These Evil Child Abuser Bastards
Half a year had passed since Balun passed the Fang Trial and became a full-fledged warrior of the tribe.
Considering he'd spent the first two months after that in a coma, a full eight months had flown by.
Eight months. Six months if you subtracted the blackout period. More than enough time to accomplish something. If you put in the effort, you could achieve your goals and then some. Hell, with real sweat and blood, it might even change your life.
But Balun hadn't changed his life in all that precious time.
Summer was winding down, and he was still stuck inside the Red Fang Tribe's fences, unable to escape.
Why?
Was escape too hard? Was the path too far and treacherous? Were there swarms of deadly beasts? Vicious poisons? Monsters lurking everywhere? Or had the tribe members flat-out refused, watching him 24/7 to prevent a breakout?
Nope. None of that.
He hadn't even tried to escape.
What an absurd reason. But Balun had his excuses.
There was just no information. None.
Think about it. This was life-or-death stuff. Screw it up, and you're fucked. How do you dive into something that could snap your neck without knowing jack shit?
He wanted to escape to survive, not charge into potential death headfirst.
That's insane.
You don't bet your life on uncertainties. Especially when it was obviously going to be a nightmare.
Others might think differently, but not Balun.
Gambling's for suckers. Live smart, play steady.
That said, he hadn't just sat on his ass. He'd prepared like hell.
Too much prep, actually. That was the problem.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Balun swung his axe furiously. Sweat poured off his massive upper body like rain. Feeling the heat rising from his skin, he thought,
I should be gathering intel instead of just grinding like this. Then I could make a plan or something.
Over the past half-year, he'd trained obsessively.
Anxiety drove him. That rock crevice troll fight had nearly killed him. He needed to get stronger. With his current skills, he'd barely reach the Great Mountains' midpoint before monsters turned him into paste.
At minimum, he needed enough power to cross them.
That mindset fueled his relentless training. But the issue? Training was all he did.
I need to scout some info... but how?
No choice. These damn barbarians couldn't care less about the civilized world. They knew squat about it.
At best, they vaguely knew "iron-armored people" lived beyond the Great Mountains.
Thank the spirits for the shaman. Without Ulan, the tribe's brain, Balun wouldn't have even that much.
"Balun. There you are."
A voice snapped him out of it. His axe froze mid-swing. Turning, he saw a white-haired elder approaching.
Ulan, shaman of the Red Fang Tribe.
"Oh, Ulan."
"Why skip lessons today? Has your thirst for knowledge finally dried up?"
"What? No way. What do you mean—"
Balun glanced around and froze. Shadows from houses and people stretched long across the ground.
When did time slip by like that?
"Looks like you lost yourself in training again. Tsk tsk."
"Yeah... got too focused."
Balun scratched his head. Ulan chuckled and patted his shoulder.
"Impressive. Truly impressive. Seeing you work so hard warms my heart. The Red Fang's future shines bright. Heh heh."
Ulan eyed Balun up and down, admiring his hulking frame with a proud grin. Honey-dripping pride.
To Balun, it was pure nightmare fuel.
And that line? "Red Fang's future shines bright"? What fresh hell was that?
He was busting his ass to avoid that future.
"Gotta train hard to stay alive, right?"
"Balun, I've watched you since you were a swaddled babe. I know you well."
Ulan continued,
"You call yourself no warrior, but that's nonsense. You're more warrior than anyone—more man than any man."
"Nah, come on."
"No. Look. You charge bravely into every hunt. You fight in every war, bringing glory to the tribe. Still say you're no warrior?"
Because you forced me, assholes...
Forgot holding an axe to a ten-year-old's throat and ordering him to hunt bears, huh?
"Recall the last six years. Count your kills. Your war feats. Too many to tally."
Ulan launched into Balun's saga. Vivid tales of hunts and battles, like epic folklore. Heroic stuff that thrilled everyone—except Balun, for whom it was a scrapbook of trauma.
Desperate flailing for survival! Gut-wrenching struggles against fangs and blades! The effort to avoid getting shredded...
Thinking back made his teeth grind.
These evil child abuser bastards.
Finally wrapping up the epic, Ulan beamed.
"See? Your deeds echo across the eastern plains. No tribe here hasn't heard your name. Right?"
"Yeah, sure."
That's the problem, old man.
Balun's name was infamous locally. Some trembled at it.
"Exactly. If you're not a warrior, a man, then who is? Right?"
"Well, yeah, but..."
"Haha, good. You get it."
He was nodding reluctantly to dodge more preaching. Ulan would harp until Balun admitted he was a "warrior."
"Balun, you're an outstanding warrior. Our tribe's future. The upper warriors even proposed you as future chieftain candidate."
"Huh?"
What the hell now?
Chilling words.
"Haha, you love it. Of course you're thrilled. Leading Red Fang—pure glory."
Not thrilled at all.
Balun wanted to crack open the old man's skull. Ears worked fine. Brain misfiring on comprehension?
"That wasn't officially adopted, right?"
"What kind of question is that? Of course it was."
"Oh."
Balun's vision darkened.
Fucked. Truly fucked.
Staying meant chieftaincy. Fancy title for frontline death row. They were pushing him to die.
Classic heartless child abusers.
Already got plenty gunning for me...
Lately, arrows veered his way in battles. Not paranoia.
"See? Bright future. Your strength ranks top in the tribe. Grow more, and you'll be the greatest. Right?"
"Yeah."
He nodded. Hated admitting it, but true. Keep going, and he'd be top warrior.
(Red Fang's "greatest" all died gutted.)
"Now imagine: your power plus sharp intellect."
"Intellect? Yeah, it'd be amazing."
"Exactly! That's why you must learn the Ironclad Language!"
There it is.
Ironclad Language: civilized tongue beyond the mountains. Known only to a few in Red Fang—like Ulan.
"You have the brawn. Add brains, and you're supreme. That's why I push so hard. Why skip my efforts?"
Short version: Why ditch class? Wanna die?
All that buildup for this. Ruthless geezer.
Feeling the sharp glare, Balun replied,
"What? You know I never miss your lessons."
"But today you did."
"Training got in the way..."
Ulan shook his head at the excuse.
"Enough training. You're strong already."
Balun nearly snorted.
Strong my ass.
This old fart wanted him dead. Stop training now? When he needed more?
"What you need is intellect."
Ulan pressed firmly.
"No chieftain ever mastered Ironclad. You would be the first true intellect chieftain. Thrilling, no?"
Balun got it now.
Turning me into super-chieftain: warrior and scholar.
One step closer to doom.
"So? Still no interest?"
"Of course I am. I asked to learn it, remember?"
True. Balun requested it—for escape, not chieftaincy.
"Right. Knew your heart hadn't cooled. Heh heh."
"Obviously."
Needed the language for civilized life. Charades would suck.
"Haha, good! Let's head to class now!"
"Now?"
"Problem?"
"Nah, let's go."
Balun stopped training, wiped down, and followed Ulan's strides.
Thinking,
I'll bust out of here somehow.
The chat solidified his resolve.
Another month passed.
Balun's routine stayed the same: hunts, two small wars, training in downtime.
At 16, in growth spurt prime, his body hardened daily.
Lessons too. He matched training effort with Ironclad studies: one hour daily with Ulan, nightly reviews.
One such day. Summer ended; air cooled.
Balun headed out early for hunt, as usual.
"Anyone for Moonwatching Mountains? Hunting sharp-horn deer leader."
"Dark Forest, five spots. Hop in."
"Hey, young warrior! Follow me!"
Dawn at village entrance: men shouting, recruiting hunt parties.
Red Fang: ~400-500 strong, many warriors. Hunts split accordingly.
Strong warriors led, picking teams. Balun was one—16-year-old hunt leader. Unprecedented.
...Unwelcome fame for him.
"Join me?"
"Me!"
"Balun? Hell yeah!"
Popular guy. Team filled fast. They flocked without asking.
"Where to today?"
"Death Canyon."
"Ooh, Death Canyon. Tough spot again!"
"Prey plentiful there lately."
"True. Let's roll!"
Balun led seven warriors to Death Canyon: southeast, venomous hellhole.
En route, one asked,
"Balun, hitting hard spots lately. Changing your mind?"
"Gotta roam wide for big game, right?"
"Ah, got it!"
That satisfied them. Balun's real motive?
Might be a path beyond Death Canyon.
Recalling his trial: fought rock crevice troll deep inside. Fleeing battle blurred memories, but he'd glimpsed... something. A vague path out.
Recent trips: scouting it. Maybe an alternate route to civilization?
Mountains weren't the only way. Land connects somehow. Detours exist if you look.
Barbarians claimed no path beyond. Balun doubted. No real maps—why trust them?
I'll find out eventually.
His eyes gleamed. A path meant escape was real.
"Alright, fan out."
"Left for me."
"Right then!"
Hunt kicked off smoothly. Eight roles: scouts find, drivers herd, fighters kill.
Surprisingly organized for barbarians. Efficient.
Balun scouted. Ostensibly for prey; really for exit paths.
Screeeeech!
"Wild boar!"
"Waha!"
Other scout found one already.
"Balun! Anything?"
"Looking!"
"We got one! Step it up! Haha!"
"On it!"
Balun brushed off banter, scanning. Strikeout today, probably.
Tch. Fine. Hunt proper.
Not fruitless. Ruled out this area.
Canyon's finite. Daily sweeps would cover it eventually. Truth revealed.
Just avoid deep spots. Safe here.
Half-year studies: canyon fauna mastered.
Turning to rejoin—
A weird noise.
Hm?
Like rattling. Not natural. Wheels?
What?
Curiosity pulled him toward it.
Two minutes in: source spotted.
"Path here! This way!"
People?
People. Carriage riders, driver, runners beside. Fleeing something.
Peering back: horsemen with swords, whipping reins, chasing.
Red hoods, creepy grins, ragged clothes. Bandits. Movie-style.
Balun's eyes widened.
Real? Not fake?
Civilized folk!
His heart thundered. Backstory irrelevant. They were civilized—clothed properly, not bare-chested savages.