Afternoon in Arinthal village pressed like a hand over the earth. The air trembled, thick with buried heat; every surface burned dull orange from the sun's unbroken gaze.
Beyond the scatter of huts and leaning shacks stood a house that seemed far too large for what it was made of. Its wood was not old, merely cheap—grain flaking in dry lines, colors mismatched, joints creaking where nails had settled poorly. Yet no dirt touched its walls. This ugliness was intentional, a monument to poverty.
Inside, the air had no movement. The single hall that could barely shelter thirty bodies at a time now held ten times that number. People occupied corners like stored grain—families folded into the space of one life. Children slept in groups against the same wall, their breath fogging together, their eyelids flickering from thirst.
A boy's voice tore through the dimness. "Father! How long do you plan to take fetching water for me and Mother? What kind of father are you?"
The father's shoulders sagged. His reply came small, stripped of argument. "Aralan, I know. I'm sorry."
He rose abruptly, pushing through the press of bodies toward the door. Outside, light struck him like metal. He walked the few meters between shade and dust, already sweating before he reached the road.
Thoughts crowded him faster than breath. I've got no money left… no one inside does. Not one of them has a bowl full. Food's out of reach. Even if they had enough, who could spare it?
He looked down the road eastward. I'll have to walk. Twenty‑five kilometers to the Fen Well—the only well still rumored to hold water this season. Too far, too hot, but waiting to faint in that room won't change anything. If I die halfway, fine—but if I survive, we survive. Twenty days left until Punchin trees fruit again. Survive those twenty, and maybe the world resets.
He started walking.
Sun hammered the road. His shadow blistered and shrank with every step. After five kilometers his legs still obeyed—no ache, no signal of exhaustion.
Strange, he thought. Maybe when hunger turns to desperation, pain hides somewhere deeper. Maybe afterward it'll come to collect its due.
Then a voice broke the silence behind him.
"Hey!"
He turned.
An old man stood a few paces away—lean, almost boneless, white hair whipping in dry wind. His eyes sunk deep, colorless.
"You're heading to Fen Well?"
"Yes," Aralan's father replied.
"Waste of time," said the man. "The well's dry. Emptied yesterday."
He nodded once, not surprised. The words confirmed the expectation he hadn't wanted to name.
When he looked up again, the old man was already gone.
For a long moment he stood still, then slowly crouched, palms against the sand. The ground was hot enough to leave a burn. He found a place slightly softer—a patch of dying grass—and let his body sink, preparing to end it quietly. His eyes unfocused toward sky.
Inside memory, he searched for something worth remembering—something sweet enough to fill the last minutes. He found almost nothing: a few smiles of his son, the weight of his wife's hand long ago. Everything else blurred into noise.
Movement at the edge of vision broke the fading calm.
A group was approaching: guards in uniform, walking beside a man in pristine clothing beneath an umbrella trimmed with gold thread. Behind him, a girl followed—young, dark‑haired, gaze too sharp for her age.
Aralan's father blinked. "Mr. Jerry…"
One of the richest men in the Commonwealth islands. He could not mistake that face. But what would a man like him do walking among us—here, in this heat, without escort walls?
The question was answered by the shouting that began around them.
"You bastard! Walking the same dust as us now? Trying to prove something?"
Another voice, older. "May Jorn curse your bloodline—your ancestors wait for you in the dark!"
Voices followed like stones thrown one by one. Rage, but also pleading.
"Please, sire," a man cried, stepping forward with torn hat in hand. "Build a school for us. A free one. Our children could learn, serve in your businesses one day. They'll thank you—think of it, educated workers, cheap yet skilled. Please."
He stepped too close.
Mr. Jerry lifted his umbrella slightly, almost lazily, then struck. The impact cracked the air. The man staggered backward as if thrown by invisible rope, crumpling onto the dust. Silence split the crowd.
Jerry exhaled softly, eyes distant. I hate that kind. Think they're sharp because everyone around them is dull. Pseudo‑wise fools—believing flattery makes them clever.
He glanced at the fallen man still groaning. The talk about helping me through their children, as if I'm tricked by that… all just noise. And their god—they always call his name when damning me. Jorn, Jorn, Jorn. Let him curse. I left the realm of such things long ago.
He turned away, fixing his hat as if nothing had happened.
A small voice broke through again, higher this time—a child, rushing forward. "You killed him! I'll kill you, monster!"
The boy's father burst forward after him, shouting, "Stop! Don't—!"
Mr. Jerry didn't move. His bodyguard did. One kick, clean and vertical, under the child's jaw. The sound cracked like cloth tearing. The boy collapsed sideways without scream.
The world paused. The father reached him, shaking, dragging the limp body closer. Then came a wail so raw it didn't sound human. One glance was enough—everything below the child's jaw bent wrong.
And still, all Mr. Jerry did was brush dust from his sleeve.
He looked up—and met the eyes of Aralan's father, standing among the frozen crowd.
Jerry smiled faintly. "You look hopeless. I like fools like you who knows there place. Come. Take some cash."
But before the man could speak, another voice rose—a girl's voice, clear and young yet carrying authority. Sovey, Jerry's daughter, standing at his side.
"No, Father. Don't give him anything. It's not our fault he's poor; that's his ancestors' problem, not ours. And he's Aralan's father—. The one I told you about."
"Oh," Jerry murmured, tone nonchalant but eyes sharpening slightly.
Around them the crowd swelled again, voices snapping open in outrage.
"You've damned your bloodline, Jerry! Jorn will drag your soul in chains!"
"Devil's daughter beside a devil father! Babies like her should've been drowned at birth!"
"The Messenger Harceus warned of this! Children born of greed—leave them alive and they'll poison the land!"
The shouts overlapped until they became thunder.
And then one sound cracked louder than all of them—a gunshot.
Smoke drifted upward. The man who had invoked Arceus dropped, a neat hole where his mouth had been. Blood spread quietly into dust.
Jerry's voice carried calm disdain. "You knew I'd shoot him. Not one of you tried to stop it. Don't tell me he had no family among you."
Silence answered.
He nodded slowly. "Thought so."
Beside him, Sovey's smile returned. "Father, let's shoot them all."
The first hints of panic broke open like wind through grass—the crowd hesitating, then splintering.
Jerry laughed softly, not unkindly. "No, darling. We'll leave one alive—the father of the boy who wronged you. Let him see everyone else die first. That's distinction, a privilege earned."
Her expression wavered between obedience and unease. "If that's what you want. But hurry—they're running."
He raised the gun.
The first shot pierced the air, followed by another. Each echo folded into the screams of scattering villagers. The chaos lasted minutes; smoke drifted in lazy spirals above the dust.
By the time it ended, twenty‑five bodies lay sprawled across the ground like broken dolls. Sixteen of them stilled for good.
Jerry exhaled, lowering his weapon. "Three correct out of four," he mused quietly. "Not bad, given the distance."
Sovey's face lit softly with admiration. "Father, I want to start training from tomorrow. Shooting looks… fun."
He chuckled. "You're too young, sweetheart. I'll give you your own gun by your sixteenth birthday—one hundred targets to practice on."
"I can handle it now."
Her insistence made his eyes crease with amusement. "Fine then," he said, handing the pistol over. The metal looked oversized in her small hands.
She raised it carefully, copying his stance, and aimed at Aralan's father. The air around her quivered from heat and fear and that strange shaking that comes when a child first approaches death.
The shot barked.
Force knocked her backward. The bullet struck lower than she intended—sliding through his neck instead of the brow.
For a heartbeat, silence again.
Then Sovey screamed. The noise tore from deep in her chest, raw like the first sound an infant ever makes. She dropped the gun.
Jerry reached her, catching her shoulders. She trembled violently, tears tracing down her cheeks.
It wasn't the first death she had witnessed—servants' punishments and distant executions no longer startled her—but this was different. This one had come from her own hand.
"Father," she whispered, voice fractured, "take it back."
He laughed softly, brushed his palm through her hair. "Oh, dear," he said in a tone so gentle it might have been a mockery.
She turned away, breathing in short bursts. "Let's… go back to the car. Dr. Marsh's clinic isn't far. I can sit in car without vomiting at this distance."
He nodded, still smiling faintly. "Alright."
The car cut through heat like a dark blade. Dust rolled behind in long trails until the world shrank to a line of pale horizon.
When they reached the hospital, its whitewashed walls gleamed against the decay surrounding it—a monument of order amid ruin.
Inside, Sovey sat quietly through the checkup, her reflection ghosting across metallic surfaces. Instruments clicked, lights shifted; the doctor spoke, but she hardly listened. Her pulse ran too fast, each beat replaying the sound of the gun.
Later, in the rear seat on the return trip, Sovey watched the faint discoloration on her hand where recoil had left bruise. Outside the window, sunset tore across the sky.
Mr. Jerry drove in silence. He did not ask whether she still felt frightened. He already knew fear never lasted long when you were raised beside cruelty.
By the time they reached home, the first stars were visible—motionless and far beyond consequence.