Chapter Seven: Forceful "Thrust"

Chapter 7: "Push Hard"

Watching this pitiful fellow wail and howl, Shaya Thunderclap nearly laughed himself breathless, clutching his belly and rolling on the ground. The cruel laughter only made the poor soul sob harder; soon, tears streamed down his face, and he threw aside his bread, clutching his broken front tooth to his chest, weeping as if his heart would break.

Shaya Thunderclap finished laughing and finally stood up. He picked up the bread, speared it with a fire fork, and held it over the flames for a while before saying with a chuckle, “You clearly haven’t spent much time outdoors. With this stuff, you need to roast it until it’s soft before you eat it.”

Seeing his companion still sobbing, Shaya scratched his head. “Hey, stop crying. It’s just a tooth. A real man doesn’t fret over a lost tooth.” After a pause, he continued, kindly, “I bet you’re a noble, right? Must be loaded. Just wait until you get home—find a skilled craftsman and get a gold tooth fitted. There’s a tavern owner in our town with two gold teeth. Whenever he smiles, his whole mouth shines with gold—it's quite a sight!”

Far from comforting him, the mention of gold teeth only made the poor fellow’s grief more acute, and he nearly choked on his own tears. Shaya ignored him, contentedly ate the now-soft bread, and after a moment’s thought, left a small piece for his companion.

“Hey, if you don’t eat now, your next meal won’t be until noon tomorrow,” he reminded him.

With that, Shaya Thunderclap rummaged through his cloth bag, finally producing a hard, coal-like lump. Even from afar, the stench reached the poor fellow, who instinctively clamped his nose shut.

Shaya circled the camp, carefully crumbling the lump into powder, scattering it around the perimeter, then clapped his hands clean—well, wiped them on his clothes—stomped out the fire, and raked away the ashes.

The ground beneath was still hot from the fire. Shaya stretched out on it, sighed contentedly at the warmth, rolled over, muttered a “Good night,” and promptly turned his back to his companion, snoring thunderously within moments.

That scoundrel! He—he actually just went to sleep and left me alone?!

Bitterness welled up in the poor fellow’s heart: half for his lost tooth, half for being so infuriated by this rough-mannered brute.

Could this lout be blind?!

Listening to Shaya’s resonant snores, the poor soul finally stemmed his tears, but hunger gnawed at him. He picked up the small piece of black bread, took a careful bite—his tooth still ached, and the coarse bread was hard to swallow, but hunger overcame everything. He forced it down, nearly choking, and was pounding his chest in desperation when he suddenly noticed that the detestable brute had rolled over and was now staring at him, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Startled, the poor soul coughed, spraying crumbs onto his clothes and almost losing his breath.

“You must be used to a comfortable life,” Shaya lay back with his head on his bundle, legs crossed, grinning. “Hey, where are you from?”

The poor fellow glared at him murderously.

“Hmm, your hair’s brown, so you’re probably from Byzantium. But you’re tall—taller than most Byzantines. Only the northern Odin people are built like you. But you speak with a strange accent—your Byzantian is formal but awkward, not quite like the Odins either. I’ve met a few Odins in Wildfire Town—they always slur their Byzantian, their tongues just can’t bend! So, who are you? Why are you alone in this dangerous wilderness, and how did you step into a hunter’s trap?”

No answer, just a glare of pure disgust.

Shaya sniffed. “Fine, don’t say. My guess—you’re a wanted man. Committed some crime, on the run, don’t dare reveal your identity? Don’t worry, I’m not a bounty hunter—I won’t turn you in for a reward.”

“So, who are you?” the poor fellow finally spat.

“Me? I’m a demon hunter!” Shaya Thunderclap puffed out his chest, proud as could be.

His companion looked at him with utter contempt. “A demon hunter? With that battered axe and a fire fork? Please. I’ve seen plenty of demon hunters—all of them well-equipped, any one of their tools worth a hundred times your entire fortune. Do you have anti-magic armor? A demon-slaying weapon? You’re no more than a third-rate, bumbling little hunter.”

This struck Shaya Thunderclap right where it hurt. He rolled his eyes and retorted, “Hmph, the old man was right—ugly people make the most fuss!”

Those big eyes rounded in shock, staring at Shaya in disbelief. After a moment, the poor fellow leapt up, ignoring his leg wound, his throbbing head, and even his broken tooth. He growled low at Shaya:

“What did you say? You called me ugly?!”

Fury blazed—he’d heard the most intolerable insult of all.

“Isn’t it true?” Shaya shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “As a man, you barely deserve the title. You’re tall, but so weak you can’t even open a trap. And your face—a handsome man should be sturdy, muscular, with a square jaw, thick brows, a broad mouth, and ideally a scar or two. He should drink heartily, eat like a wolf… that’s a real man.”

God above, have mercy on this poor country bumpkin…

Clearly, the boy’s strange standards of beauty owed everything—no, owed entirely—to that dead old man of his! The old man, eager to appear powerful and dignified before his adopted son, had declared that his own rugged looks were the highest standard of masculine beauty. Coarse, burly, scarred, hearty appetite and sleep…

Although Shaya had picked up some street smarts growing up in Wildfire Town, a den of vice, in some matters he was still utterly green.

The poor fellow stood gaping, this time not out of anger, but stupefaction at such outrageous words.

“As for you, being a man is just a waste. If you were a woman…” Shaya paused, blinking.

“If I were a woman, what then?” the poor fellow couldn’t help but ask.

“If you were a woman, you’d be even uglier.” This nearly made the poor soul cough up blood.

“Ugly! You dare call me ugly!!” The poor soul was livid!

A head may be broken, blood may flow, but for a beauty to have their looks disparaged—this is an insult no beauty under heaven could bear!

“Then tell me, bumpkin, what do you call a beautiful woman?!”

“First, big breasts and big hips,” Shaya said, making two wildly exaggerated curves with his hands. “A woman with big hips can bear many children; a woman with big breasts can feed them well. Also, big hands and feet, so she can work—fetch water, do laundry, cook, you name it.”

The poor fellow was no longer angry, just stared at Shaya with a strange look. “And… her face? What does a beautiful woman’s face look like, in your opinion?”

“Her face? Does it matter what her face looks like?” Shaya seemed unconcerned. “The old man used to say: ‘Once the lights are out, every woman looks the same.’”

He put on a deliberately worldly expression.

A hint of pity flickered in the poor soul’s eyes for this hopeless country bumpkin.

“Er… this ‘old man’ you keep mentioning—who is he?”

“My adoptive father.”

A sigh escaped the poor fellow. He looked at Shaya and asked softly, “So, everything you just said—your adoptive father taught you that?”

“That’s right.”

“I see…” The poor fellow’s tone was certain. “Your adoptive father must be your sworn enemy.”

...

With nothing more to say, both rolled over to sleep. In the middle of the night, the poor soul, half-awake, felt a chill seeping in—the ground, once warm from the fire, had cooled. He curled into a ball but couldn’t shake off the cold. Instinctively, in his sleep, he edged toward the only source of warmth nearby.

Shaya, half-asleep, sensed something soft snuggling into his arms. Without hesitation, he rolled over, draped a leg across his companion’s waist, and, in his drowsy state, nuzzled closer against the warm, soft body as if hugging a downy quilt.

Just before dawn, the poor soul woke first. He’d slept fitfully all night, and upon waking, discovered something truly horrifying.

When did he end up in this bumpkin’s arms?!

He wanted to scream, but realized Shaya was still lying exactly where he’d slept, and he himself had moved a considerable distance—hadn’t he crawled over here of his own accord last night?

His heart pounded wildly. The bumpkin reeked of earth and sweat, but the warm embrace was hard to leave for someone so fearful of the cold.

Then, as he shifted his body, he discovered something even more terrifying!

Let us analyze the situation…

First, Shaya had one leg thrown over him. Alright, that was bad enough, but what came next was far worse.

Shaya, a young and vigorous man—and, by his standards for “good women,” clearly still a virgin. So, in the morning, his body exhibited a perfectly natural reaction common to men everywhere.

The poor soul barely moved before he felt something hard and unyielding pressing against him at the top of his hip—a certain “weapon” that, even through several layers of clothing, was unmistakably eager and formidable.

Though still young, the poor fellow knew better than this clueless country boy about the facts of life. In an instant, he realized what was being pressed insistently against his waist.

May the Almighty bear witness! In his seventeen years, never had he been violated by a man in such an outrageous manner!

Instinct took over.

He arched his back, bent his knees… and struck!

Push!

“Aaaah!” a scream.

“Aaaah!” a wail of agony.

[It’s a new week! Brothers, take all your votes and throw them my way!

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