Exiled from the Tribe
The High Priest believed he had deftly slipped past a crisis through his quick wit and eloquent tongue, and he even took immense pride in the feat.
After all, did it not prove that despite his advancing years, he remained a wise counselor and the man best suited to be High Priest?
Unfortunately, it took less than a single day for that pride to shatter.
The tribesmen's fascination had focused entirely on the subject of the miracle, not on the High Priest who had proclaimed it. Before a divine miracle, all the accomplishments he had meticulously built over decades amounted to nothing.
The High Priest was forced to acknowledge that in dodging a petty danger, he had created the worst enemy imaginable.
If left alone, Ivan would wrest away his entire sphere of influence simply by breathing.
This was no paranoid delusion; it was an undeniable reality, and one he could not bear. Even if Ivan truly had been chosen by the gods, it was utterly unacceptable.
He had to crush the boy before he grew any larger.
Even if it meant framing him with false accusations.
In that sense, from the very moment Ivan rose from the dead, this outcome had already been written in stone.
Though he had initially come seeking an excuse to strike, the High Priest had felt genuine curiosity toward the object known as soap. After all, he was a shaman who dabbled in the mysteries of the unseen; it was only natural to be intrigued by unfamiliar lore. He had even momentarily forgotten his sinister purpose—right up until the slippery bar flew from his grasp and struck him squarely on the bridge of his nose.
Now, the High Priest was utterly convinced: Ivan was truly an evil spirit.
If not an evil spirit, what sort of creature could fashion such a vile, treacherous trick?
"You cursed fiend! Now you dare attempt my life?!"
As the High Priest threw a fit like a raving lunatic, a crowd gathered in an instant.
Ivan struggled to comprehend what was happening. Just moments ago, the old man had been acting so dignified and composed. Had dementia suddenly set in?
"What on earth are you doing?"
"Silence! Today, I shall rip away that hideous mask of yours!"
Huffing and puffing, the High Priest kicked the door open and bellowed before the gathering tribesmen.
"As the High Priest of our tribe, I have grave words for you all! What happened a few days ago was no divine miracle, but a horrific tragedy!"
"Nonsense!"
Havel roared in fury, looking ready to throw a punch at any second.
"Are you saying my brother coming back to life is a terrible tragedy?! If you came here just to spout such garbage, you had better prepare yourself!"
"I am sorry to say it, but your friend is already dead. A wicked, evil spirit has simply stolen his flesh."
Wait, how the hell does he know that?!
It was nothing more than a lucky guess, but unaware of that, Ivan felt goosebumps break out across his entire body.
"You said it was a miracle of God with your own mouth!"
"I was mistaken. Or rather, the evil spirit momentarily clouded my vision, clouding my sound judgment."
"You call that an excuse...?"
"Think about it. Does it make any sense for someone to lose their memories just because they returned from death? If Baldor had truly bestowed a miracle upon him, it would never be so flawed."
Even the High Priest was a little surprised by his own words. He had merely blurted out whatever came to mind, yet it sounded remarkably convincing.
"Come to think of it, that is rather strange."
"I knew it. Why would the great Baldor ever grant a miracle to a runt like him?"
A mystic’s words always carried spiritual weight. When combined with a few well-timed murmurs from plants he had placed in the crowd beforehand, the sparks caught and spread like wildfire. The High Priest sensed the tide turning decisively in his favor.
"Furthermore, under the pretense of recovering his strength, he has been hiding away and crafting abominations too foul to name! I went to inspect it alone to uncover the truth, and look at the gruesome harm I suffered!"
The High Priest pointed to his nose, which was still trickling blood.
Watching the loathsome performance, Ivan felt a violent urge to kill. Havel was clearly experiencing the exact same impulse.
The only difference was that Havel did not stop at mere thought.
"Shut up! You crazy old bastard, you really came here with an agenda, didn't you?! How dare you frame my brother!"
As Havel lunged forward with an axe gripped in his hand, the High Priest's complexion drained of all color.
"Aiee! T-This boy has been thoroughly possessed by the evil spirit!"
"I'll kill you!"
Before anyone could intervene, the handaxe came swinging down. But just before the blade could split the High Priest’s skull, a massive, thick hand seized Havel’s wrist and twisted it away.
"Who the hell dares—Father?"
Instead of answering, the man swung his other hand and struck Havel across the face. Unable to withstand the blow, Havel crashed to the earth and rolled across the dirt.
The man looked down at the fallen Havel with eyes as cold as frost.
"Foolish whelp. How many times must I tell you not to address me that way in front of the tribe?"
"...Great Chieftain. Forgive me, but this is a personal matter. Please step aside."
"There is no need. I have heard enough of the circumstances."
The Great Chieftain shifted his gaze, staring quietly at Ivan.
"I will not take your life. Leave this place. Right this instant."
It was not a proposal; it was a unilateral decree. Havel cried out, his voice cracking with desperation.
"Why?! Don't tell me you actually believe that absurd nonsense!"
"The truth does not matter. What matters is that the High Priest has served this tribe since before you were even born."
"Why does something like that even matter—"
"It matters. All the more so for the future of the tribe."
Turning his back on the stunned, frozen Havel, the Great Chieftain asked Ivan:
"Tell me. Between you and the High Priest, who is the more valuable man?"
"..."
Faced with a question whose answer had already been decided, Ivan could say nothing.
"No answer. I shall take that as your acceptance."
Having spoken his piece, the Great Chieftain turned and walked away without looking back. Amidst the unsettled, murmuring crowd, every eye fell upon Ivan.
Fuck.
He should have picked a better class. Ivan repeated the regret for what felt like the hundredth time.
"...Ivan, don't worry too much. You'll be able to return soon. I'll do whatever it takes."
"All right. Just don't push yourself too hard."
"You just need to stay here until then. Do you remember this place? We used to play here all the time when we were kids."
Ivan looked toward the shabby hut standing in a secluded corner of the woods. It was weathered and worn, but structurally sound enough to serve as shelter.
If anything, his first thought was how absurdly convenient it all was.
Was getting kicked out part of the game's progression all along? Otherwise, there was no reason for an empty house to just be sitting out here.
It might have been pure rationalization, but Ivan decided to treat it as such anyway. At the very least, doing so was better for his sanity. If this entire ordeal was nothing more than an unavoidable current of fate, what could he have accomplished by struggling against it?
Havel dropped the heavy sack he had carried onto the ground.
"Ivan, I packed some things you might need. I'll come by often, so don't worry."
"Thank you, Havel. It feels like I'm always on the receiving end with you."
"Don't thank me. Between brothers, this is only natural. Ah, right, I almost forgot this."
Havel drew a handaxe from his belt and handed it over to Ivan.
"It's my most prized possession. It should be a big help."
A sudden lump formed in Ivan's throat. At the same time, an intense desire surged within him to confess the truth.
"Havel, there's something I need to tell you..."
"Hm? What is it?"
Yet when it came down to actually speaking the truth, his lips refused to part. A wave of dread washed over him—the terror that he might lose the only friend in this alien world who stood by his side.
That would be truly unbearable.
"...No, it's nothing. Just... thanks."
"Don't be silly. Take care, then."
Even after Havel departed, Ivan remained standing in place for a long time, staring blankly into the distance.
A terrible, bone-chilling solitude seeped into his marrow.
A dark thought even crept into his mind—that perhaps it would be better to just lie down, do nothing, and die.
The very next instant, Ivan raised his hand and slapped his own face with all his might. The strike was so brutal that his cheek instantly swelled bright red.
Only then did his head clear. Ivan spat a glob of bloody saliva into the dirt.
"Now that I think about it, this is utter bullshit. Did I ask to come here? I was dragged here against my will."
When cornered on the edge of a cliff, a man had to be a little brazen if he wanted to survive. Ivan purged every trace of weak sentiment swirling in his head—the regret, the loneliness, the guilt.
Creak—
Pushing open the weathered door, he surveyed the desolate interior. A chilled breeze whistled through holes in the wooden walls.
Burning some firewood would make it bearable. But first, he needed to eat something.
It was pretty heavy... Wonder what's inside?
Licking his lips in anticipation, Ivan untied the sack Havel had left behind.
Inside were a long blade, seasonings like salt, animal pelts thick enough to sleep under, and skin after skin filled to the brim with liquor.
No matter how many times he rummaged through it, there was not a single scrap of food.
"Ah, that crazy bastard..."
In his mind's eye, Ivan could vividly picture Havel giving him a hearty, confident thumbs-up.
Well, what could he do? If he wanted to survive, he had to get to work.
Letting out a deep sigh, Ivan tightened his grip on the handaxe and set off into the woods in search of game.