As the screams and cries began to fade, the tribe raiders knew it was time to return to their original task. Some showed frustration, annoyed that their "fun" had come to an end, while others eagerly dragged their newly captured slaves, already imagining the rewards they would receive for completing their mission.
A thin but muscular raider carried an unconscious child on his back, his mind replaying the events that had led to the child collapsing in front of him. A strange, unsettling feeling crept into his thoughts, leaving him uneasy.
He watched as the child cried tears of blood, only for the bloody streaks to vanish as if they had been absorbed into the child's skin. The tears themselves seemed to reverse, as though the child's eyes were drawing them back in. It all happened in the blink of an eye.
Am I going crazy? This is insane. Even if I told this to someone who's lost their mind, they wouldn't believe something like this
As the raider threw the child into the caged wagon, he glanced at the unconscious child, shook his head, and walked away. He knew he had to report this to his leader, even if it made him sound like a madman.
Night faded, and dawn arrived. As the sun rose in the east, its light glistened on the dew clinging to the leaves. A medium-sized caravan moved slowly along a rough, muddy road, untouched by any trace of concrete. One of the caged wagons, packed with slaves, became entangled in the vines of nearby trees. A heavily tattooed, muscular man yanked open the cage, grabbed the nearest slave, and hurled him to the ground.
"All of you, get out, now!"
The slaves, moving like puppets, stepped down one after another until the cage was empty. The tattooed, muscular man gestured to his companion to pull the caged wagon while he pushed it from behind.
"What an idiot! Clear the vines first!"
As the other man approached, he grabbed the axe from his back and swung it hard at the tangled vines wrapped around the wheel. The wooden wheel couldn't withstand the force of the blow and shattered instantly, snapping like a dry stick.
The two men exchanged glances and burst into laughter. They turned to the slaves and commanded them to push the wagon to the side. As the men started to walk away, one of the slaves, covered in bruises and wounds, quietly picked up a sharp piece of wood and drove it into the neck of one of the tattooed men. Sensing danger, the tattooed man didn't bother to look back—he immediately crouched, spun around, and struck the slave hard in the chest. The slave coughed up blood, staggered back a couple of steps, and without even glancing at his fellow tribesmen, he shouted:
"Run!"
The freed slaves hesitated for a moment, their emotions shifting from fear to anger. Clenching their teeth, they began to run for their lives. The other slaves still trapped in the caged wagon cheered them on. As long as there was a chance, as long as their fellow tribesmen escaped, there was hope that they might return to help free the rest. This forest was their home, after all. Within a one-kilometer radius of their village, they knew every trap, every animal, and every inch of the terrain. They had lived here since birth, and they were determined not to die here without a fight.
The tattooed man stared at the slave in front of him, slowly closing the distance. The slave stepped back, gripping his pointed piece of wood tightly. Suddenly, the tattooed man vanished from sight, only to reappear with a devastating punch to the slave's chin, the force lifting him off the ground.
Dazed but not yet defeated, the slave tried to counterattack, driving his knee toward the tattooed man's face. The tattooed man, anticipating the move, ducked to the side at the last moment and delivered a crushing blow to the left side of the slave's chest. The slave was sent flying into the broken wagon, bouncing off and tumbling to the ground. Clutching his side, he groaned, struggling to breathe. The tattooed man gave him no time to recover. With a brutal strike, he smacked the back of the slave's head with enough force to shatter stone, yet the slave's skull remained intact.
The tattooed man sat on the slave's back, yanked his head up by the hair, and drew a knife from his side, pressing the blade against the slave's neck.
"Tribe Leader!"
As the slave's fellow tribesman shouted, the raiders erupted into maniacal laughter. The tattooed man pressed the knife harder against the neck of the slave, who was their tribe leader. Blood began to trickle down, dripping onto the ground.
"Tell me, Tribe Leader," the tattooed man sneered, "how long do you think it will take my men to recapture OUR slaves?"
After an hour of waiting, the raiders began dragging the escaped slaves back, one by one. Some of the slaves were missing limbs, bleeding profusely, while others were already dead. A few had been decapitated, their heads tossed casually by the raiders as trophies.
Then, a small figure emerged into view. The child was dragging a man—whether dead or alive, it was unclear—while clutching a severed head in his other hand. The face on the head was frozen in an expression of shock and terror. With each step the child took, barefoot, a trail of crimson blood followed. His eyes were cold and emotionless as he approached. Stopping in front of the tattooed man, who was still kneeling on the tribe leader, the child threw the head at his feet.
"I want to make a Trade..." the child said, his voice steady and devoid of feeling.