Suddenly, the settlement was plunged into panic; women were taking their children and running towards the sea, calling for killer whales or wolves to help. The men took up their weapons and began shouting in a chaotic manner that might have been a kind of battle cry, but it was no more useful than the wind during a drought. Arrows struck one warrior after another. Women were screaming. And the shaman ran to a safe distance and began to beat his tambourine, trying to evoke either the wrath of the gods, or the power of nature that could hit the enemies with lightning.

"We need to save them," Ötzi said.

But Motso was silent. He looked at all these poor, cornered people. Who understood nothing, which only exhausted heavy waves of fear, trembled with horror at the proximity of death. Suddenly, he couldn't hear any sounds or screams, as if the world around him had been plunged into a vacuum. He saw how far people on this planet were from the knowledge that was available to him in his childhood and how difficult it is to convince them of something or explain. At the same time, the thought flashed through his head: is it all worth it? Is it worth trying to create a kingdom where the population will be so stupid and uneducated? What can they do?

"Motso! Wake up!" Ötzi shouted trying to bring his friend back from the depths of his thoughts, then shook him by the shoulder. And the subsequent hard slap brought Motso to his senses. The sounds returned.

Then Motso ran to the line of defense, touched the ground with his palm, closed his eyes, and a three-meter wall rose in front of him, protecting civilians and soldiers from arrows. At the same moment, the battle roar died down. The enemies stopped firing. There was silence. Somewhere in the distance, the croaking of ravens was heard circling the battlefield in anticipation of the end, hungry and greedy for human flesh. Motso came out from behind the wall, looked at the frightened faces of the enemies, who lowered their bows and spears. In front of them stood the leader on horseback, who watched every movement of the opponent. Blood was seething in his veins, his eyes turned red, and some kind of insane, one might even say, inhuman smile never left his face. He waited for what would happen next, completely not understanding what was happening, and he clearly liked it. Then Motso again touched the ground with his palm and in a few seconds a huge ball rose from the ground in front of him, resembling a cannonball in its shape, the size of a human being. The ball moved, like a feather in the wind, to Motso and he shouted:

"I propose to solve everything peacefully, I have something to offer to you!"

But the leader laughed like a monstrous psychopath, so that some might have thought the earth shook with his laughter. Then he shouted something to his warriors and at the last second Motso caught the words "kill everyone but him." The archers drew their bowstrings again, while the others took up their spears and moved forward. Motso was enraged and angry, and hurled the boulder so that it fell exactly in front of the enemy. There was a crash. Some spearmen standing on the front line fell from the shock wave. The horse neighed and reared, but the leader was not afraid and ordered to continue the attack. The archers fired another volley. The tip of the arrowhead plunged into Motso`s shoulder, and he screamed in pain, he cursed and pulled out the arrow. Just a scratch. His clothes were too thick to be penetrated at such a great distance.

"Last warning!"

Men, who had recovered from what they had seen, ran out from behind the wall and screamed again, raising and lowering their spears, ready to give their lives in the blind belief that they could be reborn and start the life anew.

"What are you fools doing? Run behind the wall!"

But no one listened to him. Ötzi went to a huge wall made of earth, on the way he saw a small man with an arrow in his neck, he could not say anything, but pulled a spear in his direction. On the shaft is an inscription: "the Chosen one"; Ötzi took the spear and ran up to his friend, stood and said he was with him until the end. The enemy fired another volley. Several more people fell dead. One arrow flew straight at the head of Motso, who was sitting on the ground. All he could see was the glimmer of the setting sun in its tip, and the smell of death overpowered the fresh air. And at the last second, he saw a shadow and a sound of something heavy falling to the ground. It was Ötzi who protected him with his body after being shot in the stomach. He fell. A thin trickle of blood came out of his mouth.

"In Vyshen’s name! Ötzi! Ötzi!" He repeated.

"It doesn't hurt as much as I thought it would."

Motso dropped to his knees, lifted his friend's head, and ordered him to hold on. But Ötzi was unable to answer. Motso howled, letting out all the anger that enveloped him, glaring at his enemies from under his brows. Hundreds of small stones and several huge boulders began to rise from the ground, and then, overcoming the speed of sound, they flew at the enemies like machine-gun shots, destroying everyone in their path, leaving only death, POPs and waves of condensation. The arms, legs, and heads of the enemy flew in different directions, and pools of blood began to appear. The battlefield was covered with impenetrable smoke, behind which only screams, sobs, and panic could be heard. The leader and his horse collapsed to the ground like a sack full of manure. Those who by a hair’s breadth didn't die, already turned around and spread out to all directions so to escape the death itself.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Motso ran to Ötzi, pulled an arrow from his belly, and shouted to the few remaining soldiers celebrating their victory to take his friend, carry him to the village, and light a fire. They did so. Motso then ran to the women on the seashore and quickly calmed them down, saying that it was all over, but he needed their help. They nodded. They returned to the village and poured fresh water into a clay vat, then set it over the already blazing fire. Ten minutes later, the water began to boil. Ötzi did not stop groaning, but Motso ordered the soldiers to bring him to his senses at all costs, so that he would not lose consciousness. Then he put his hands in a vat of boiling water and held it for five seconds, overcoming pain. The women brought clean clothes. Motso tore it into bandages and threw it into the vat. He tore off Ötzi's clothes around the wound, inspected the skin; it was pink, means there was no infection; the wound was not deep. Lucky guy, he thought. After a minute, he took off his clothes and made a pressure bandage on the wound. The bleeding didn't stop. He looked around and saw a small tree. He ran to it, tore off the branches, made a kind of tourniquet out of them, then went back to Ötzi and wrapped his body above the bleeding point. The cloth bandage was all red, soaked with blood. The women had already thrown their husbands ' new clothes into a vat of boiling water. Motso took out several men's shirts and tore them into bandages. He changed the bandage and tied the twig tourniquet tighter. The bleeding slowed. Then he asked the women to pour boiling water into a cup, and the men to tie Ötzi's legs together and hold him firmly so that he would not move. When the preparations were made, Motso proceeded to wash the wound, removing all visible dirt and non-viable tissue. Ötzi twitched and screamed. By this time, the shaman of the local village came up and began to observe what was happening. When it came to the end, Motso was wiping the sweat from his forehead, when he saw a boy eating white powder from a plate. He went up to him and asked:

"Can I try it too?"

The boy nodded. Motso moistened his finger and dipped it into his plate. He put the sticky powder in his mouth. It was salt. He asked the woman standing next to him to bring him a second cup, she immediately ran to the yaranga and ten seconds later ran out. Motso took the mug, put it in a vat of boiling water, disinfected it, scooped up some water, and blew to lower the temperature. After a minute, he put salt in it and stirred it. He went over to his friend and washed the wound again. But this time, Ötzi almost broke free of the five stocky men who were holding him. Then Motso plucked some green grass, made a mush out of it, and applied a bandage to the wound. He wiped away his perspiration; leaned over to Ötzi and said in his ear:

"You will live, and now sleep, rest."

Motso asked the people around him if they had a court physician, but they told him that they had never seen the need. They added that most often it helps to change the name, and if someone died, they will be reborn. Then Motso went to one of the women who tried the most to help him and said:

"I'll need to leave for a few days. However, my friend needs care, could you help me with that?"

The girl nodded and said that she was ready to do everything in her power.

"Do you remember how I treated the wound? You will have to do everything in the same sequence."

The girl nodded. But Motso still told her again what was happening and warned her that if the skin around the wound will appear black, it will have to be removed with a very sharp knife. The girl nodded again. Then the men carried Ötzi to her house and laid him on a bed of grass. By this time Motso had approached the shaman and asked who these people were and why they had attacked them.

The shaman told the story that not all tribes want to live a peaceful life. Many try to expand through war, conquer territories, and get free slaves. And this tribe is quite large and chased them for many years. Motso was named the hero of the village and the God of war, and everyone finally believed him, but he didn't care anymore. Ötzi's injury had changed something in his mind.

“Where do they live?”

“These vandals?”

“Yes.”

“A day or so south. Right behind the forest.”

“Good. I'll be back in about three days.”

Motso was already moving south when the shaman pulled him by the shoulder and with his head bowed, a little later, said:

“So, is everything a lie?”

“I do not know. It's up to you to decide. The eyes are unlikely to deceive you.”

The shaman paused for a little more and asked where the city that he built with a friend was and Motso tried his best to give him as detailed directions as he could.

“I'll talk to people. They will follow you.”

Motso put his hand on the shaman's right shoulder and replied that he hoped for his support but there was no follow-up reply.

At the exit of the village, a girl caught up with him and asked where he learned such skills. He said that when he was still a child, he was stabbed in the shoulder. And if a qualified doctor hadn't been there at the time, they probably wouldn't be talking here and now. As a tribute to his Savior, Motso worked for him for several years and learned something, although, at that time, he was not sure that these skills would ever be useful to him in life.

"What happened to the one who hurt you?"

“He was killed.”

"Then justice has been served, right?”

Motso didn't answer for a long time, replaying the events of that day in his head, and then said:

"Not exactly.”

He took his leave and left.