Chapter 8: The Left Eye Burns

Chapter 8: The Left Eye Burns

The Freelance Mercenary Group wasn't part of the kingdom. Located outside the gigantic border wall, it was the only mercenary group that had built its den in the wilderness. Bog had chosen the area west of the Ice Lake, where the landscape was an unpredictable range of mountains. The Fierce Flame Freelancers occupied a vast stretch of this land. Due to the presence of Langman Dwarves, they had turned this place into a sturdy military fortress.

As dawn broke over the horizon, spreading across the vast wilderness, the horses' hooves stepped into the light clinging to the ground and crossed the lowered drawbridge. The first whistle sounded loud and clear. As Bog's horse entered the enclosed fortress, Karl couldn't help but express his admiration.

Praise to the Langman Dwarves, for their ingenious minds, they had carved the entire den into the mountain. The houses, cunningly arranged and full of character, spiraled around the mountain walls, interconnected by stairways. Dwarves, humans, even elves, moved between them, each dwelling showcasing its unique charm. Sunlight poured from the top, illuminating the center where an ancient flower tree bathed in the sun's glow.

"Where did you dig this up from?" Gare gazed at the flowering tree. "The Wisdom Tree disappeared along with the Treefolk, and the one in the Forest of Ten Thousand Wisdoms has long withered. Yet, you’ve managed to nurture one."

"It has always grown here." Bog dismounted, his hand gently caressing the verdant leaves of the Wisdom Tree, "Alone, it has grown here."

"I’ve heard that calling to it will awaken the vanished Treefolk," Gare looked up at the Wisdom Tree budding with flowers. "Winter is approaching; it won't be able to bloom."

"I’ll make sure it blooms to its heart's content," Bog glanced at Gare, "No need to worry."

The whelp nestled against Gare's chest, and Gare, shielding his chest with his hand, said to Bog, "We’re home, sir. Please take your little treasure away, and do it now. I’ve had enough of it. How do you usually feed it? I thought it had been weaned."

"Indeed, it has been weaned." Bog tossed the reins to the man who came to take the horse, turned, and walked up the vine-covered stairs. "But apparently, you've reminded it of its mother."

"Stop joking," Gare followed him. "I’m male."

"Hmm." Bog was nonchalant, loosening his travel-worn cloak along the way and carelessly tossing it on the handle of the vine stairs.

"You have the habits of a petulant child," Gare, unable to bear it, took his cloak and patted the dust off in the crook of his arm. "You should take it back to the room and wash it yourself; it’s not yet worn out. After a wash, it'll be as good as new. Hey, your sword sheath, should I carry that too? I’m not your servant! Damn it, Bog! Why must I follow behind you, cleaning up? It’s absolutely dreadful, I’m like your mother!"

"My mother rarely spoke," Bog continued up the most secluded steps, stopping in front of a vine-covered house, and opened the door. Then, leaning against the door, he said, "And she never complained. Alright, dear, I don’t want to do anything tonight. You can... Hmm?"

Gare stood at the doorway, frowning. "You live here? Good heavens, you... It's practically a dump. Let's make a deal, friend, since you don’t seem to have any intention of finding me a place to stay. I'll clean your house if you give me your bed. I can take the whelp with me."

"I'm not used to cohabiting with others," Bog said with a lazy gaze, "especially strangers."

"Strangers?" Gare retorted, "We're not strangers; you've touched my thigh. Don’t try to deny it, dear. Just a few hours ago, you were quite enthusiastically caressing my thigh. Although I firmly refused your offer, we're at least not strangers. I don't want to clean up a dump, but I need a place to stay. Tell me honestly, why did you bring me here? To clean your stairs? I'm not good at that, but clearly, you have no intention of letting me leave."

"You’re right," Bog rubbed his fingertip against the corner of his mouth, "You're an unexpected occurrence. However, I'm curious about your eager approach towards me. You weren't at all surprised to see Stock Bog. You’ve seen me before, yet I have no recollection of you."

"Give it a rest, Bog," Gare tossed the whelp into his arms, "How many people can you remember? You don't look like someone who would politely remember others. My approach was solely for the gold coins. I need gold coins to register for the adventurer's proof. The world of adventurers needs me; there's always some fool in need of saving. That's the only reason, understand?"

Bog stared at him, his gaze devoid of scrutiny, only a calm observation that bordered on indifference. Gare, as usual, maintained his composure, even haughtily squaring his shoulders, confronting Bog with the air of an old lover coming to reproach a faithless paramour.

"Come in," Bog turned and entered the house.

However, it wasn't long before Bog felt deceived; Gare's hands were clearly not as skilled as his tongue. He was utterly clueless about tidying up the house and even made a fuss about many everyday items.

"What is this?" Gare picked up a milk bottle, "It looks... Hmm... Are you still clinging to the whelp’s habits? That's quite surprising, Bog."

"It’s for the whelp," Bog, lying on the bed, turned over, "Feed it to him, and don’t speak!"

The whelp suckled, its ears merrily twitching. Gare’s heart softened, bubbling with tenderness, as he held the whelp and rolled around on the blanket.

"Don't make a sound," Borg commanded, furrowing his brows sternly. "Not even a whisper."

"I didn't," Gal replied innocently. "Perhaps you're hearing things. Have you seen a doctor? Although I suppose you wouldn't—you'd strangle them first." He sprawled on the blanket, luxuriously stretching his arms. "What's this? Fur?"

"A Loman blanket," Borg muttered, burying his head under a pillow.

The mountaintop was bathed in abundant sunlight, the house boasting excellent natural light. The sun spilled over the wicker blinds, scattering across the blanket and wooden boards. Gal, with a cub resting on his chest, felt his eyelids grow heavy.

The sensation was quite marvelous.

The drowsiness of humans... he had never felt it so keenly before, the fatigue seeping into every fiber of his being. Encased in the sunlight, Gal drifted into sleep.

Endless darkness.

Trapped in solitude, he was doomed to repeatedly witness the belongings of others. Unable to make a sound, deprived of limbs, even lacking a heart, he existed merely as a consciousness floating in an infinite void.

For some reason, his left eye began to feel warm, rapidly turning searing hot. A piercing pain shot through his entire body. One moment, Gal was trekking through the dark in his dreams; the next, he sat up abruptly, pressing a hand fiercely over his left eye.

It felt as though his left eye was ablaze.

No, it was burning!

The cub rolled on the blanket, crying out. Gal bent over, his left eye searing with pain, impossible to open. He gasped softly, thrusting his back against the edge of the bed.

This damned burning sensation! It was as if it intended to incinerate the hard-earned soul within him!

Borg leaned over from behind, gazing at him. The sunlight had vanished, and darkness had already set in. Gal's shoulders trembled from the scorching pain; he punched the edge of the bed, gasping in agony.

"There's a curse in your eye," Borg commented with interest. "You've offended someone powerful."

Gal's right eye shimmered with clear green waves. Propped on one hand on the blanket, his black hair was soaked with sweat, quivering, utterly defenseless.

"Scorching," Borg murmured softly. "It's the craft of the Temple, passed down from the Fire God Ankli. Someone has locked a curse in your left eye. You dreamt of forbidden things; it's a warning."

"I dreamt of my things," Gal gasped, his right eye fixed on Borg, resolute. "They are mine!"

"Perhaps," Borg mused, leaning on his knees. "But it doesn't think so."

The burning in his left eye turned frantic, nearly a nightmare come to life. The torment of being consumed by flames sent jolts through his entire body, causing Gal to shiver uncontrollably.

No one told him that this was the price of coming back to life, no one!

"Poor thing," Borg admired his pain, flicking away his black hair with a finger, "You're even more delectable in distress."

Gar suddenly grabbed his hand, pressing it against his left eye. A rush of coolness cascaded down, eliciting a greedy moan from him. He leaned closer to Borg, pressing his hand against Borg's, his eyelashes brushing against the palm of Borg's hand.

"An unexpected effect," Borg murmured, his palm resting against Gar's left eye. He bent down and asked, "Does it feel better?"

Gar breathed softly, closing his right eye. He looked utterly submissive, his youthful appearance making him seem exceptionally docile, as if laying himself bare, vulnerable to Borg’s plunder. Borg did not hesitate; his other hand lifted Gar's face, taking in his pale skin and the tipsy, greedy flush. His mouth was half-open, his tender tongue flickering with his breaths. Borg watched, as if looking at his own possession.

"A repayment equivalent to the relief," Borg tightened his grip on his chin, "You ought to give me something in return."

"Show some mercy," Gar gasped unevenly.

"Nonexistent things need not be discussed," Borg withdrew his hand coldly, "One cannot enjoy without paying a price; that's the law of survival, my naive little fool."

Gar let out a pained whimper, the burning sensation intensifying its assault on him. Suddenly, his eyes flew open, and he forcefully grabbed Borg's shoulders, the tremendous force pushing Borg down onto the bed, which shook from the impact.

"This isn't a bargain," Gar's left eye seemed red in the dimness, and he snarled, "Nor is it a negotiation."

His extraordinary strength, once again revealed, allowed him to pin Borg beneath him, pressing down on Borg's shoulders like a wild beast on the brink of madness, rendering Borg helpless.

Even though Borg couldn't resist this terrifying strength, he could still make Gar roll off. But he did nothing, for the beast bowed down, nestling in his palm like a cub, gently pressing his left eye against it.

The burning heat through the eyelid was almost scalding, but in this unpleasant atmosphere, Borg felt a peculiar thrill.

Look at this little wild beast, his fangs fierce, always bared when least expected. Yet so fragile, fragile enough to be controlled solely by Borg.

It felt as if he had wholly, unreservedly, possessed a "person."

Borg twisted his brows silently as his shoulders ached.