[GK]Moby Dick - chapter two

[plotdog]

Dawn broke, and with it came the first light, gradually filling the sky.

The night was brief, lingering in a murky shade. The clouds had gathered, now a dirty and menacing mass with sporadic lightning swimming through them. To any keen nose that could catch the metallic scent of ozone, an approaching storm had announced itself.

At first, the wind only rustled the leaves. The branches then began to tremble perilously, and soon, the entire tree. Yet the man hiding in its limbs refused to come down, for the danger might still be lurking nearby.

Ogata had waited, and until the sun sank below the horizon yesterday, his target had never reappeared. That earlier shot could be fatal, but he doubted.

The train had fled as soon as the commotion had died down, while the wilderness offered no shelter except for a few solitary trees scattered across the plain. Under the cover of darkness, he hauled himself into one. The sparse branches were barely enough to hold him, and a single misstep would send him plummeting to the ground. So he kept his vigil through the night, muscles taut against the groaning wood.

In his growing fatigue, Ogata assessed the vantage point from the tree. With the upcoming daylight, he would need to take action soon.

—or so he thought, before the first thunderclap exploded like a cannon shot.

Immediately afterwards, the rain lashed down. He heard the drops hammering against the ground before he even felt them soaking through his clothes.

He hugged around his Arisaka almost by instinct. Getting it wet would be disastrous. His cloak was far from waterproof, but it was better than nothing. He pulled it off and carefully wrapped it around the weapon, securing it tightly.

Ogata vaguely recalled the nurse's instruction to keep the wound dry, but that wasn't his highest priority right now.

There came another deafening crack, even closer than before. A blinding bolt of lightning tore through the sky, almost striking directly in front of him.

His thoughts snapped into focus, realizing that these trees were the only prominent landmarks in the open field. Staying put was no longer an option. He leapt from the tree and sprinted to the side right away.

Almost in the span of a single breath, a scarlet ball of fire descended from the heavens and struck right onto the tree he had just vacated.

A blinding explosion, and the tree was ignited instantly, bursting into ferocious flames. Even as the rain poured down in sheets, the fire clung on, refusing to be extinguished.

Ogata was nearly paralyzed for a moment. The electric charge in the air would have made his hair stand on end, if he hadn't been drenched to the bone. But he only hesitated for a moment before he broke into a run, while raising his hand to shield his face and looking around desperately for a place to take cover. A farmhouse, a haystack, anything.

The rain, the thunder, and the frantic pounding of his heart, all mixed up together, made it impossible to concentrate.

After all, he's not the same person. Sometimes he found it difficult to concentrate. He couldn't keep his peak performance up, not with this mutilated brain.

Merely seeing clearly in this driving rain was a monumental challenge, let alone with only half his vision. He had to turn around to get a full view.

Then he spotted something. Not far away, large objects were scattered along the railroad tracks, likely debris flung aside during the chaos. Ogata staggered through the raging storm, hoping to find wooden planks or tarps.

He drew closer and was delighted to see it was a large piece of panel that had come from the prisoner car. Sofia and her group had blasted it off its hinges.

Although upon closer inspection, he found that the door was partially made of metal, so it's still a potential lightning conductor. He tried to extract the wooden portion but it quickly became apparent that this wasn't feasible.

With no better alternative, Ogata gritted his teeth and used all his strength to drag the heavy door towards the side.

As expected, there was a slight drop between the ridge and the field, though the rain had transformed the field into a muddy swamp. Nevertheless, Ogata swiftly stepped into the muck, boots sinking deep into the sodden ground. He hunched down and reached out to pull the heavy door over himself.

The weight of the metal pressed down on him, but it provided a fragile barrier against the nature's fury. Huddled beneath it, even though he was almost crawling through the muddy water, the smell of the earth and the rhythmic patter of raindrops brought a strange sense of calm.

His pants, his shirt, everything was dirty, but it didn't bother him. Growing up, he had often helped with farm work and was used to such messes. He even knew the trick to dry the sludge so it would harden into brittle clumps that could easily be knocked off.

And so, his thoughts drifted back to the past.

As a child, he walked to the town's schoolhouse every day. On rainy days, some of the wealthy boys would be picked up by their servants, and the rest might have a parent or a sibling. No one came for him. He simply walked home alone, bareheaded, unhurried. There was no reason to rush, as there's nothing exciting at home.

In fact, he found the experience quite refreshing. The rain against his skin was a welcome relief from the sweltering weather.

Compared to the early summer heat, he much preferred the coolness. Maybe he'd heard it before, from someone down memory lane, that Earth was once blanketed in ice. Many magnificent creatures had perished, yet humans had survived, and they learned to harness their intellect during that long, brutal winter, developing language and comprehension to hunt together.

Ogata worked alone. A sniper needed no company, only practice and patience, which was way easier than teamwork.

Though he'd been thinking. What if there were ways to help ordinary people see distant targets, or ways to stabilize rifles more effectively than just steady hands? He'd proposed during the war that, with proper training, even mediocre soldiers could shoot passably. All it would take was a visionary officer to place a group of men under his command. But nobody listened.

At the end of the day, training cost too much, while young lives could be replaced easily.

For weeks since his escape, he had been staying with the militias. Dozens of men crowded together in a rich kulak's house while the owners were away. Finally given the chance to prove his theory, Ogata was frustrated.

None of them could shoot properly. Surely a few had seen the war, but the rest were a ragtag band of escaped prisoners, local ruffians and beggars. They might have mistaken Ogata for someone from one of the factions.

In his first few days there, Ogata was in a terrible shape. His wounds were infected, and the object in his head had left him delirious, seeing things that were never there. But that might also be the withdrawal. When he was under hospital arrest, some merciful officer couldn't bear to see him suffer and had ordered the doctor to increase his medication. The thugs couldn't be bothered with a drowsy, sickly man who barely stirred in bed all day long, and the house was stocked with supplies, so one more mouth to feed hardly mattered.

Then again, every decision came down to Sofia.

The formidable woman made her decision while taking a drag from her cigarette. "Get him a doctor."

When her subordinates didn't understand, she simply explained, "Kiroranke once wrote to me about him. This man's valuable, and we need to keep him alive."

He had a vague sense that his wound was reopened, and scissors were reaching closer. He heard the sound of metal stirring inside the eye socket, but he couldn't see it and felt no pain. Then, he lost consciousness again, unsure of how long had passed.

By the time he could finally get out of bed, barely managing to steady himself against the wall and take a few shaky steps, she was already waiting for him. She raised a gun—not to shoot, but to hand it to him.

"Listen here, little man," She didn't waste any time with pleasantries. "Your life's mine now, and you owe me things." She said, her wrinkled face twisting into a sly grin. "I'm giving you one month. Turn these useless bastards into something half as good as you."

While a bit flattered, he was mostly wondering about what had she seen in him. Didn't she realize she was talking to someone who could barely see out of one eye?

Ogata wasn't the only one in his skepticism. When he finally made it to the shooting range, he heard a chorus of frustrated shouts.

"What? This is the guy?" a grizzled man with long, dirty hair trailing down his back scoffed. "I thought we were getting some kind of master, not our resident invalid."

Ogata would have already made the man regret his words if this had been before. But now, he found himself kind of agreeing with the man.

He had always believed that he and his rifle was one same thing. But when a gun broke, some parts could be still replaced, yet no such thing could be said about a man. And if he couldn't shoot anymore, what was the point of keeping going on without meaning and dignity?

"Exactly," one of the Yakut men said, "I feared we'd be stuck with a ruthless killer, but now I see there's nothing to worry about."

A snort slipped out before Ogata could stop himself, "I've killed countless Russian wardogs."

Too late, he realized, that he shouldn't have boasted it in front of Russian nationals. Great, now he was done for. The gang would surely beat him to a pulp.

But maybe his weak, feeble voice sounded more like the pitiful meow of a sick cat, so much as it wasn't taken seriously. The Yakut just looked at him, pursed his lips and said, "What good does that do? Can you even shoot anymore?"

Ogata had no fucking clue.

Silent, he raised the rifle given by the matriarch. One moment, then he lowered it, shifting it to the other hand. He had almost forgotten that this side was no longer of use.

He found an unexpected firmness when he held the rifle in his non-dominant hand, still, it was challenging to keep the barrel aimed precisely. His one good eye could make out the chunk of firewood set as a target, but shooting wasn't just about steady hands and a clear sight. He still lacked that a sense of equilibrium.

He kept adjusting his stance, tweaking the grip on the rifle. Peering down the barrel, he focused on the iron sights and aligned them with the wooden block. His finger hovered near the trigger, but doubt crept in.

In his experience, he would typically deviate from the exact point ever so slightly. The environment, the angle, the type of the weapon, everything would affect the final decision.

There were too many uncertainties now. He had never used such an old Mauser model before, nor had he grown accustomed to the changes in his body.

A few people wandered over and stood behind him, eager to witness a failure.

"Hey, why's he not shooting?" another voice chimed in. "What's he waiting for? Can he even do it?"

As soon as he had asked the questions, a bullet was fired. Ogata wasn't fully prepared, but the words prodded him into pulling the trigger. He had anticipated how tragic the outcome would be. Now he was completely useless.

But then he heard a light thud, following the loud crack. He blinked, and there was the wooden log, hit squarely and sent flying aside.

The onlookers saw it, too, and let out "oohs" and whistles. That's just unnecessary, he thought, just a completely stationary object, and only a few dozen meters away, and it wouldn't even impress Ogata himself.

Nevertheless, he straightened up, running his hand through his hair to smooth it back. It was then he found how much his hair had grown, that the sides were long enough to cover his ears. He'd need a haircut once this was done.

When he'd finished paying back the favor of saving his life, he could go to the town, get properly groomed, and then he could leave.

But then his face clouded over. It was already too late.

Looking at the motley crew awkwardly holding their rifles with the muzzles pointing at the ground, Ogata couldn't help but wonder whether his end of the bargain would truly be met if these inept men failed to learn anything by the end.

At first he just stood beside and instructed in a low voice. "Relax your shoulders, don't shrug them up." But no matter how many times he repeated it, there was no effect. Gradually, his patience wore thin. How come they mess up such a simple thing?

Ogata strode over and yanked the arm of a tall, mangy-looking man. "How are you supposed to see what's in front of you like that?"

The man grunted impatiently but obeyed, lowering his stance. Except it was too low, that the muzzle was now tilting up skyward.

Ogata sighed. Not sure what Sofia was planning on them, but he hoped it wasn't anything too demanding. At this rate, they'll still be at a level where they'll be dying on their feet in a month's time.

The afternoon wore on with barely any improvement. Seated at the large table in the barn, Ogata silently ate and drank, contemplating whether his ideas had been wrong all along. Maybe his technique couldn't be taught, and there would never be some sort of an elite sniper unit. Maybe there would never be many people like him.

The noises around the dinner table was grating on Ogata's nerves. Suddenly, someone got closer and Ogata had to turn to get a better look.

It was the Yakut young man, who tipped some cloudy liquid from his pouch-like flask into Ogata's cup. "Kumis, really good stuff. Ever had any?"

Ogata was in no rush to taste it, but under the persistent stare of the guy, he reluctantly lifted the clay cup and took a sip.

"What do you think?" he pressed eagerly, though Ogata's silence said it all. He had certainly never had kumis before, and even rarely had any milk except for the few times after arriving in Sakhalin.

The youth seemed to catch on. "You're from Japan, right?" His voice carried genuine curiosity. "I've heard that folks over there don't have much meat or dairy."

Someone nosy chimed in, "Bootur, this one here was an officer in the Japanese army." The man had a few missing teeth, sneered in a way as if looking for trouble. "I'd be careful if I were you."

Ogata was just about to explain that he wasn't of that rank, but the young man cut him off, saying, "The enemy of my enemy is my friend, isn't that so?"

At this, the other guy shook his head. "How many years has it been? Your sister isn't coming back from the dead… You can't really wipe out all of the Tsar's army."

The young man's face twisted. "How would I know if I don't keep trying?"

Ogata's eyes darted between the two men before he bowed his head, lifted the bowl, and drank the last of the soup.

He didn't think he could understand such intense hatred. He had never killed anyone out of revenge—though some had met grim fates under his hand, it was never about that. There had always been a reason, and sometimes it was simple as proving his hypotheses, to see if something terrible would truly happen after a certain death.

Yes, even if someone had shot him and left him permanently damaged, so what? Ogata thought indifferently. If he felt any resentment, it was directed at the capricious nature of fate. The shooter's skill wasn't exceptional. He just happened to have an advanced weapon, with steel bullets far tougher than Berdan rounds. If only Ogata had been holding his Arisaka back then—

Yet, whenever his thoughts led him there, he always corrected himself, that then the first bullet wouldn't struck the wrong person.

With all that being said, he wasn't ready to accept it.

Every day, he trained with the militiamen, working to restore his own skills while trying to teach them. He's recovering, but it was hard to tell if they had made any progress.

He tossed a wooden piece into the air and instructed to shoot it. The wood traveled gracefully through the air and landed intact on the ground.

Bootur, leaning on his rifle, said, "How am I supposed to hit that?"

Ogata felt drained, finding out how tiresome teaching could be. Simply, he explained, "You have to anticipate where the bullet will meet the target. It might drop a bit lower."

But the man was still lost, asking, "How much lower?"

The distances could change, he wanted to say, but no—this wouldn't do. Firewood isn't a living target and only falls according to the laws of physics, while their real targets would be far more unpredictable.

He looked at the young man in the eye. "Put yourself in your prey's mind. What would they do? Where'd they flee?" The best hunters must understand their prey completely to anticipate their every move, every thoughts, for the perfect moment to strike.

Bootur pondered for a moment, and then looked out at the water pond surrounded by reeds. "My prey…" He thought about it and couldn't figure it out, so he finally decided to find out for himself, flapping his arms like wings and making a series of quacking noises as he towards the pond.

The wild ducks in the pond was startled by his antics and began to quack back, sounding exactly the same. A few green-headed mallards took off, splashing water into the air.

Ogata held his breath. He told himself that this was a skill he had perfected at a young age. It was nothing difficult, he just needed to get it back.

A few shots, and two fell from the sky.

Bootur turned around, eyes wide with surprise, and rushed to retrieve the birds. He returned holding the necks. "Incredible!" On the way back, he excitedly told everyone he met, proudly displaying the beautiful creatures as if they were his prize. "He got two with one shot!"

Ogata didn't understand why Bootur was exaggerating. There were still several that had escaped.

It was somehow satisfying to hear praises from someone so unworldly. Were it not for his sudden outbursts about annihilating the Empire's forces, Bootur would pass for an ordinary, hardworking countryman. He quickly plucked the birds, scalded them with hot water, and cooked them with some wild herbs Ogata didn't recognize.

"Aren't we waiting for the others?" Ogata asked, and his eyes had never left the bowl of steaming, fragrant stew set before him.

The Yakut youth replied, "Ah, you're the one who brought down them, so you have the right to take the first bite."

Maybe it was a tradition, but the others didn't seem to know about it. When they came in and saw Ogata feasting alone, they made odd jeers. Bootur seemed to be trying to explain something, but it didn't work.

Ogata had never needed anyone to give him special treatment. After all, this might not have been anything special. Some people were just naturally nice to others without any particular reason.

But yesterday, when the young man got hit by a stray bullet and fell from the tree, a strange pall washed over, leaving an unspoken feeling lingering in his mind. Ogata raised his binoculars to search for the shooter.

Then he saw him.

Below the binoculars, his teeth clenched tightly together.

He told himself again—not revenge, because revenge meant that he put the enemy in a position of importance, and also the person who had died. By killing an adversary, he could bring his perfect self back to life.

The rain finally subsided, and eventually, it stopped altogether. Ogata pushed open the door that had been covering him and emerged cautiously.

The sky after the rain was startlingly clear, and the newly risen sun was glaring so brightly. If not for the flattened wheat fields and the sodden earth beneath his feet, it would have been hard to imagine the ferocity of the storm that had just passed.

And then there was Ogata, looking down at his mud-coated figure. The color of his pants was barely recognizable under the thick layer of grime, and his shoes were filled with water.

What concerned him the most was his rifle. Though it had been strapped to his back, it had gotten damp nevertheless. His Arisaka, while his favorite for its precision, was notoriously delicate, having caused him enough troubles in that Manchuria winter.

Ogata swiftly took off all his clothes, hanging them on the metal to dry. With that done, he untied the cloak wrapped around his rifle and spread it on the ground. Kneeling on it, he began to take apart the rifle methodically. His brow furrowed as he examined each component. The state of the rifle was far from ideal. Moisture had seeped into every crevice.

He knew he had to improvise. With his relatively dry underclothes, Ogata cleaned the components most susceptible to rust. There was always some wetness left behind, despite his best efforts. Still it was better than nothing.

Ogata spread out the components under the sun to dry. Sitting down, he stretched his legs, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. The warmth of the sun enveloped him, while occasional breezes whisked away the excess heat. It was a rare moment of peace, yet his worrying mind refused to rest.

Now that the skies had cleared, here he sat in the open field, but nobody had opened fire yet. Perhaps the man had long since fled on horseback, soon to reach town and catch the next outbound vehicle. Ogata could find a good spot nearby and wait for the next train to come, then stealthily climb aboard.

But he couldn't shake off the suspicion that the man might be hiding out in the city for a few days. If so, how could he tell which would be the right train?

This man had suddenly reappeared as if some divine force had granted Ogata a second chance. If he let this opportunity slip away, the gods would be disappointed.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of hooves. In his panic, Ogata quickly dropped to the ground. The rifle parts dug painfully into his bare legs. He could hear the hoof beats and the rumble of wheels, then everything fell silent. He dared not raise his head to look.

A voice called out, though he couldn't make out the words. Judging by the tone, it was likely an older person. Ogata carefully got onto his hands and knees but remained crouched, not got up right away. He was stark naked and didn't want to look weird or suspicious.

The newcomer was indeed an old man, perched on a rickety cart pulled by a small donkey. Dressed in simple Mongolian herder's garb and a pointed hat, he studied Ogata with no trace of hostility. If anything, he seemed amused by his naked state. He spoke a little more, but Ogata still couldn't understand him.

"I only speak Russian," Ogata tried.

The old man seemed to comprehend, though he still looked reluctant as he slowly began speaking in Russian, "You young people nowadays…" He shook his head before continuing, "Young master, how did you end up here?"

Ogata studied the old man, who appeared to be a simple peasant, the kind who'd be easy to buy off. His gaze shifted to the cart. It couldn't carry much, but the donkey hitched to it was sturdy.

So he said, "I got separated from my companions, and then the rain began—Could I borrow your donkey?" Realizing how implausible his request sounded like, he quickly corrected himself, "Or sell it to me?"

While speaking, he considered what he had that could serve as payment. Sofia had given them some money for buying food during the train ride. He had suffered from severe motion sickness that he couldn't eat anything, so still had many left, but he had no idea how much a donkey might cost. Maybe he could intimidate the old man. He did have his gun, above all.

Upon hearing this, the old man's small eyes suddenly widened, and he clutched his little donkey protectively. "Not for sale, not for sale!" He then fixed Ogata with a steady gaze. "Are you trying to get back to the city? That's not on my way, but you could come back to the village with me. Maybe someone is heading that direction."

Ogata had no intention of going to the village. He needed to continue his pursuit, and while there might be horses for sale there, he couldn't afford the detour.

"I'm not going back to the city," he explained, pointing to his injured eye. "I need to settle a score."

He pulled back his eyepatch to reveal the damage. The old man examined it closely, his face twisting in horror. "Oh my, who did this to you, young master? Such a clean face…"

Ogata's face turned grim. "Someone from the Empire's army."

Even after all that, the old man wouldn't yield. So Ogata had to gather his things and climb into the back of the donkey cart, setting off with the old farmer.

The man turned his head slightly and whispered, "Young master, I've heard that many young Buryats in the city want to start an independence movement. Did you get into trouble because of this?"

Ogata pondered the old man's question and finally understood why he had been treated with such respect. The old man must have mistaken him for a wealthy young man of his own ethnic group from the city. However, Ogata didn't plan to correct him, and only gave a vague shrug to brush it off

The old man flicked the reins absently as the cart creaked forward. "But I understand," he said. "When I was a small, there weren't so many Russians here. We lived as Genghis Khan taught us, the clothes, the food, the wandering..." He spat over the side of the cart. "Now? I see my grandson once a year, and only when the Russians celebrate their New Year. His father sent him to some church school. Seven years old, and the boy can't even call me 'grandfather' in Buryat."

A few more agitated reprimands, and the old man continued to ramble on endlessly. Vermin, crop yields, the livestock at home.

Ogata listened with a little bit of interest, reminded of his own grandfather. He remembered how his grandfather used to bring him along to the fields, though Ogata had been too young to do much more than sit on the edge of the field and pluck weeds. During breaks, his grandfather would come over to rest and chatter about these small matters. He had said that Ogata was just like him when handling a firearm. On one occasion, he had even expressed a sort of relief that Ogata had no father, meaning their family name could finally be passed down.

"Be careful," he would say, teaching young Ogata to hold the gun, though not out of concern for the boy's safety. "This rifle was given to me by the lord I served in my youth!"

Hearing these stories about old people's youthful exploits was, quite frankly, annoying. The Buryat elder's tales of becoming a champion horse racer sounded as though they were from fifty years ago. As the donkey cart jolted along, Ogata picked at the dried mud on his trousers, wishing he could just get off and leave.

Suddenly, something caught his eye. Ogata leaned out of the donkey cart to peer down at the ground. Although the surface had dried out, the recent storm had softened the soil. Alongside the tracks made by their own cart, there was a set of large, round footprints, far too big to have been made by the little donkey.

"Hold up…" Ogata had to raise his voice for the old guy to hear him. The man turned to around with a questioning look, and then shouted to the donkey, bringing it to a halt. Ogata jumped down to inspect the fresh imprints on the ground closely.

The edges were still cleanly defined, but the small puddles within the impression had already dried. He pressed his fingers into the soil, and the mud yielded softly under his touch, still pliable enough to leave a dent.

Ogata glanced around. There was plenty of space along the roadside to walk on the grassy patches. A faint frown crossed his face as he wondered why they hadn't taken that route to conceal their tracks.

The old man looked at him curiously, "Can you actually tell something from this, young master?" As Ogata nodded in acknowledgment, the old man shook his head in disbelief. "How do you know these things?"

Ogata thought of the young girl who had taught him and the others how to track and catch animals for dinner while they were crossing the forests of Hokkaido. "Just picked it up along the way," he said, steering the conversation away. "If we follow these tracks, we should be able to catch up with him. He can't be more than an hour ahead."

But the old man was grudging about the idea, looked ahead and then turned back. "That's not going to work, young master. We're about to turn off this path, but those footprints go straight for a long distance."

Ogata was crouching there, sighing deeply. They were so close, and taking a detour would waste a lot of precious time. Despite his frustration, he slowly rose to his feet.

But his movement halted halfway as a subtle, urgent, and familiar sound carried on the wind. He fell backward, acting on pure instinct. A bullet flew past, grazing his scalp by mere millimeters.

Ogata landed on his back, sinking into the muck. He should have seen this trap coming—it was so obvious. Reaching for his gun, he cursed under his breath, remembering it was still damp from the rain, and firing it now could likely lead in a misfire. He decided to stay still and assess the situation more carefully.

But the noise had frightened the donkey, which reared up and tried to bolt forward. The old man quickly grabbed the reins to hold it back. "What's going on—" he yelled, completely unaware of the imminent danger. He wrestled with the donkey while turning to glance at Ogata, who was clinging to the back of the cart.

Ogata hurried to shout at him, "Get down! Don't try to run!"

But terror was now etched on the old man's face as he finally realized what had just whizzed past them. He ignored the warning, hastily undid the restraining ropes and scrambled onto the donkey to make his escape. Almost immediately, another bullet flew through the air, hitting the donkey, which collapsed heavily to the ground, trapping the old man underneath its weight.

Ogata got back to the ground, crawling on all fours towards the old man. The donkey was too heavy and it was crushing the old man who cried out in agony. With great effort, Ogata shoved the lifeless animal aside and got the grandpa up. He had to hold the terrified man back from running into the road, about to pull him behind the cart for cover.

Then came another loud pang, and a bullet grazed Ogata's neck before embedding itself in the old man's windpipe.

The old man's hands flew to his neck in disbelief as blood seeping through his fingers. Ogata finally got him behind the cart, but it was too late. The poor old thing struggled desperately for air, yet each desperate gasp was causing more blood to pour out. The crimson liquid spread across his deep blue robe, turning it black.

His gasps seemed to escape from the gaping hole in his neck rather than his mouth. "Sa—" His face had already turned ashen from rapid blood loss. He couldn't hold on much longer, but he had to wait for it, enduring this moment of excruciating and terrifying agony.

Ogata had seen people die up close before, but this time, he wasn't the one doing the killing. This made him the witness of the victim's final moments, to share the burden and pain, and he couldn't bear it for any second longer.

Drawing the knife from his belt, Ogata swiftly ended the old man's suffering.

This was the right thing to do, when staying with a person who was dying. He was just being merciful.

Although, somewhere in the back of his mind, Ogata knew that the tragic had started since the moment the old man had met him.

Now wasn't the time to dwell on that.

He cautiously shifted his position and took a quick look at the corpse. In a swift motion, he hoisted the body up. Almost right away, another bullet tore through the air, piercing the skull and knocking off his pointed hat.

This time, Ogata had figured it out. Not far ahead, where the old man had said they would take a turn to get to the village, stood a large tree that likely served as a landmark. This tree was much thicker than the one he had, densely foliaged, providing ample cover for anyone hiding within.

Ogata was at a severe disadvantage. He looked around, but the only place to hide was the fields, which were still quite a distance from the road. If he could turn the cart around and use it as a shield, maybe he could make it there.

Ogata tugged at the cart, but it remained stubbornly still. He then pushed off the heavy wicker baskets on top, which contained items bought from the city, including small pouches of spices and medicines, and several large barrels filled with liquid. He leaned in closer to sniff, but he couldn't tell what's inside. But his movements must have alerted the lurking enemy once more, for another shot rang out, striking one of the barrels. Liquid began to pour out.

The barrels were filled with kerosene.

A far memory surfaced. Kiroranke was puffing on his pipe and telling his war stories during a meal, with only the bald man listening earnestly. Though Ogata hadn't paid much attention at the time, some of that knowledge had inadvertently stuck in his mind.

He grabbed one of the small pouches, opened it, and found it filled with salt. He emptied some of the content and then placed the bag near the crack in the barrel to fill it up.

Once it was done, he tied it up. Searching for something to light it with, he found no matches in the cart, nor did he have any on him. His gaze shifted to the old man, and then he searched through his pockets. Eventually, he found a box of matches tucked beside the tobacco pouch. He hummed softly in satisfaction, struck a match, lit it up, and then tossed the burning bag out into the open.

He repeated this process with the remaining bags—sugar, quinine, chili peppers, and tea leaves, all set aflame and thrown out in different directions.

Ogata pressed his sleeve against his nose to block out the acrid fumes. The thick, black smoke from the imperfect combustion billowed up, obscuring his vision, while the spicy chili powder added to the irritation. The wind was blowing in his favor, so the smoke screen was helping him to hide from sight, and he could still see quite well.

He didn't stop there and started ripping pieces of his clothing, legs, sleeves, and rolling them into tight bundles. Dousing these makeshift torches in kerosene, he used the cover of the black smoke to stand and take a few steps forward, and hurled the burning fabrics out into the fields.

The fields caught on fire, but the flames weren't intense. There simply wasn't enough fuel, and the wheat was still wet. But his goal wasn't to burn down the crops, but to create an obscuring shield. Finally, the fire had spread out, and his cover was now more than adequate for his purposes.

Clad in tattered clothes, Ogata advanced cautiously, one step at a time. He unslung the rifle from his back and gripped it firmly. Lifting the weapon, he aimed at the large tree just ahead.

In the black fog, his one eye was almost glittering, while the lost one was amended by the muzzle of a gun.

Something fell from the tree and swiftly dashed towards the nearby bushes. Ogata instantly swung his rifle around. Too impatient. Already running for his life. He held his fire, knowing that a single shot would reveal his position. There was no room for error.

The man kept moving, leading out his horse before hurriedly jumping onto its back. Ogata saw his chance. Now was the perfect moment when his hands were busy with saddles and reins. Inhaling deeply, then holding his breath, Ogata centered his aim on the fleeing man's skull and pulled the trigger.

But instead of the reassuring crack of a bullet leaving the chamber, there came a muffled thump. And then thin tendrils of white smoke began to curl from the muzzle, carrying with the acrid odor of sulfur.

Ogata stared at his weapon, realizing with a sinking heart that his most trusted companion might still be far from ready for combat. This misfire could turn into a catastrophic backfire at any moment, and the weapon was heating up alarmingly fast in his hands. His pulse quickening. But he knew what to do.

Quickly he ejected the dud round, opened the rifle to cool it down by letting air circulate through it. He did the whole thing with a perfect composure, having the problem solved. But upon raising his eyes to scan the area again, the figure was already vanished without a trace, as if swallowed by the wilderness.

Ogata lowered his rifle as the smoke gradually dissipated. Now he felt even worse off than before. His clothes hung in tatters, and the one remaining pant leg was dirty with mud.

Turning around, he saw the body lying there. With a silent apology, he stripped the old man of his garments. He needed to hurry up, for the village wasn't far off, and anyone could stumble upon the scene. The knife and bullet wounds would be very difficult to explain. He removed the darkening blue robe and slipped it on. After some thought, he placed the pointed cap on his head, for this disguise could make him appear more local. Finally, he salvaged whatever he could from the donkey cart—matches, ropes, anything useful for survival, and a few pieces of candy.

Only after eating the candies did Ogata realize how hungry he was. Looking at the dead donkey, he shook his head and started walking.

He strained to make out the footprints on the ground. Since the weather cleared, the ground had hardened. There were shallow hoof prints at first, but they quickly disappeared.

Ogata didn't rely solely on tracks. He wasn't just making things up when he taught those rogues to think like the prey and anticipate their next move. That Russian shooter could have slipped away into the city or ridden straight to the next train station, but he chose to linger by that tree for at least half an hour, and he left misleading tracks to lure Ogata in. That meant he could be still lying in wait somewhere for the next ambush.

Understanding this, Ogata slowed down, no longer in a rush. He needed to eat first.

He reached the end of the farmland, with sparse woods stretching out before him. While those woods might hold more game within, it wasn't a practical option. His rifle was still unusable, and the woodland would provide perfect cover for an ambush.

He couldn't rely on crops, either. The fields this season were filled with unripe wheat, and any valuable vegetables wouldn't be planted so carelessly along the roadside, so far from the village.

Ogata frowned, then spotted something glinting among the woods. Upon closer inspection, he found a creek. The water made its way into an irrigation ditch that fed the surrounding fields. A memory of fishing came back to him, and he hurried towards it.

This wasn't a mountain stream or coastal waters, so he wasn't expecting anything big. But there were still small fish to be had. Ogata's eyes lit up as he saw silvery minnows darting through the clear water, along with larger fish with tails that shimmered with a hint of purple iridescence.

He slipped off his boots and socks, rolled up his robe and tied it around his waist. Then, moving cautiously, he waded into the river.

Soon enough he found it wasn't quite right. Last time he had caught fish by hand, it had been at narrow points in the river where salmon were forced to pass, blocked by rocks in confined spaces, making them easy to catch. Those salmon were large enough to hold onto firmly, too. Now, this tranquil creek with its clean, open waters presented a different challenge. The moment he reached out, the nimble little fish darted away effortlessly.

Ogata let out an annoyed grunt, but nevertheless kept his patience. The tiny fish seemed oblivious to the threat, even casually swimming around his calves and nibbling at his skin. They came so close that he could almost feel their slick bodies between his fingers, yet every time he tried to close his grip, they would sense the movement and slip away with grace and mockery.

Had been hunching there too long, he wiped the sweat from the forehead. A drop of sweat fell into the water, and immediately, tiny fish swam over to lap it up. This gave Ogata an idea.

Once more, he lowered his gaze to the wily little creatures. He dipped his hand into the water, letting more sweat drip from his fingers, and twitching his pinky finger slightly to mimic a worm, waiting for the fish to take the bait.

And it worked. Several fish were drawn to the movement, approaching curiously. Ogata remained still, waiting for them to reach the perfect spot. The sensation of the fish pecking at his hand wasn't painful at all, just ticklish. Though they couldn't bite off any skin, the scent of sweat was enough to captivate them.

Finally, two fish ventured into his palm. Ogata had intended to catch them one at a time, ensuring each capture carefully, but he couldn't turn down such good opportunity. Swiftly closed his hand, he gripped both fish tightly.

Looking at the fish wriggling in his hand, Ogata grinned. They looked so small, surely full of bones, but he could hardly wait. He was already imagining the smell of delicious roasted fish, and remembered the seasonings left in his pack. A sprinkle of salt and chili would make them taste like heaven.

He moved toward the shore to put the fish down, but he didn't stop there. Although he was eager to eat right away, Ogata knew he needed to prepare properly. There might not be another opportunity like this ahead. He could catch more and dry them as rations.

However, as if the universe was playing a cruel joke on him, just as he was about to wade back into the water, the fish gave a powerful leap from the bank, and flopped back into the stream.

Ogata's jaw dropped. He stared helplessly as the two fish he had painstakingly caught disappeared without a trace. When he looked back at the stream, he found that his earlier capture had finally made the school aware of the danger, as they had already dispersed in a flurry of splashes and ripples.

Just…great. Now stared at the desolately clear water, he felt utterly defeated.

After fumbling around in the stream for a while, all he found was a tiny clam no bigger than the size of a coin. In a fit of anger, he threw it as far as he could. It made three perfect skips across the surface, but he remained pouted.

All this exertion, and he had drained even more energy without getting any food. The gnawing hunger returned, and his stomach started to growl loudly.

Well, maybe he wouldn't catch any fish, but there might be berries in the forest. He could recognize which ones were safe to eat. He supposed. But he wasn't sure that now was the right time of the year, or any berries he had before would actually grow here.

He kept searching the woodland for a while, and finally spotted some yellowish berries. He recognized by the shape that they were cloudberries, though they were tinged with green. He stared that them—they got to be safe to eat. Picking one, he popped it into his mouth.

His face twisted immediately, not just from the unbearable sourness, but also because he belatedly recalled something. He could almost hear Asirpa's voice in his head, light and teasing, "Ogata, if you eat unripe cloudberries, you'll never stop osoma—"

The crushed berry burst out as a mist of crumbs and juice.

So he pressed on with a growling stomach, and whether from hunger or the effects of the unripe berry, he couldn't tell. The sharp sourness had at least sharpened his senses, keeping him stay alert as he navigated through tall grass, constantly on the lookout for potential threats.

He's about to pass out. Stopping in a patch of forest, he leaned against a slender, frail tree to steady himself. As he caught his breath, his thoughts turned inward, filled with doubt and recrimination.

Was this really the way to continue? He had impulsively left the group and chased after that person without any real plan. It wasn't the most rational decision.

It wasn't like he had regretted it. It's just…he should have been more prepared. He could have packed more supplies. Ammunition, for starters. Although he had started with plenty, he had used some during the train ambush. Normally, he would carry ample provisions on the trip, along with a map and compass, none of which he had now. His rifle's condition was another concern. He might need to visit a weapons shop to replace some parts.

But if he took the time to do all of that, the person he was pursuing would probably escape by then.

He reasoned that the person was heading west, which left only a few possible destinations, going home, or more likely, returning to the imperial capital for a mission brief.

Ogata considered traveling all the way to the capital and search there, though it would be like finding a needle in a haystack. Moreover, the capital was likely to be well guarded, and he would stand out among folks that were mostly fair-skinned. His existence alone could attract unwanted attention and trouble.

He didn't want to back down, yet he was too weak to push forward. He cursed the unforgiving nature that denied him even a single meal, the damned Russian soldier, and most of all, his own incompetence.

If only he had hit his mark in the first place, none of this would have had happened. His grand scheme had nearly succeeded. He vividly recalled Asirpa's desperate pleas to the others to take him with them after he was shot. That little girl was so upset about him, so concerned about him, had almost fully trusted him and was ready to reveal everything at the right moment.

But he was trapped in that hospital bed. Under the indifferent gaze of the sergeant, he was injected with anesthesia then laid out for the surgery. When he woke up, months had passed, and he was the only one there. He managed to escape, but it was so easy, as nobody was there to stop him. But soon he found it was too late, that the gold had already been taken.

He laughed bitterly. What's the point of this pursuit anymore? Revenge might offer a brief respite, but it wouldn't change anything.

Even if he had his rival obliterated, he couldn't go back. Though he was now useless to Tsurumi, his appearance would undoubtedly prompt that man to eliminate him for good, just to be safe. Indeed, he had joined Sofia's venture into Russia to repay the debt, but it was also a means to survive.

A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, sounded like the giggles of the spirits, as if they were making fun of him for having lost the very ability of survival.

Ogata rubbed his face, and then rose to his feet. He had to keep going.

No matter how hopeless it seemed, there was still a chance as long as he continued. If he stopped and hesitated, he would be left with nothing but overthinking.

His steps were heavy, but he clutched his gun tightly. He still prayed that once the gun dried out completely, it would be usable again, and then he could easily shoot some game. The forest was teeming with small animals, rabbits, grouse, and he even met a roe deer that stared at him blankly, but when he got closer, it disappeared into thin air. The creatures might be vigilant, but he was determined not to starve to death.

His mind raced, trying to recall Asirpa's hunting tips. How did she say to make a squirrel trap? Ah, he remembered now, but who would casually carry wires around? And if he tried digging a pit trap, he had no shovel, and he certainly couldn't afford to waste what little energy he had left, only to possibly wait in vain.

Ogata sighed. Perhaps it was time to consider retreating, however he hated the idea.

"Just one more mile," he muttered to himself. If there was still nothing to show for it, he knew he'd have to make the difficult decision.

He resumed his journey, wondering if he would keep telling himself to go just one more mile, over and over, until he dropped from sheer fatigue.

Then, suddenly, his nose twitched. It wasn't the subtle scent of tree sap or the earthy odor of the woods. It was the unmistakable smell of food, here in the desolate wilds.

However much tempted he was to sprint toward the source of the aroma, he tensed up. Where there were people, there was danger, especially with his enemy nearby. Ogata cautiously skirted the road, creeping through the dense bushes. Perhaps the Russian sniper was enjoying a meal, and he could catch him off guard.

He clutched his gun and dagger firmly. He had no fear of close combat.

But when he pushed through the bushes, there was no one in sight. In the clearing stood a tree, from which something hung. Ogata focused on and saw it was a perfectly roasted rabbit, its skin glistening in golden brown.

He scanned the surroundings. The trap was too obvious. If he stepped out into the open, he would surely be met with a bullet.

If he were the one setting this trap, where would he hide to keep watch?

Truth be told, this wasn't an ideal spot for setting up the trap. There were some weeds and bushes nearby, but they didn't offer much cover. Further away, there were a few trees, but their canopies were too high to reach.

He moved cautiously, yet he didn't find anyone in the expected hiding spots. He was confused. He wondered what this could mean. Was it possible that the rabbit had been laced with poison?

No, it wasn't that. He heard his own heart providing the answer. A sniper with any sense of honor or dignity wouldn't use such underhanded tactics against an equal adversary. He would seek a fair duel.

Now the realization had found him. The person wanted to personally finish Ogata off, rather than letting the forces of nature do it for him and take away the pleasure. By leaving food, he ensured Ogata stayed alive and strong enough to continue, prolonging the inevitable struggle.

He scoffed at such confidence and arrogance, but— that roasted rabbit just smelled too good.

He emerged from the bushes and approached the tree silently. True enough, no shots rang out. He gazed up at the rabbit, swallowing hard. It seemed freshly cooked, still steaming hot. He scanned the surroundings once more, confirming there was no one watching. With a swift motion, he grabbed the rabbit and retreated to a safer spot.

He examined the roasted meat closely, sniffed it. But honestly, even if it were poisoned, he couldn't resist anymore.

He didn't bother to cut it into pieces, and just took a large bite directly from the plump rabbit. The rich, fatty juices burst in his mouth, and he closed his eyes in sheer pleasure, forcing himself to chew slowly to avoid straining his jaw. Then, remembering something, he pulled out a small packet of seasoning from his pocket and sprinkled just a bit on the meat. Another bite, and it was pure bliss.

He tried not to think about how smug his enemy would be, seeing him reduced to enjoying this "gift" too much.

Ogata tried to keep it decent, but he had gone without food since a baked bun at the Irkutsk station. His stomach felt like a bottomless pit, that he initially thought he could devour the entire rabbit and still not feel full.

But when he had gone through nearly half of it, he slowed down, having already reached his limit.

He stopped to inspect, thinking about cutting it up to carry along. That's when he noticed the hole in the rabbit's head. He realized it was where a bullet had passed through, one eye to the other, leaving a clean exit wound.

An unnecessary display. Ogata sneered, and then noticed a white thing inside the rabbit's head.

His fingers trembled slightly as he reached into the hole and pulled out a small, tightly folded piece of paper. He carefully extracted it, unfolding the tiny note hidden within.

Not a word, only a doodle. A cloud was raining over a drenched kitten, who was crying helplessly, and its tears were falling down like waterfalls.

Ogata's mouth hung open.

In the vast, serene Siberian wilderness, no one was around, save for the cheerfully chirping birds. These creatures were so used to the quiet that they couldn't fathom anything disturbing their peaceful existence. So when an unprecedented, terrifying sound echoed through the air, none of them had anticipated it, and only looked at each other, confused. But they could still sense the humiliation and rage in the shout, and hastily took flight, fluttering up into the sky and scattering in all directions to hide.

The birds' wings beat rhythmically in the wind, with a precise, rhythmic motion, as if transmitting a signal. This message rippled through the sky, warning their kin. The demon is unleashing its fury.

The gust carried the furious cry even farther, blew through straw-like hair and let those strands fall, obstructing the view through a pair of binoculars.

Below the scope, a mouth curled into a malevolent smirk.