It was a day like any other in Hollow's Rest—a village that embodied the phrase middle of nowhere better than any other. So far out in the sticks, it would be a miracle to even find it on a map, let alone know about it. Yet, despite the dreary atmosphere surrounding it, the people of the village seemed oddly content with their lives.
Kyle, a young boy in the village, was considered the most unfortunate soul in that place. A child believed to be abandoned by all higher powers—his life was nothing but struggle. Early on, he was a happy child, or so the villagers said. No one could really claim to remember the past as clearly as they'd like. Nothing could be accepted as absolute truth ever since the fire took hold of Kyle's life. No—more accurately, it stole everything from him.
Kyle wandered the village, helping out as much as any sixteen-year-old could. He was old enough to practically live on his own and leave the hellhole known as Hollow's Rest, as many villagers often remarked. The villagers, as a collective, raised him alongside their own children—many of whom left the rural wasteland the moment they saw greener pastures ahead. Of course, anywhere is greener than barren land itself.
Kyle, much to the displeasure of some, due to their worry, and convenience of other village elders, decided to stay and help in whatever way he could. In his own words, it was simply his way of giving back—to repay all the work the villagers put into raising him. Especially to the village chief, whom he felt he owed most. The chief had become a father figure to Kyle; and Kyle, a son the chief would never have had otherwise.
A day's work in Kyle's eyes consisted of helping the elders with fieldwork and daily chores. Mostly heavy lifting more than cleaning, but it was help nonetheless. Afterward, he would either sell produce to market vendors in the central village about two kilometres away, or go hunting for meat.
At the moment, he was out hunting. Due to the mana phenomenon that led to the creation of mana on Earth, many animals evolved to survive in any environment. This development made hunting easier over the decades. It became just as likely to find game in a desert as in a forest.
Kyle, skulking through the nearly barren land, was in search of a wild boar. Based on rumours he'd heard, if he found one here, a single day's hunt could provide meat for a whole month. Boars travelled in loose packs—three or four, typically. But if you spotted a female, you'd count yourself lucky, because her young wouldn't be far behind.
HRRRNK!
Kyle heard a guttural screech and grimaced. That sound only meant one thing: the boars were agitated. Quickly, he ran toward a tree about a hundred meters away and climbed up to gain the high ground. The last thing he needed was to get impaled in the middle of nowhere.
"I won't let you get away—not now that I've already seen you," he muttered, drawing his bow and aiming an arrow at its body.
His previous experiences had taught him a boar's hide was tough. Cheap, homemade arrows wouldn't kill it—unless he hit a soft spot.
Most animals, especially quadrupeds, never evolved defences against being shot through the heart. So that's exactly where Kyle aimed. He was downwind, and the damn pig was too dumb—or too angry—to run.
"Must be male, I guess. Well, one should be enough for a few days," Kyle whispered as he slowed his breathing and . . .
FWIP!
REEEEEEE!
He hit the boar, but his aim was slightly off. It screamed in pain, far from a clean kill. In a focused rush, Kyle ran to the downed animal. It lay on its side, breathing heavily. He flipped it onto its back with little resistance and, in one swift motion, stabbed a dagger next to the arrow—right where the heart would be. The boar went limp.
Without a word, Kyle tied its legs with rope, latched another rope across them, and began dragging the carcass back home.
When he arrived, the village was pleasantly shocked. The men were jealous—they had barely managed to catch rabbits or gather mushrooms. The women, especially the few unmarried daughters still living with their parents, stared in awe. The married women? They teased their husbands for not being as competent as a sixteen-year-old.
"Welcome back, boy! Looks like you had a good hunt, huhuhu," an old man greeted, approaching Kyle.
"It was nothing, Chief Roland. If anything, I nearly lost it," Kyle replied, dropping the boar behind the cabin he shared with the chief. His home.
"Go rest. I'll have someone prepare it for us," Roland said—more of an order than a suggestion. He knew the boy would work himself to sleep if not stopped.
"I see. Then don't mind if I do. I'll head to the canteen," Kyle replied with a tired voice.
"No alcohol!" Roland shouted.
"I know, I know, Chief. 'I'm far too young to ruin my body with alcohol, lest I want a gut like all the men in this village.' That's how it goes, right?" Kyle said with a snicker, quickening his pace.
Despite his aloof nature, he wasn't above throwing the chief under the bus for things he said during one of their many drunken dinners together.
"Chief, we should have a talk," one of the men said, as the rest of the beer-bellied crowd nodded in agreement—nefarious intent radiating from each and every one of them.
As the chief was being "conversed with," Kyle finally reached the canteen and began to relax.
"One bowl of berries, please, Auntie."