Chương 20: Chapter 17: Forest Scraps

Back inside the cave, Gideon didn't begin working right away. He crouched near the coals and spread his gathered supplies across a flat stretch of stone where the firelight reached clearly. Strips of bark laid out in order. Needles shaken clean of grit. Resin chunks sorted by size. A few stone bowls filled with water placed within reach. He studied them in silence. Trees survived rot, fungus, and insects because bark and needles weren't mere decoration. They were armor.

Whatever kept a tree from decaying in wet soil was chemical, something produced to resist infection and slow corruption. If those defenses were locked inside the material, boiling was the simplest way to draw them out. He rose and approached a nearby Warrior, hands open.

"I need to borrow your blade," he said evenly.

"To shave the bark thin. I'll return it." The Warrior hesitated and glanced toward Dravak, who simply nodded, then handed the knife over hilt-first. Gideon nodded his thanks and returned to his place. He shaved the bark into thin curls, crushed the needles between his fingers until their scent sharpened and filled the air, then added both to a bowl of water. He set it close enough to the coals for steady heat but not direct flame. Steam rose gradually as the water darkened from clear to yellow-brown.

The smell shifted from woody to bitter and clean. A few goblins drifted closer as the smell spread through the cavern.

"He's making tree water," one muttered. Near the entrance, the female Warrior stood rigid, arms crossed tight.

"This is weakness," she said loudly, her gaze fixed on Dravak.

"A Chief who lets a slave rearrange the tribe." No one answered her. Dravak didn't look away from Gideon. When he felt like the mixture had steeped long enough, Gideon carefully pulled it away from the heat and set it aside to cool. Then he turned to the resin. It was too solid to be useful. He needed to soften it so it would spread. He placed the first chunk too close to the coals and watched it melt too fast, the surface smoking and blackening. The scent turned acrid.

He scraped it aside with a quiet curse and adjusted his approach. Several goblins chuckled uneasily. The female Warrior spoke again, voice rising in anger now.

"He wastes our fire and our time, and you let him." Dravak remained seated, eyes briefly moving to glance at her before returning to watch Gideon. Gideon ignored her, and warmed a flat stone near the coals instead, then set smaller resin fragments on it. This time the resin softened slowly, becoming tacky without burning. He tested it between his fingers, then spread a thick layer across a strip of cloth. He prepared a second strip the same way and set both aside within reach. Only then did he return to the bowl.

The water was warm now, no longer steaming. He dipped a finger in to gauge the temperature and was satisfied with the result. Time to test it. He gritted his teeth, lifted the knife, and made a small cut on his forearm. A shallow line opened and bled. He reached down and deliberately pressed dirt from the cavern floor into the wound. Laughter rippled outward.

"He's gone mad." Gideon continued to ignore them. He poured plain water over the cut first, rubbing gently until the visible dirt washed away. It cleared what he could see, but nothing more. Then he rubbed some more dirt onto his arm before he poured the bark and needle wash over the same wound. The sting was immediate and sharper than water. The dirt washed away all the same, but the sting was important. He sucked in a breath but held steady, letting it bite into the exposed skin. That sting told him enough.

It was active. It did more than just rinse away dirt. The female Warrior's voice cut across the cavern once again.

"He plays with tree scraps and you let him," she said to Dravak.

"A slave pretending at rituals." Dravak turned his head slowly toward her.

"Careful," he said, his voice low but edged with steel.

"You speak of what I allow as if you decide it." She stiffened and fell silent. The shallow cut was already closing under the System's quiet regeneration, so Gideon made a second shallow cut higher on his arm and skipped the plain water this time, pouring the wash directly over fresh blood. The sting flared again, consistent and strong. He nodded once to himself as the sting began to fade. He had created a primitive antiseptic. It wasn't perfect, but at the very least it would work much better than water.

Now for the real test. He looked at his arm and knew shallow cuts proved almost nothing about sealing. If he was going to trust resin on a Warrior's spear or claw wound, he needed something closer to reality. He tightened his grip on the borrowed knife, and before he could think too hard about what he was doing, slid it across his arm with more pressure than before. The bone knife slid through his flesh easily, cutting deeper than before.

Pain shot up his arm and blood welled fast and thick, running freely toward his wrist.

"Motherfucker that hurts," he hissed through clenched teeth. The cavern fell quiet as they continued watching him. He poured the warm wash over the deeper wound, enduring the sting once again, then pressed a plain strip of cloth against it. Within moments the cloth darkened with blood and soaked through. He nodded to himself as he pulled it away and grabbed one of the resin-soaked strips he had prepared earlier, pressing it firmly over the cleaned cut with steady pressure. The resin adhered, bonding cloth to skin.

He held it there, breathing hard as the bleeding slowed dramatically beneath his hand. He flexed his arm slightly and felt the binding tug at the edges. It worked, but it shifted too easily. With movement, it would loosen. Not good enough. He glanced toward the fire pit and saw the cooled charcoal lining its edge. Resin sealed, but it needed structure. Maybe he could mix the resin with the charcoal to thicken it.

He scraped some of the charcoal free and quickly crushed it into fine powder between two stones, then mixed the powder into softened resin until it became a darker, thicker paste. He spread the mixture along the outer edges of the binding where cloth met skin and where the strip overlapped itself, pressing it down so it filled gaps and held the layers together. As it cooled, it hardened. He flexed again. The binding held firm. The female Warrior's eyes were on Dravak again, anger tightening her jaw.

"You let a slave stand above Warriors," she said, voice low but intense.

"You let him do these strange rituals as if they are normal, as if our cave is his to reshape." Dravak exhaled angrily through his nose and rose from his seat. The movement wasn't fast, but it stole the air from the room anyway, because when a Chief stood, everyone noticed. He took one step down from his seat, and his shadow stretched long and monstrous across the stone.

"You think you understand strength," Dravak said, and now the anger was no longer hidden, his voice carrying a hard edge.

"You think strength is keeping the tribe the same, even while it rots." He leaned forward slightly, gaze locked on her.

"You will not question what I allow in my cavern again, not in that tone, and not in front of my tribe." The female's bravado faltered, just for a heartbeat, and it was enough. She lowered her eyes first, not fully, but enough to show she had felt the warning like a hand around her throat. Dravak held her there a moment longer, then grunted and turned away as if she wasn't worth the trouble.

Gideon looked down at his arm, at the sealed binding and dark paste holding it in place while the System worked beneath it, and couldn't help but smile. He now had three components. Three new ways to deal with wounds that would help him keep this tribe alive. A boiled bark and needle wash that cleaned more aggressively than water and stung like a crude antiseptic. Resin-soaked cloth that significantly slowed bleeding when applied thickly.

Charcoal mixed into resin to harden into a paste that glued the binding in place. It wasn't perfect. Far from it. But it was much better than what he'd had until now. He prepared larger quantities without rushing, working slowly and methodically while the tribe watched in uneasy silence. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. When everything was ready, he gathered the prepared strips of cloth, the bowls of wash, and the binding paste.

The four other slaves stepped closer without being told. Gideon nodded once and led them toward the alcove where the sick and wounded waited. The sick glared at him as always. Some tried to draw away when he approached, but they had nowhere to go. Stone met them on all sides. He knelt beside the first goblin, whose arm wound had refused to heal properly. He poured the now warm, boiled wash slowly over the cut, letting the dark water run across angry flesh.

"This will clean the wound better than water can," he explained to the four slaves watching him. The goblin hissed and jerked as the water hit his arm.

"That stings," he groaned as he tried to swat at Gideon.

"Hold still."

He then pressed the resin-smeared cloth onto the wound and tied it down.

"This will seal the wound, and help to keep infection away," he continued. Then he smeared a thin layer of the charcoal paste along the outside, sealing the wrap in place.

"And this will keep the wrap in place, acting as another layer between the wound and infection," he finished. The slaves glanced at one another, but nodded. They moved among the wounded, treating them each in turn. Each treatment drew curses, hisses, or groans. Gideon kept going anyway, steady and unyielding. After the fourth one, he began letting the others take over, guiding their movements, gently correcting them when they made a mistake. Around the main fire, the mutters grew louder.

"He smears the tree-juice on them now," a Warrior scoffed.

"Next he will feed them leaves."

"Maybe he'll plant them in the ground," another said.

"Grow his own Warriors." The laugh that followed was thin. The female Warrior's voice rose again, louder than the rest, sharp enough to cut through the tension in the cavern.

"Look at us," she snapped.

"A slave playing with tree scraps while the Ironfang watches. This is what happens when a Chief forgets what strength is." She spit on the ground, eyes dark with anger. The cavern shifted. The laughter faltered. Heads turned, hungry and uneasy at the same time. Dravak rose once again from his stone seat.

"You have talked a lot, little Warrior." He walked slowly toward her. She kept his gaze.

"You whine and moan about what I allow, and I let you. But now I grow tired of your voice. You call me weak?" he asked, voice low and threatening.

"I do," she snapped back. She stepped forward, her spear angled forward, tip pointed at Dravak.

"You listen to a slave. You let him change the tribe. That is weakness, Dravak. I would not let a slave lead me into madness."

"You would take my seat, Warrior?" His tone held no anger now. Only a cold curiosity. She spat on the stone at his feet.

"I would. I challenge. I will lead this tribe better, not let myself be influenced by a slaves mindgames. I will kill you and become System-blessed. I will be the new Chief of the Ironfang." The words echoed in the silence of the cavern. Goblins surged aside, dragging bedding and crude log benches away until a rough circle of clear stone opened in the middle of the cave. The air seemed to thicken, full of heat and breath and anticipation.

Gideon stayed where he was in the alcove, bowl still in his hands, resin and charcoal staining his fingers. He didn't know all the rules, not really. He'd only been here less than two weeks. But he recognized what was happening anyway. A ritual of some sort. A tribal custom. A challenge for leadership. He swallowed nervously, knowing deep down that if Dravak lost, he was dead. He groaned internally as Dravak stepped into the open circle, empty-handed. The female Warrior sneered.

"No weapon, Chief?" Dravak shook his head once.

"I won't need one. Not for you." Her snarl split the silence as she lunged, spear thrusting straight for his chest. The tribe roared. It hit Gideon like a wall of sound, sudden and hungry. Stomping feet. Shouting. The taste of blood in the air before blood was even spilled. Dravak moved, faster than Grub would have expected. His left hand snapped out in a blur and caught the spear shaft near the head. He knocked it aside, causing the spear point to scrape sparks off stone.

In the same moment, his other fist crashed into her jaw. The roar rose again as she staggered. She recovered, stepped back, and tried to keep distance, thrusting again and again at his ribs. Dravak suddenly lunged in, ducking a thrust aimed at his head. The spear became awkward in her grip, though she tried valiantly to step back and swing at him in a wide arc. He slapped it away with his forearm and shoulder, closed the distance again, and turned his fists loose. They became hammers.

One slammed into her ribs, causing something to give with an audible crack that echoed through the cavern. The other smashed across her face, sending teeth flying in a spray of blood. Her eye began to swell even as she tried to raise the spear again. The roar faltered, then began to die. Not because the fight slowed, but because it stopped being a fight.

Dravak jumped toward her, again moving faster than Gideon thought possible, and struck her hands with a kick so fast that Gideon barely saw it, knocking the spear free. The Warrior cried out in pain as it clattered away across the stone. Silence spread through the circle as Dravak seized her by the throat. He lifted her into the air with one arm, drove her backward and slammed her down onto the cave floor. Her head struck the stone with a dull thud. He didn't stop there.

He kicked her in the ribs, then straddled her chest. His fists rose and fell, dull wet sounds following each impact. Her nose broke. Teeth snapped. One eye vanished entirely in swelling and blood. Whatever fight had been in her drained out under the onslaught, until her limbs only twitched when his blows landed. Then even that stopped. He punched her one last time with a sickening crack, then stopped. He stood slowly and stepped away. Her body lay limp on the stone in a slowly expanding pool of blood.

For a moment, the only sound in the cavern was Dravak's surprisingly calm breathing and the slow drip of blood from his knuckles. He straightened to his full height and turned in a slow circle, his gaze sweeping over every face.

"Anyone else here that wants to tell me how to lead my tribe?" he growled. No one moved. Even the children looked away. Silence sat heavy over the tribe as they all looked at him. Dravak listened to the silence for a moment, snorted a humorless laugh, wiped his bloody hands on a scrap of hide, and dropped back onto his stone seat with the same casual weight as if nothing had happened.

"That's what I thought. Get her out of here. Leave her for the forest." Two Warriors moved at once to obey. They grabbed the female's ankles and dragged her body across the stone, leaving a red smear all the way to the cave mouth. A moment later, she was gone, the pool of blood and the smear leading to the entrance the only traces that remained. Gideon stood very still in the alcove. His heart hammered, and his stomach rolled.

"That," he thought,"is what defiance buys you here." He looked back down at the sick, at resin-dark cloths and black paste clinging like scabs. He had started down this path for survival. Now every choice he made nudged the tribe, however slightly, in a new direction. Dravak was willing to kill one of his own Warriors in front of everyone to keep control. What would he do if Gideon's ideas ever cost the tribe more than they gave? He couldn't know. He only knew the work didn't stop.

He finished tending what he could, wiped his hands on a rag, and returned to the cage to stretch when the fires burned low. That night, Gideon's dreams were full of flashing fists and breaking teeth and the echo of bodies striking stone. Morning came with cold air and a sour smell that didn't belong to the smoke. Gideon did his morning stretches and was out at first light, as always. He carried water to cracked lips. He checked bandages, fingers brushing resin-hardened cloth.

He touched foreheads, measuring heat by instinct now rather than guesswork. He forced himself not to think about the sound of Dravak's fist against bone, about the way the cavern had roared and then gone silent. Then he reached the back of the alcove and stopped. One of the sick goblins lay too still. His mouth hung open. His eyes stared at nothing. The cloth Gideon had tied across his wound the night before was still in place, dark with resin, but the chest beneath it didn't rise.

He knelt slowly, as if sudden movement might change what he already knew. He pressed two fingers to the goblin's throat anyway. Nothing. The world narrowed. Just a corpse. Just another nameless Warrior. One of the ones who had dragged him here. One of the ones who would have laughed and forgotten about him by the end of the day if he had died in the forest. So why did his chest feel tight? Why did his throat burn?

He sat back on his heels, hands hovering uselessly over the corpse as if there were still something left to fix.

"It doesn't matter," he told himself. This was goblin culture. The weak were left to the hands of fate. They didn't mourn. They didn't waste. He'd known someone would die eventually. He'd known his boiled bark and tree resin weren't miracles. And still the weight of it settled into him like a stone he couldn't shift. Because he had asked for one week. Because he had spoken up. Because he had asked the tribe to bend around his idea. Because this one life had still slipped through his fingers.

He forced himself to look at the goblin's face. Not the wound. The face. A scar at the chin. A broken tooth. Skin mottled gray where fever had burned through the night. He realized, with uncomfortable clarity, that he'd been seeing the goblins in the alcove only as problems to solve. Infections to clean, spears to return to the line. Numbers in a mental tally of survival. Now it was just a dead goblin. Not a tool or a statistic. One of theirs. He swallowed. Why should he care?

If he was honest, part of him still did what he did because it kept him alive. A stronger tribe meant protection. Food. Fewer nights listening for predators beyond the cave mouth. That part was still real. But kneeling here, with the cold morning air in his lungs and the dead weight of failure in front of him, he couldn't pretend that was the whole story anymore. He had been touching their foreheads, carrying water to them, and cleaning their filth with his own hands.

Fighting the rot that threatened their lives and caring for them day after day. Not because he loved them or believed in them. Because it had been necessary. And somewhere in that necessity, something had shifted. He'd begun to learn their rhythms. Their hierarchy. The way strength was measured and tested. The way even what looked like cruelty followed rules. He'd begun thinking in terms of the tribe's survival, not just his own. When he imagined tomorrow, he imagined what would make them stronger.

Gideon paused to consider that thought. When had that happened? When had the cave stopped feeling like a temporary prison and started feeling like something that could be turned into something more? He looked down at his small green hands resting on his knees, at the resin staining his fingers, at the faint scars already closing along his forearm. Gideon. The name felt distant for a moment, like something spoken from across water.

He had clung to it at first, repeating it silently in his own head as if that kept him separate from this place, as if remembering who he had been meant he couldn't be swallowed by what he had become. But here, kneeling beside a dead goblin in a cavern that smelled of smoke and sap, the separation felt thinner than it had yesterday. He had bled in front of them. He had argued with their Chief. He had changed how they dealt with their filth and how treated their sick and wounded.

He was no longer just surviving inside their world. He was shaping it, becoming a part of it. Gideon reached down and untied the resin-dark cloth from the corpse with careful hands. He didn't know why he did it, only that it felt wrong to leave it there. He folded the cloth and set it aside, then rested his hand briefly on the goblin's shoulder in acknowledgment. Something in his chest tightened, then steadied. He stood. A Warrior had finally noticed. Eyes turned, curious and waiting. He kept his face calm.

Inside, something had aligned. He looked at the rest of the sick and wounded in the alcove, at the ones who still breathed, and felt his jaw clench.

"Keep them alive," he told himself.

"Not just because you need them. Because they're yours now." The word surfaced unbidden. Yours. And now when he imagined himself standing among them, when he imagined speaking, acting, deciding inside this cavern, the name that rose in his mind wasn't Gideon. It was Grub. The realization hit him like a quiet blow. It scared him. Not because the name felt wrong, but because it felt right. Was it time to let Gideon, the human boy from another world, begin to fade?

Was it time to accept that he was Grub, a goblin of the Ironfang tribe, whether he liked it or not? The thought unsettled him more than the corpse at his feet. If he embraced his new identity fully, if he allowed himself to become what this world made him, what would be left of the person he had been? Somewhere deep inside, beneath all of his fear, exhaustion, and calculation, he wondered whether there would be anything recognizable left by the time he ever stood before Max again.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, stood, and continued his daily work. The nameless Warriors corpse was dragged out into the forest and the tribe moved on.