[GK]Moby Dick - chapter 5

The noise from last night had faded into silence, except for the snoring figures on the riverbank. They had drunk too much vodka at the feast and slept wherever they fell.

At the sudden blast from the steamer, a young sailor flailed helplessly on the ground, while his seasoned shipmate sat up, yawned, and eyed the younger one with amusement. He then stood, unbuckling his belt while walking toward the river.

The old sailor relieved himself and began to whistle. He squinted across the river, assessing the difficulty of navigating in such weather.

The grand Angara was chilled from the night, now releasing a vapor that thickened into a mist that covered the bank and the steamships in the harbor. Only a few reeds reached up from its depth, shivering as the water fluttered ever so slightly. No one could see beyond the veil, let alone reach the far shore. Past the paleness, it looked less like the real world, but a realm bowing to the unholy sovereign.

Out of nowhere, came a strange whisper. Something was wading across the water from the other side. Couldn't really point at it in this thick mist.

The sailor cleared his throat, but found his urine unable to continue.

"Nipper?" he called out, but his companion wasn't answering him. The sound grew closer, and gradually, a vague shape emerged, massive, silent, closing the distance.

"Nipper!" he shouted, louder this time.

It was a mistake. The shadow now pinpointed his location and quickened its pace.

The sailor stared at the approaching figure, unable to make sense of it. The hulking form simply had far too many limbs to belong to any natural creature. Worse still, even across the mist, he could smell an awful, bloody stench.

"Nipper!!" This time, he couldn't even pull up his pants before he fled. His falling trousers tangled his steps, tripping him over. As the footsteps crept upon him, the man struggled, writhed, hoping to rise before the creature got him, but his alcohol-sodden body betrayed him. He groped around desperately for a rock. Blindly, he hurled it behind, and began to pray for a guiding hand.

He listened. The stone struck solid flesh, followed by a sharp, angry screech. Loud as it was, he couldn't shake the feeling he'd heard something like it before.

The sailor twisted his neck backwards. The creature had stepped out from the fog, glaring at him as its tail flicked in irritation.

He fell speechless.

"What the hell?" asked a chirpy voice. His protégé shuffled over, rubbing his eyes. When he saw what's before him, he perked up, ignored his companion still on the ground and went straight to attend to their visitor.

He looked at the hoofed animal with appreciation, scratched her neck and offered a biscuit from his pocket, but she only tossed her head and snorted uneasily. That was when he finally noticed what was strapped across her back.

The older man cursed under his breath. Turned out, the monster was nothing more than two unconscious men bound tightly across the horse's back. "God damn it," he grumbled, hauling himself upright and hitching up his trousers as he watched the younger man struggle with the rough ropes. Hurriedly, they hauled the two heavy bodies down.

One was stripped down to the waist, and if it wasn't already summer he would already have been frozen to death.

The other… the older man frowned, finally understanding where that thick smell was coming from. The man's face was all but obliterated, caked in a bloody paste of sand.

"Good god!" he heard the young man exclaim. "Isn't this one of our passengers? The guy drew for the mate?"

He gestured wildly, and the other sailor remembered then. It was the soldier from yesterday. Prudish when they asked him to draw beautiful women, just playing ball. But those generous backsides… damn, they had left an impression. In the end, they agreed he was pretty chill.

Looking at this bloodied wreck, he was barely recognizable.

The old sailor shook his head and planted his hands on his hips. "So what are we supposed to do with them?" He turned around for the little guy to call the shot.

Though delayed a bit, the steamer finally set off. The fog cleared, and the river unveiled itself beneath the open sky. The sun came out, casting an almost unbearable glare off the gleaming surfaces. The travelers hustling around the deck were engrossed in their own tasks, dripping with sweat under the steadily rising heat.

In a small, lamp-less cabin, a body twitched.

Vasily didn't know where he was. He couldn't see, he couldn't hear, and he couldn't even steady himself in the roaring dark. He felt himself gliding, as if he'd sprouted wings for a night flight the moment he pitched off the branch where he'd been resting.

Then again, there's his unfinished business. He's still earthbound. He couldn't really fly away and truly be free.

Then memory came flooding back, and he began to struggle. Tangled in the sheets, he could do nothing but thrash about. His hand brushed against something, and he grabbed it—just a motionless body. He groped blindly until he found the chest and pressed his ear to it, listening for any sign of a heartbeat.

Yet what he met was not a pulse, but a peculiar scent.

At first, Vasily didn't understand, thinking it might be some incense lit in the room. But he soon realized the fragrance was emanating from nowhere but the body. He let his nose lead the way. The smell was seeping from underneath the skin, warmed by the body and released into the air.

He took a deep breath, catching its salty base note. But for the rest of its character, he couldn't describe it.

It couldn't have been anyone else. Even though he didn't really know what the man was supposed to smell like. He might have imagined it differently, but nothing's more convincing than the real thing.

And this one was still alive enough to sweat and stink.

A smile almost escaped him—if not for the stabbing pain that stopped it.

It was only then that Vasily vaguely remembered the previous night and the severe blow he had suffered from it. He endured in silence as the wave of pain coursed through his nerves, until it gradually diluted in the bloodstream. Once the sharp pain had receded, he clinched his teeth slightly to assess the damage.

He felt something shift on his face, and then sticky liquid slid down his cheek, landing gently on the skin spread beneath him.

Vasily thought he had long grown accustomed to the sight of bloodstains, but when his eyes fell upon the black streaks staining the pale skin, he suddenly couldn't bear it anymore and began frantically wiping at them. The motion only rubbed the gore deeper. What's worse, the dripping quickened, and he heard a different sound of something solid coming loose and falling.

His breath hitched and his vision blurred. His body gave out, reaching its limit.

Vasily collapsed face down, but the pain never let him truly rest. He could feel the steamship's relentless sway, yet his own consciousness remained out of control. At times, he would surface, struggling to check the whereabouts of his belongings before passing out again at the foot of the bunk. Moments later he would find himself slipping in another world. He looked around, and somehow he's back in his village at harvest season. They piled the straw into tall mounds, and his father picked him up and placed him on the top. The once fearsome horseman had downgraded himself to bully a toddler and dare him to climb down all by himself. But when Vasily took the challenge and leaped, he was back in the cramped room. The sting on his cheek once again threw him into oblivion—and this time, he didn't know where this place was.

As his gaze swept the horizon, he spotted the figure who had trailed him across halfway of Eurasia. There he stood, atop a nearby peak, a white hood pulled over his head, smiling coldly. Before Vasily could catch him, the man stumbled backward—and plunged off the cliff.

Vasily spurred at a full speed. He leapt, too, falling and reaching out. But the canyon rushing up to meet him was completely empty.

This couldn't be—he wouldn't let it—

"Don't move!" a voice shouted above him, edged with alarm. "What are you waiting for? Hold him down!"

Another pair of hands reached in and pressed hard on the patient's shoulder. "No, no—on his head! The wound's full of grit—I've got to clean it out somehow."

A younger voice came in, "Use your legs then!"

When Vasily's head was pushed down against the sheet, strong legs came closer and firmly pinned him in place on either side of his head, immobilizing him completely.

"Much better," the speaker sounded pleased.

With a sharp metallic click, a pair of tongs came into view. Vasily tried to watch from the corner of his vision. The instrument spread its jaws, prying open the torn flesh of his cheek. Then a swab soaked in antiseptic slid in and began to turn slowly.

A fresh wave of dizziness and searing pain washed over him. This time, he wasn't so lucky to fall unconscious again. He had to clench his eyes and teeth to endure it, only to find some of his molars were already cracked and no longer fit against each other.

The other voice sounded anxious, "Feldsher, that's a huge hole over there. Can it even heal?"

The other man replied, "Disfigurement is the least of the trouble." His hands continued steadily cleaning the debris from the wound as he tilted his head toward the side. "Go check on the other guy. How's the infection?"

Vasily's eyelids snapped open.

"Still burning up, eye's leaking… looking bad, man," came the report.

The feldsher sighed. "Ah, poor devil. Get him some water."

A clatter of sounds came next as someone fetched the cup, poured water, and propped up the patient. What followed was a struggle with the unconscious but stubborn man. Though critically ill, he fought back fiercely, resisting the well-meaning helper. He moaned incomprehensible words, but the tone alone made their meaning clear, all threats and curses. After a breathless fight, the young man finally pinched the patient's nose and poured the water in. But the man refused to swallow, choking on the liquid and thrashing with renewed frenzy.

The feldsher clicked his tongue and stuck a rolled-up cloth into Vasily's mouth before turning to the more troublesome case.

Left lying where he was, his mouth forced open on the soft stick, Vasily listened and stared, but he couldn't see what's going on.

Before him was a strange ceiling. It lacked the basic neatness of a border doctor's clinic, but more like someone's home. His eyes were drawn to the conical roof, where a small opening let in a shaft of natural light. The walls were sheathed in thin tree bark, each piece the size of a sheet of paper and layered neatly over a skeleton of wooden poles. An assortment of trinkets hung from the frame: bulging fur pouches, flint strikers, and bells on the cords. A fur-wrapped ski stood propped against the wall, and over a nearby bunk hung a halved deer antler, about to be crafted into a handicraft.

Occasionally, shadows passed outside. First came a huge, slow-moving beast, followed by a pack of chasing, laughing children. Later, a curious head poked through the flap to stare down wide-eyed at Vasily. The stranger mumbled something, but a vigorous shake of the feldsher's head sent him away.

Whatever the guy proposed, it must have really upset the doctor. He left his other patient and hauled Vasily up from the ground.

"Keep still!" the feldsher snapped, as if the wound were Vasily's own fault. As he scolded, his hands were already busy preparing for the operation.

His face set in a grim mask as he guided the needle through the torn flesh. Under that stern gaze, Vasily clenched his fists, letting sweat trickle from his neck down his spine. He stared at the feldsher's face, counting the thick, dark hairs of his beard to distract himself. The man seemed too rough for a doctor. With every pass of the needle through torn skin, he gave the thread a sharp tug, each one drawing a pitiful cry from his patient.

When it was finally over, the Feldsher merely snorted.

"I've got nothing to spare here—morphine, bandages… Don't even think about it!"

He gave Vasily a firm slap on the back, a clear gesture for him to get up and get the hell out.

"Don't touch the wound. Don't eat anything. Got it?"

Vasily nodded blankly, not yet grasping the gravity of those words. When he stood, his vision swam into blackness. He staggered, throwing a hand-out against the wall and nearly toppling the whole tent in the process.

The young helper, on the hand, was pleased to see the strength had returned to their patient. "Go, make yourself at home!"

Vasily noticed that the man was in a ferry company shirt, but his hair was braided in the style of other tribesmen. He did look like one of them, but though his pigmentation was a bit off.

"Almost had to call on the grand cousin for real!" he said happily, but the feldsher clearly didn't find it funny.

Vasily paused, his eyes lingering on the man's bare foot on the cot a heartbeat longer than he meant it to, then ducked out of the tent.

Stepping out into the open, he still couldn't see clearly. A phantom glare clung behind his eyelids, as if he'd been staring into the sun for minutes. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, but the light wasn't from the sun at all. Then a gust of wind hit him, and a sudden shiver racked his whole body. He had simply lost too much blood.

This small campsite was composed of chums and bound by kinship, having come down from the mountains to trade pelts and antlers for salt, tools and a bit of gunpowder before the snow returned. As Vasily passed, heads turned toward him.

He crept toward a fire, raising a sleeve to hide his face, hoping they wouldn't find him off.

Around a fire sat a family of reindeer herders. Teenagers gnawed hungrily on leftover holiday bones while their small cousin toyed with a piece of chocolate. Brothers glued sheets of birch bark into a canoe while sisters stitched furs into gloves. Their eyes followed the uninvited guests, but none of them said a word.

His gaze drifted downward and settled on one family member busy with a task. He seemed to be processing cartridges carefully pouring out the powder. Vasily knew some mountain dwellers did this when they got unsuitable bullets, saving the powder as quick tinder. The casings lay neatly to one side, some tied tightly with a leather cord around their grooves.

Vasily bent down and grabbed a handful of necklaces, spotting his familiar bullets among them. He examined them, and all but one were hopelessly compromised. Keeping the single good round, he tossed the rest back.

He shot a glance at the craftsman, who looked a bit embarrassed caught in the act. The man coughed slightly, then offered a leather pouch filled with some kind of drink. "It's good. Warm," he said, then glanced at his wife and added, "From our own reindeer."

Vasily shook his head quickly. No matter how cracked and dry his lips were, he didn't think he could drink it.

Though the man got up to fetch a pot from the rack. When he lifted the lid, Vasily's eyes widened at the sight of boiled meat, black pudding, and round dumplings floating in a rich cream soup, garnished with leek and cheremsha. The rich aroma assaulted his senses, causing him to turn away.

The herders now looked confused. Not wanting them to misunderstand, Vasily moved his hand slightly aside, revealing the condition he had been hiding.

At the sight, all hands stopped working, all eyes fixed on his crudely stitched face. Worst of all, the youngest one finally looked up and noticed the strange guest. The treat slipped from his hand and tumbled out of sight. The next moment, the air was split by a desperate wail from a mouth smeared with brown syrup, though no one could tell whether it was fear for the scary stranger or grief over the lost sweet.

Vasily sprang to his feet at once—it was clear coming here had been a mistake. He had just ruined the family's moment of peace. He turned and strode off before the hosts could recover enough to insist his stay or demand his leave.

He couldn't possibly abandon his prize here and walk away. And truth be told, he couldn't walk far at all, without a sense of direction nor the strength in his limbs.

He wondered where they kept their livestocks.

The Tungus village was small, just a clearing in the forest. Vasily limped past the bark huts while scanning the area, but not a single horse was in sight. His eyes caught hoofprints on the ground, their shapes resembling giant blossoms. Following this trail of floral impressions, he made his way toward the edge of the woodland.

From a distance he spotted a cluster of large animals, their legs tucked beneath their shaggy bodies as they basked in the last warmth of the setting sun, their crowns of antlers formed a small grove against the fading light. Some antlers were slender and straight like branches, while others curled in elegant loops; some spread wide like open palms, others as intricate as the skeletons of bird wings. Most striking of all was that no two pairs looked exactly alike, nor was any single pair perfectly symmetrical. Their fur coats were mostly creamy, with a few peat-brown or iron-grey. Heavy white mantles draped them like royal robes, glossy and smooth under the herders' meticulous care. Vasily had seen such finery on officers' wives, but it surely looked better on these living creatures.

His gaze drifted over the drowsy herd before settling on a large buck. The stag was as massive as any lead male, but one of its antlers had been crudely snapped in half, while the other looked as if it had been sawed off to maintain balance. His eyes were tightly shut, a dark line running from the outer corner down into the deep eye slit. The other reindeers would cast curious glances at Vasily as he passed, but this one remained utterly still, even when the man had come to his side.

Vasily lowered himself beside the buck and laid a hand on its flank. The great stag allowed it as his fingers sank in and combed through the thick fur. Vasily couldn't tell whether the buck enjoyed the back rub or simply lacked a spark of spirit. He didn't resist when Vasily traced his hand around the broken antlers to examine them.

That couldn't be a permanent damage. He's damaged, he's humiliated, but by next spring, those antlers would grow back. Then the reindeer could forget.

But it's not the same for humans. Those couldn't grow back. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, such was written in the holy text.

Vasily probed inside his mouth with the tip of his tongue. His wisdom teeth used to grow strong and straight, which quieted the comrades who had urged him to have them pulled early just in case. They then credited the roasted pine nuts that they had been stealing from squirrels and chewing during night watch. Vasily was never patient enough to pick at the tiny seams and instead just snapped them in half with those molars. He never worried about them. He thought they would always be there.

Now they're gone, teeth and men.

Suddenly, as if the memory of nuts had come to life, he heard the vigorous sound of chewing. Vasily lifted his head and saw a brown horse rummaging through the bean bucket that was probably meant for the upset reindeer. She looked greedy, even though her stomach had already bulged from a day's stroll.

This could have been a happy reunion, but the mare barely retracted her head from the bucket at Vasily's muffled sound, still chewing slowly as she cast an indifferent glance his way. Noticing what Vasily was cuddling against, she stopped all of a sudden.

Vasily could sense she was about to do something, but before he could stop her, the horse Napolyeon raised her hoof, and landed hard on the buck.

The miserable creature let out a wrenching cry of agony. With a fierce, desperate struggle, he flipped the human off his back. Vasily rolled aside in time, narrowly escaping the crushing force of those massive hooves. As the reindeer staggered upright, he towered over him like an unstoppable mountain. Worse still, the entire herd had been disturbed. Dark, massed forms of the animals approached with growing unrest, their eyes glinting in the newly fallen dusk.

Vasily had to scramble onto the horse's back and tug hard on the reins, managing to find a gap and steer his mount through just before the encircling herd closed in completely.

Uncertain of the direction, he continued riding. They were in a sizable meadow, surrounded by woods that stretched as far as the eye could see. He slowed their pace, turned the horse around, and began to circle away from the following reindeer behind them, moving at a quick pace toward the setting sun.

The solar disk was small and intensely bright, appearing as a dark orange orb centered directly above the Venus belt. Sunlight had traveled a long path through the atmosphere, scattering its longer wavelengths to illuminate the sky above Earth's shadow. Fanning outward from the fading sun was a broad band of anticrepuscular rays, framing it in an arch of light and casting brilliant golden beams that lit up the distant river. The light broke into a clear, pure shimmer that reflected across the camp, focusing on a single wide, pristine circle.

The circle was suspended in the air, held up by a hand. This hand extended from a sleeve with long, flowing strips, part of a bearskin robe embellished with feathers and cords. The figure wearing the robe also had a hat that had antlers on top, which dangled colorful strips that covered the person's face.

He couldn't tell who that was—not if they were man or woman, old or young. So obscured by the feathers, fur and antlers, he couldn't even be entirely sure it was a human underneath that at all. He was more aware of the sight of the figure lying at the center stage. His wounded beast was there, lying motionless on a mat. Vasily didn't know what they're going to do with him.

The mysterious person stood still in the clearing, raising the white drum high, yet withheld the strike.

Like everyone else in the camp, Vasily held his breath, waiting for what would happen next.

The sun had fully slipped below the horizon. The sky darkened, and cold moonlight soon prevailed, illuminating from the far side. In the blink of an eye, the world seemed to fall into a different realm, one ruled by a quiet and unseen presence.

At that precise moment, the shaman let out a shrill, falcon-like cry, followed by a sudden eruption of drums. The drummer began circling the mat, surrounding their patient, who twitched as if tormented by a haunting demon. He must have been in such a severe condition that their doctor had decided to let the herders try everything they could.

Vasily forced himself to watch the dance instead. The steps began unsteadily, like those of a toddler learning to walk. Soon they grew light and brisk, full of the bright energy of youth at its happiest. A moment later, the figure moved with one hand bracing the lower back, like a woman heavy with a child. Then the posture slowly collapsed into a stoop, the body losing its ability to stand upright, until at last the shaman was crawling across the ground like an old man on the verge of death.

Somewhere in the dark, someone threw a basin of water onto the fire. Thick smoke rose at once, and from within the deep white haze came the rapid pounding of a drum. Out of nowhere, a pair of antlers broke through the smoke. The shaman emerged, reborn after completing a full circle of life. They let out a sharp, piercing cry, like a newly hatched bird breaking free of its shell.

 

The shaman shook her sleeves, the strips of fabric whipping wildly and the feathers rustling. Her true spirit, like a freed bird, burst through the pale mist and soared across the three realms, searching the underworld for the lost soul. She might have found it, or perhaps a dark vision seized her. A single shrill cry tore through the air. Whether to ward off evil or to call herself back, the leaping figure swung the drumstick in a frenzy, bringing it down on the drum again and again, each blow more powerful than the last.

In this moment, his physical presence left behind in the mortal world went distant and irrelevant, feeling no pain at all. He stepped into the smoldering ashes of the dead fire without hesitation, never missing a beat. He leapt onto a raised platform, having every head tilting up. A few more violent twists, and he threw himself forward, tumbling from the platform into the heavy black smoke below.

Several herders stood, searching anxiously for their beloved grand cousin. Minutes passed, but the shaman lay completely still. Even the elders who had experience with rituals began to worry.

Just then, a hand broke through the black smoke. Another followed, and the shaman slowly crawled out.

Vasily narrowed his eyes, curious to see how this exorcism could make a difference.

The shaman sat barefoot on the cold ground. He drew his knees tightly to his chest, hunched like a wronged child, speaking in a tongue not even his blood could understand. Slowly, he lifted his head, bright eyes sweeping over his surroundings.

Then, as if seized by some forgotten urgency, he scrambled to his feet and lunged back toward the swirling smoke. His fingers tore through the layers of fur blankets in a frantic rush. Suddenly he went rigid. A sharp cry burst from these lips as he clutched his head, his shoulders shaking under a wave of wrenching sobs. When his hands finally fell away, the face was still wreathed in drifting tendrils of smoke, marked by vivid tear tracks streaming down his cheeks.

A knot of dread tightened in Vasily's chest. He got off the horse, ignoring the watchful eyes, and stepped toward the center. The shaman was weeping, barely breathing. His gaze snapped to the mat, where the bedding lay undisturbed.

The black smoke had dissolved, but in its midst, there was no one.

Vasily gasped, inhaling a lungful of acrid smoke that nearly sent him into a coughing fit. Even so, he pushed into the thinning haze, frantically beating at the mats as if someone could be hiding beneath those thin layers. He swept his gaze around the platform, thinking the man might have rolled away in his agony. Yet he found nothing.

A ringing filled his ears, as if sanity itself were leaking out of his mind. He even began to suspect the shaman had stolen what was his, hiding it in the unreachable abyss.

Grabbing the shaman, he hauled him upright. If that was what it took, he would force them to cast another spell and send him into the same domain. He wasn't afraid of the journey to the underworld, for he would ride with the speed of a Thracian carnivore. If the price was to move the heart of their queen, he would summon every power he had to shape an image that would make her weep with sorrow. And he would be more decisive than the heroes of old. He would gouge out his own eyes if he had to, because he knew himself too well—he would look back.

But after the ordeal, the shaman's divine power had faded, leaving behind what seemed only a frail old man. He managed to lift his eyelids, his gaze landing on Vasily, flinching as it passed over the scar, then when it finally met those cruel, icy eyes, a choked cry escaped him.

"Eche! Eche!" The man cried in a wretched shriek. "Prostikal," he cried. "Idu etken sinni girkiwes? Eŋnem sare..."

The old man's voice now sounded completely different, so much so that it reminded Vasily of the raspy, smoke-ruined voices of the guys he had served with. It got him back to his senses briefly, his grip loosened, and the shaman yelped as he fell into the ground.

Perhaps... Vasily swiftly moved away from the field. He was ready to lift the curtains one by one to search for any trace of his captive. He even located those wooden storage racks, not even doubting that the man could curl up in such tiny spaces.

Then, his wandering gaze locked onto something—or rather, the absence of something. Vasily stared at the spot where the horse had been tethered, now starkly empty.

He knew the cunning creature had likely worked loose the slack knot and wandered off, but another terrifying possibility crept up his spine, setting his scalp prickling.

A young man watched Vasily warily as the outsider rummaged through their camp. He was probably beginning to regret having brought him there and called for the doctor in the first place. He startled as his guest clenched his fists and marched off, "Hey, where are you going!"

The words had barely made their way into Vasily's fury-clouded brain. The camp was surrounded by woods and faced the river. The current was too violent, the forest too deep, yet a person truly wished to escape would always find a way. He isn't going to let that happen—

His eyes narrowed at the sight of a narrow path between the trees.

Vasily was empty-handed but for a torch, greased and blazing from the campfire. He lifted the flame higher, illuminating his scarred features in a grotesque theatrical light. Even if anyone had wanted to follow, that sight had surely made them shrink back.

He strode between the trees to find the riverbank. This dark, narrow path felt like the road to hell that he had sworn to take, and the devil could be anywhere, ready to take a calculated shot to correct last night's mistake.

Stopped among the trees, Vasily closed his eyes, and stood waiting. He felt his own mouth twitch, a tiny movement that sent a thread of pain through his torn flesh.That faint ache seemed to link this moment to the night before, as if calling out to finish what had been left undone.

He waited, but nothing happened. He opened his eyes to find nothing before him.

He could still vividly remember the other night, his own gaze refocusing on that immense black iris blooming above him. It blotted out the night sky, until it was all he could see, all he'd got.

Once in a lifetime, he had always believed it's his destiny to be a wandering star, drifting through the cosmos to witness its creation and dust, when suddenly he was ripped from his course and pulled into a gravity that promised to tear him apart. He was shredded into a million pieces, and found a new orbit around his ground zero. If not following a faint, flickering light in the distance, he would forever be lost in the darkness.

Vasily blinked, and the tiny flame didn't go away. It wasn't all his imagination.

Beside the riverbank stood a wooden structure that resembled little more than a barn. That could be one of the trading posts where fur merchants would come to rest, except it was too quiet for any occupants now.

High up, there was a small window—could have been a perfect sniping spot, though the shutters were tightly sealed with wooden panels, leaving no chance to see what's outside.

He extinguished his torch and began to circle the building on careful footsteps, studying each side. A river breeze rustled the thatched roof, and the candlelight flickered through the gaps in the boards. He held his breath and pressed close against the wall, searching for a crack to peer through.

Through the narrow gap, he could just make out the room's interior. It was cluttered with old junk, which blocked most of his view. While it wasn't the best place to spend the night, it offered plenty of hiding spots. He could imagine himself holed up in there. And the other guy would know Vasily wouldn't pass up investigating this spot.

Leaning against the wall, he slipped his hand inside his open coat as fingers curled into the shape of a concealed weapon. He shut his eyes, praying his pounding heart would slow down.

Moved behind the door, Vasily steadied himself. With a whip-crack kick, he busted it open.

Immediately, he shifted position to hide behind the door. Waiting. Silence.

Even when he peeked out from behind the wooden panel, no bullets flew out yet.

The entrance was only half-open, with Vasily's frame nearly blocking the entire exit. He stooped slightly to slip through the low doorway, then gave the handle a firm pull. With a creak, the door shut tightly behind him.

He didn't rush to draw his weapon, keeping his movements under control. Scanning the area at the corner of his eyes, he shifted his head very slowly.

First was the deserted bar. Once a bustling trading post, it had fallen into disuse as most merchants changed their routes with the coming of the Siberian Railway. Though drunkards and bartenders had left this place, the counter and shelves were still there, their tall fitments cast a shadowed expanse across the floor.

His gaze then drifted to the hay bales stacked in the corner, behind which gathered an ample space untouched by the light. He imagined it would make an excellent refuge, but at the cost of being completely cut off from the outside.

Only an oil lamp hung from a wooden beam above, swaying gently in the fading wind.

Vasily didn't walk to investigate those places. Instead, he slowly lifted his head.

His eyes were drawn to a place where something seemed…different. Part of it resembled the beam itself still sheathed in bark-like patterns, while another part appeared as pale tendrils emerging from the darkness. An ordinary eye would have taken it for nothing but a knot on the wood, but Vasily knew better. He understood how sight could mislead.

In the hollow's center, damp air rose like a breath. Vasily inhaled instinctively, his senses filling with the scent of mud and sweat. Then that strange, intoxicating odor returned, lingering at the edge of perception before dissolving. It's unbearable, Vasily thought, clamping a hand over his nose. He knew these vines were no natural growths, but things of flesh and blood, exuding a fragrance that made his head spin.

He yanked a cloth from his pocket and pressed it haphazardly to his face, barely holding himself together. He bit his lip, slowly tilted his head, listening to the shift of prey.

He knew he got locked on. The man was just as cautious and patient, watching him closely and keeping an eye on the hand hidden beneath his clothes as if he sensed Vasily was ready to draw and fire. But still, he waited, even with the advantage on his side, for reasons that couldn't quite be explained.

Vasiliy stood in the light where his eyes couldn't pierce the darkness, his hearing sharp enough to catch even the faintest sound and fix the target's position. He was confident he could aim and hit in an instant, but he still restrained himself from accepting the silent challenge to take the first shot.

The air grew thick, saturated with the scent of dust, dried hay and cold sweat. Two heartbeats hammered in the silence, waiting for the other to betray themselves with a skip. Maybe in the very next second, the instant a trigger was pulled, every score would be evened.

Maybe so. Vasily swallowed hard. His hand was hidden beneath his coat, hesitated for reasons of its own. At the same time, his mind drifted toward a solution that didn't involve firearms at all.

He could…manage a close-quarter combat. The other man was small but built of solid muscle. Fighting with him wouldn't be easy, but he preferred those odds.

His mind raced, weighing every possibility. He'd have to rely on his height, go for the legs and pull the man down into a grapple. And he'd need to watch those hands before they clawed at his wound. Maybe he could get him on the ground, pin him beneath him…

But before he could act, the shadow above wavered. The next second, the figure crouched overhead snapped into motion like a released spring.

Vasily didn't have time to react. The man's weight crashed down on him, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. In an instant, the attacker's legs cinched around his neck in a brutal lock, squeezing with unyielding strength. The pressure clamped down hard, heat and pain flooding Vasiliy's throat as his breath caught. His world shrank to the tightening vise at his neck, the threat of dizziness unconsciousness came creeping in. His hands flew upward on instinct, clawing at shins and ankles, trying to pry them loose, fingers digging into dense, supple meat.

But the grip didn't budge. One good eye burned with a fierce, his attack sent every fiber in his body straining as he twisted, trying to haul Vasiliy off balance. Now perched on him with bare legs locked tight, the man only needed to settle his balance, shift just right, and he could simply snap Vasily's neck clean.

Vasiliy could barely claw back a shred of sanity from the unbearable suffocation and body temperature. He took a steady breath and quickly glanced around. Half-crouching to steady himself with the man tangled on his back, he suddenly spun and stepped backward fast.

The other man seemed caught off guard by the sudden movement. Still clutching Vasiliy's head, a tiny sound slipped from his lips as his back slammed hard against the post.

The sound massaged a vein buried so deep inside that Vasily hadn't noticed before. It traced a hot line from behind his ear, down his collarbone, into the taut tendon of his right chest. That single spark ran along the vein like a fuse toward a fuel tank, and in an instant something inside him detonated. He didn't know where the strength came from—rage, instinct, or something else—but it flooded him all at once. With that sudden, consuming force, he reached for the man's torso, seized hold, and drove him downward, shoving him toward the straw-strewn mud floor.

Kneeling over the man, Vasily didn't take another look at what lay beneath him before went straight for the hands where he had caught a flash of black metal in one. The gun hand jerked away, stretching as far as it could to keep the weapon out of reach. Vasily lunged forward awkwardly, one hand braced against the ground while the other strained toward the pistol.

But the free hand shot out instantly, clamping hard around Vasily's wrist. His palm was thick with hardened calluses that scraped against Vasily's tender skin. Years of handling firearms, Vasily thought about it—and the thought sent another tremor through his chest.

In the next heartbeat, the gripping hand suddenly let go. It abandoned the block entirely and, catching Vasily off guard, drove straight for his face.

It should have been the perfect opening for Vasily to seize the gun, gripping both the stock and the hand in his palm. But at the same moment, the freed hand shot towards his head and tore away the rag covering his face. Fingers raked across his injured cheek, clamping down on his jaw as the thumb drove hard into the stitches as if trying to tear right through them.

He heard a roar, raw and undignified, and only then realized it was coming from his own throat. At the same time, fresh blood dripped down, splattering onto the face beneath him.

That face broke into a triumphant grin. The man did not loosen his grip, nor did he flinch from the falling blood. Even when it landed on his nose and slid into his open mouth, he showed no concern at all, licking it away with a grotesque satisfaction. He must have believed that as long as his fingers kept pressing in, the pain would break Vasily eventually, and his victory would be only a matter of time.

For a moment, Vasily squeezed his eyes shut. Every muscle in his body trembled despite his effort to stay still. Yet he didn't pull back, didn't twist away from the invading hand—That, would create an opening. Instead, he leaned into it, driving forward to wrench the gun's muzzle aside. With his other hand, he reached in and clamped down hard on the wrist still gripping the weapon.

Bracing himself against the searing pain, Vasily did not waver. He knew that if he could hold on just a moment longer, the victory would be his instead.

Until his fingertips brushed against something.

Vasily froze. At that exact moment, the probing fingers on his face took advantage of his slackened jaw, prying the torn flesh apart and digging in deeper. A muffled groan escaped him. He shot a glare at the man beneath him and saw the attacker's gaze fixed hungrily on the reopened wound. His focus there had slackened the control in his hands.

Seizing the opening, Vasily felt along the gun again, confirming what he had just noticed.

In an M1875 revolver, the spent cartridges always stay in its chamber even after firing. One must use the gun's small built-in ejector rod to poke each casing out, which is slow and tedious, though a seasoned hand could sometimes push one loose with their forefinger. Vasily had always preferred to fire a full circle of rounds at once, or he would have to sort out which chambers were empty, and which were not. It had taken him years of service to learn that difference by touch alone.

And now, under his fingers, he could feel it clearly. One next to another, the bullet tips had already been flattened. He had to sweep around the cylinder a second time to be certain.

The cylinder was still full, but the casings of the shot that had been fired earlier carried the faint scorch marks of an old discharge. It told him everything he needed to know.

The gun had been emptied long before this moment, and not a single live round remained.

Vasily lowered his gaze. The mystery of why the man didn't take his chance to fire despite holding every advantage a moment ago—finally made sense.

And the other man seemed to sense the shift too, meeting Vasily's stare head-on. His throat bobbed with an involuntary swallow. Strands of jet black hair had slipped free from the bandage and hung over his face, almost obscuring it entirely.

But there was no fear in him at being exposed, and no intention of surrendering the last scraps of advantage he could still hold. One hand pressed harder into Vasily's wound, driving more blood from a man who had exceeded the limit of pain. The other hand remained clenched around the gun, even though its spent rounds could no longer pierce the flesh of the enemy above him.

He stared at Vasily with an almost trance-like look, something far beyond a vicious glare. It was the gaze of someone studying an incomprehensible creature, trying to see straight through to its base logic.

Vasily had no idea what there was to examine. Maybe the man was trying to understand how anyone could withstand pain without retreating. Maybe he simply wanted to take in, at last, the face of the enemy he meant to punish, to admire the wound he had torn open with his own hands. Maybe he truly saw past one's husk and caught a glimpse of what writhed beneath Vasily's skin. The thing was pulsing eagerly. The thing was hungry.

Or maybe it was something else entirely.

That black eye dropped an inch lower, fixing on something.

In the next instant, the fingers buried in Vasily's wound tore free, ripping flesh and sending blood spraying across both. The hand shot straight for Vasily's collar. Only then did Vasily understand what he had been looking at.

During the struggle, a leather cord had slipped out from under his shirt. Hanging from it was that small trinket, just a wire cinched tight around a bullet tip and threaded through the strip of leather.

Only, when he took the bullet, the process wasn't finished. The tip was still unfired and sharp.

Almost at the same moment, Vasily freed one hand and caught the hand lunging for his throat, snatching it just before it could grab the bullet. He could barely hold that strength back, even though it came from someone who'd only just regained the ability to move. But he found the softest point over the artery and pinched down hard, making sure it would hurt. One slip, and he clamped down on the wrist entirely and slammed it to the floor.

Vasily threw almost all his strength into pressing down—hands on hands, his thigh locking around the torso to stop it from twisting free, or getting a leg up to kick him off. He thought of everything.

Or almost everything.

His bullet pendant dangled in the air, just beyond the reach of those restrained hands, but not beyond the reach of the mouth. Though Vasily had the rest of the body pinned down, he had no control over those lips, still glistening with fresh blood that was clearly not its own.

The stain glistened as the mouth split in a grin. Then, it lunged upward. His tongue rolled out in a single, fluid motion, then took the bullet in.

Vasily was stunned when the tongue press hard against the bullet's edge, the head snap sideways as a curtain of black hair whipped away, and the pendant slide cleanly from his neck. The lips sealed tight, the soft flesh pinning the metal securely in place without letting the sharp teeth so much as nick it.

Throughout the entire performance, a single black eye remained narrowed in concentration. Now, it lifted and fixed on Vasily's face. Somehow, in that look, was a trace of smug satisfaction for its captive audience.

Vasily couldn't tear his eyes away. Every part of him was occupied holding the rest down. He knew his face must look terrifying, yet the man beneath him was not one to be easily intimidated or impressed. He was transfixed as that eye narrowed with smug satisfaction and the lips holding the bullet curved into a smirk.

This wasn't right. This feeling… It felt illegal. Vasily had never wanted to bow to any law, whether it came from the church or the Tsar, yet this felt like a violation of the one rule he lived by, to be his own master, to let nothing sway his decisions. This was making him weak. He could feel his control slipping through his fingers.

He opened his mouth and leaned down. There was only one part of his body he still had control of.

That half-formed smile froze as Vasily's bloody mouth closed around the other end of the bullet. The metal felt warm and damp against his cracked lips. He felt the other man's breath brushing the tip of his nose, his body giving off that intoxicating scent. Vasily couldn't stop himself from drawing it in, and his eyelids faltered, unable to hold their place when he could already feel those long eyelashes grazing against his.

Suddenly, the other man's lower body shifted. Vasily let out a faint grunt, registering the feeling of that leg sliding between his own—right up until the next second, when a knee drove hard into his groin.

His mouth loosened into a wordless cry, and the sudden stretch of his jaw tore at the wounds. Pain flared in two places at once, sending him collapsing to the side. For a moment he didn't even know whether to clutch his face or his crotch.

The other man seized the opening, yanking his wrists free of Vasily's grip. His fingers snapped up toward the magazine, sending one of the empty casings inside flying. He followed it with a swift roll across the floor, ending up on his back as he raised the stock of the gun. His tongue carried his trophy and slipped out, pushing it deep into the empty chamber, giving it a firm shove.

A sharp, clean click rang out. The bullet had found its gun, slid into place and seated itself firmly.

Vasily knelt on the floor, feeling something hard press against the back of his head. This time it was loaded with the real thing. Not a gun hidden in clothing that didn't exist, not an empty weapon without bullets.

He lifted his head, the muzzle pressing cold and unyielding against the skin of his forehead.

He met the gaze above it and saw the expression on the man's face. Changed from earlier smugness and shifted into something else entirely, it looked as if staring at an abomination.

"Pervert," the curse hissed out from between his teeth, in Vasily's own mother tongue.

It was only one word, but that single word was enough to twirl Vasily's world upside down. He felt as if all the bones in his body were melting away, his knees nearly giving out beneath him.

Some part of him registered the fact that he had seen the man talk to other men, having to look through his telescope and find out. But somehow he had always believed the two of them existed on a different plane, communicating through nature rather than through language. Now it felt as if he had come all this way and stepped in this close just so Vasily could know the sound of his voice and the scent of his body. Just so he could learn the way goosebumps rippled along his naked arms and thighs when a cold wind slipped through the empty barn and set the bark fabric draped over him swaying.

Just close enough for him to see the shame and fury flushing pink spreading out of that mask of disgust. He hadn't been groomed in a while, Vasily noticed. The once-trimmed beard had grown into a shallow grey shadow along his chin, and his hair, now longer, had come loose from the eyepatch's restraint. He looked unkempt, and the way he was staring at Vasily bordered on madness. He looked like he was trying to make sense of whatever he was looking at in front of him.

Cold sweat broke out across Vasily's back as his gaze shifted to the thick fingers wrapped around a familiar cylinder. There would be no misfire this time. He could try to grab the gun. He could still dash to the other side of the bar counter and use it as cover. He ran through every possible scenario he could think of, but the odds were terrible. He didn't plan to stake his life on the hope that the man simply didn't feel like pulling the trigger.

Vasily shifted as he slowly pushed himself upright. He stayed hunched, careful not to rise to his full height. Anything too sudden would set the other man off. He took a step back.

Though barely recovered from a fever, that man's hands held the revolver steady. Both hands were now on the gun, the revolver cocked into a double action and the trigger heavier and ready to fire at any moment. He could fire standing where he was, but with every careful step Vasily took backward, his opponent moved forward just as slowly, closing the distance, keeping the barrel one inch from Vasily's nose. His head turned slightly to one side, the odd seams on his cheeks rising unnaturally as he bit hard on his lips, tiny teeth grazing the soft flesh and leaving dents.

Vasily couldn't look away, until the heel of his boot struck something solid behind him. He had been backed into the abandoned counter.

He could—he could take this chance. If he steadied himself and pushed his weight downward, flipping over the counter, he could use the bar as cover.

Suddenly, the barrel shifted. In the next instant, it pressed against his jaw.

Those lips moved fast, curling and uncurling with rough consonants. "I hate your lousy job." Vasily could barely hear these words over his own heart hammering in his chest. "I can finish this for you."

Vasily's eyes widened as the cold barrel pressed under his cheekbone, pushing hard under the wound where rough fingers had played and torn before. Thick, dark blood welled and trickled down. But this wasn't the same sharp, searing pain as before, more like a grinding pressure when his flesh was mashed tightly against the other side of the opening, burning and tingling all at once.

He fought to keep quiet, but still, a tiny, embarrassing sound escaped from deep inside his throat.

Vasily had to close his eyes, not just for the pain. He didn't dare meet the other man's gaze, afraid he'd find what's inside it. Finding the deepest despise. Finding his own reflection. Now the man was done studying him and figured him out, saw him as what he really was: barely a trace of humanity, certainly not the godlike existence he made himself believe when creating his tiny paper world. Maybe in that dark mirror, he was the beast—lurking, lusting, hiding itself in the loneliest outpost on the edge of the world. He feared that he might find a strange kind of acceptance. Because then there would be no turning back.

Vasily had never felt so helpless before.

Maybe the man would pull the trigger, maybe he wouldn't. Vasily had learned to accept any possibility. He simply stood there in silence. The shadows cast by the oil lamp above flickered, leaving an orange blur behind his tightly shut eyelids. For a moment, the atmosphere softened, as if Death himself had grown merciful, humming a lullaby with the faint creak of the lamp.

But then his ears caught a faint hiss that shattered the fragile calm in an instant.

Vasily froze. His eyes snapped open, his head whipping toward the sound, confirming it was no trick to his mind.

A shot cracked through the barn, echoing off the walls. A bullet tore through the air.

The man who had just been pointing the gun at him reacted faster than Vasily, firing his shot toward the sound at the doorway. No one could see what he'd hit—but he had hit something.

Whatever had come through the darkness could have been anything—a trespasser, a bear, an ungodly presence… or maybe nothing at all. Only then did Vasily realize what they'd probably done. There were people living nearby…common folks.

He remembered that much. The day's memories flashed through his mind, one after another. Their honest faces and small talk. Their packed tribes and shiny rifles.

Panic began to rise inside him.

The other man still wore that strange calm, bracing a hand on the now-empty pistol, still refusing to let it go. He was genuinely surprised when Vasily pushed him aside and headed for the door.

Vasily's breath hitched as he inched toward the door. The world outside now felt heavy with the promise of horrors unseen. He forced himself forward towards the suffocating black.

Creeeak.

The door swung inward before he could touch it.

A thing launched from the ground, jerking, crawling. Its blood-slicked hand clawed at the sky, followed by the ragged, scraping drag of a body hauling itself over the threshold. The stench of copper and soil flooded the room almost instantly.

Instinct screamed at Vasily to shove the intruder back, to slam the door against the nightmare. But beside him, his man was faster.

The one who had just pointed a gun at Vasily a moment ago had shifted his attention towards the newcomer. He dropped into a low crouch, unflinching, as the wretched form writhed at his feet.

Vasily expected a gasp, a cry of alarm. Instead, the man leaned closer, his head cocked. A low, thoughtful hum vibrated in his throat.

"I…think I know this man," he murmured, the words chillingly calm.

Vasily's eyes were wide with adrenaline, finally seeing past the gore. The tattered fabric was the distinct cut of a uniform. Not military, but one from some private establishment.

He bent even lower, strained to catch something—anything—from the man's fading breath, but he doubted he could squeeze any real answers.

In the dim doorway, the dying one couldn't make out their faces, only two shadowed shapes framed by the flickering lamplight, grim and monstrous. Then, focusing on their faces as best he could, the man let out a muffled scream, as if demons had come to drag him away. His struggle only grew fiercer. His voice thinned to a rasp.

"Find… find…"

Final words, and then there was none.

Vasily watched the light drain from the man's eyes and gently closed the trembling lids. He didn't think the man's long, tortured journey to die at their door was really because of them. But anyone would get suspicious, seeing this. That, made one thing crystal clear.

They had to deal with this before anyone found the body.

The other man, unfazed, began rifling through the corpse's coat with practiced hands, as if he was used to it. He might be looking for identification. That could explain things at a certain level.

At last, the hand pulled something heavy from an inner pocket, felt its shape, even sniffed it.

"Hey," he called, beckoning Vasily over.

The single word was a hook. Vasily probably shouldn't have answered the call like he's well trained, but curiosity burned too fiercely to resist.

"Take a look," the man said simply.

Vasily stepped closer. The other loosened the drawstring and unfolded a small pouch beneath the lamp's trembling glow.

Suddenly, the room seemed to brighten. The dim light of the lamp flared, as if fresh kerosene had just been poured in it. The abandoned bar counter was alive again, shining as if restored to its glory days, bustling with the comings and goings of the travelers. The stacks of straw looked as vibrant as if freshly harvested, glowing warmly under the setting sun. Even the entire wooden cabin took on a golden hue, the walls dotted with tiny flickers of light—all coming from that small, unassuming pouch.

It was a small bundle, no larger than a fist, but it held a distinct weight.

Grainy. Gleaming. Gold.

So simple, yet so dazzling, that even the untamed minds of primitive humans knew it was something precious and built a society around it. The gift of gods, and the damnation of men.