Unaware of his dark thoughts, Lyra looked at his blissful relaxed body, and frowned, noticing his sweaty and sticky body.
Even from a distance, she could smell the stale, sticky scent, her brows pulled together, as the concept of hygiene wasn't a habit here, it was akin to a law.
A survival instinct wired into their bones.
Sol noticed the frown and winced internally.
"…Uh oh. I'm in trouble," he muttered under his breath.
She didn't scold him or anything because it was really not his fault, as he had been unconscious since the last few days.
Without a word, she slid an arm under his shoulder with practiced gentleness and helped him sit up.
She moved to help him, but suddenly stopped, her breath catching in her throat.
Her gaze was fixed on the bedding beneath him. The thick cured hide… skin that usually turned away stone blades… was shredded. It was torn clean through, as if a massive beast had clawed at it in a frenzy.
But it was what lay beneath that made her pale.
Three deep, jagged furrows were gouged into the hard-packed earth floor, the dirt cracked and blackened as if struck by lightning. Faint wisps of steam still rose from the grooves.
She traced the marks with a trembling finger, then looked at Sol's hand. It was caked in the same earth.
"He..." she whispered internally, looking at him with a new, fearful respect. "He did this?"
She swallowed hard, masking her shock, but her hands shook slightly as she reached for him.
"Come on, my dear," she said, voice low and gentle, "let me help you wash up, you'll catch sickness if you stay like this."
"Wash me?" he repeated, blinking. "Now?"
"Yes, now."
The tone left no room for argument.
"Can I at least…"
"No."She was already lifting him.
He groaned," but I am barely conscious!" It was not that he was averse to bathing, but he knew that in this situation the only way he could bathe without blowing his cover up was if she helped him and looking at her posture, it was clear that she was thinking the same too.
'Damn! It would be really embarrassing.'
But she ignored his plea and replied.
"You can talk. That means you can take a bath, and don't worry I'll help you."
Before he could argue, or get out of his sage mode, she carefully pulled him to his feet, steady but firm, and guided him outside the hut.
The hut's reed door creaked aside, as he was pulled out, and couldn't help squinting at the sky. The sun was already sliding down, fat and orange, throwing long streaks of light across the sky, clouds hung loose and ragged, their edges glowing like someone set them on fire.
Even the air felt fresh and clean in his chest, as he took a deep breath, so refreshing that he breathed deeper… completely unlike the heavy, smoke‑choked breath of modern cities. It was just the scent of ground, grass, and the faint curl of cooking fires drifting on the wind.
'Wow…' he whispered. 'this is… actually nice.'
By now evening was close, but it still felt clear, almost new, as if the whole world was rinsed clear.
She led him towards the backyard. Behind the hut, there was a small washing area fenced by woven reeds. A few clay jars lined the edge, filled with clear water from the nearby stream. The floor was made of stone, smoothen by years of use.
Sol blinked."…This is actually way cleaner than my apartment back home."
"Your what?"
"Nothing."
Primitive, sure. But neat, organized and functional.
And that's the thing most people always get wrong…most people imagine "tribal life" as filthy, savage, crawling with stink and grime.
But that's because they don't know shit about how people actually lived.
The truth? These people were human too. They had noses. They had eyes. They knew what filth was. They knew when something smelled wrong, looked wrong, felt wrong. They understood filth and disease in the way instinct understands fire… not as science, but as survival.
They knew that if you didn't clean yourself, things rotted… wounds, food, even people.
And also knew that filth meant sickness, and sickness obviously meant death in this world.
That's why washing wasn't just hygiene here; it was akin to a ritual.
In fact, they were even more hygienic than many people, especially of our otaku buddies back home, who would go weeks without touching the water and left sacred ritual of bathing for only special occasions, he would definitely not admit that he was also part of that circle. Never.
Anyways here, in their culture, to be clean was to be protected. Dirt wasn't just dirt… it was seen as the home of sickness, evil, and dark energy.
A way to scrub away not only dirt, but whatever darkness clung to the soul. Evil, bad omens, the weight of death… all of it was believed to stick to the body like invisible mud.
That's why before any important event, like hunt, birth, meal, or sacred gatherings, they wash from head to toe and become squeaking clean.
They called it cleansing the spirits and getting nature's blessings.
The place he was right now was called Southern Wilderness and despite being called the Southern Wilderness, the land wasn't barren at all.
It was lush, with rivers crisscrossed like veins under the skin of the world. Big ones, small ones, clear ones, and muddy ones, all were available, you just have to be really brave to venture into them, especially the muddy ones.
Wherever you looked, water shimmered somewhere nearby.
And people used it constantly too. They bathed in rivers, washed their tools, their food, their kids, and probably their sins too.
Men would scrub themselves raw before hunts, they used river water, ash, sand, leaves… whatever nature gave, to clean themselves and get spirit's blessing and to remove scent and sweat so prey couldn't smell them. And after every hunt, they rubbed their skin with rough bark or sand to remove blood and sweat.
Women always being extra didn't just contended with water, they mixed scented oils from tree resin, crushed petals and grinded herbs, to keep their skin soft, refreshed and ward off insects.
Heck, they even used charcoal paste for their teeth… black, gritty, but effective.
Primitive, yes. Stupid? Not even close.
Clean meant safe.
Clean meant alive.
In a world this wild, that was common sense.
In fact, they seemed borderline obsessed with cleanliness.
Even their rituals reflected it… they believed clean bodies kept the tribe's spirit strong and untainted.
For a so-called primitive world, they sure looked like they had their shit together.
Anyways, back to topic, Lyra helped him sit on a raised stone slab, he hissed due to sudden coldness on his Butt cheeks.
She skillfully filled the clay basin and poured a jug of water over his head without warning. It was cool, shocking, and exactly what he needed. The water ran down his neck and back, carrying away dirt, dried sweat, and the faint smell of herbs.
"GAAH—Lyra! A warning would've been nice!"
"Hold still," she said, taking a cloth and wiping his arms and chest with firm, practiced motions. "You reek."
"Thanks for the compliment," he muttered.
She didn't smile and continued.
"You mustn't let the pain freeze your body," she murmured. "Still water turns foul. Still flesh turns weak."
What he could do, he could only nod obediently, otherwise, he knew that a lecture was on his way.
She continued working in silence for a moment, water dripping rhythmically against the stone floor. Sol watched her expression soften into something calmer, almost ritualistic.
He swallowed."Aunt Lyra…"
"Hm?"
"Thank you. Really."
Her hand paused on his arm. "You're family, Sol."
He didn't know what to say to that, so he looked away.
After washing the upper side, finally it was the time for his groins and the one he was most curious about, as to what she would do, because until now his previous self had always bathed alone, or with his mother, it was first time being bathed by his aunt.
She soon finished cleaning his upper body and rinsed the cloth again. "Alright. Now for the rest."
Sol blinked, even though he knew what she was referring to, but he still pretended otherwise, and wanted to test the limits."…The rest as in…?"
"The rest," she repeated calmly.
He stared at her.
She stared back.
"Lyra," he said slowly, "I am a grown man."
"Yes."
"So I can… handle the rest myself."
She raised an eyebrow. "You could barely stand."
"Okay, valid point, but listen—"
"In this tribe," she said, voice steady, "the caretaker washes the weak. There is no shame."
"…I am FULL of shame."
"Not enough to survive," she replied.
He opened his mouth to argue, as if he was really against it.
Seeing her expression, he obediently shut it, fearing that she would really take his act seriously.