ease. Rako and Tima moved through the undergrowth like shadows, their painted faces blending with the dappled light. Then came Iris, Sayma, and Naomi. Laxmi, Zinia, and Ira formed the rear guard. Ken brought up the very back, shuffling along like a man on his way to a dentist appointment.

He stepped on every root, tripped over every vine, and complained about the humidity, the bugs, the mud, and the general unfairness of having to walk anywhere before noon. Could we not have taken a carriage? Ken asked, pulling a leech off his arm with pure disgust. Carriages exist. Someone should have thought of this. Carriages cannot drive through dense jungle, Sayma said without turning around. Her eyes were fixed on Paul, memorizing the route, counting steps, mapping the terrain in her trained mind.