The sweat mixed with the soil made his skin itchy. He was annoyed and lightheaded while his heart strained to circulate enough oxygen-rich blood to his muscles.

His body felt hot and heavy but his grip was firm on the axe’s handle, despite the semi-torn bandage he wore around his palm.

He ducked to the side, his eyes tracking fearlessly the shadow that momentarily covered the sky. With a humph of effort, he brought the curved blade back preparing his next strike.

His technique looked akin to a concoction of a baseball-javelin throw with him rushing forward and swinging the axe wildly with as much force as he could muster. Sometimes he added a jump to that amalgamation. The technique was not meant for accuracy just brute force after all.

His strike thumped inside the gapping wound that still connected the fghel’s crown with its body. It was big enough now that it guided the axe’s blade in. The impact shook his arm and a silent grimace emerged on his face from the spike of pain that shot to his shoulder.

The next breath burned down his throat yet he tumbled to the side nevertheless avoiding the deadly counterattack. A drop of earthy sweat found its way inside his left eye. It scraped at his eyelid every time he blinked.

Anger rose inside him, his miserable state engulfing his emotions. He hissed a breath out and showed teeth on the next inhale. When his body failed him, he could only rely on his willpower and emotions to keep him going. Hate made it easier to swing hard and fast.

He burned—annoyance and irritation turning to something more…feral. A raw emotion that met its match as his body’s temperature increased rapidly. His fingers prickled with numbness. Or was it pain? He wasn’t so sure anymore, his perception had just decided to take the rest of the day off.

It was searing, he decided then, his palm felt as if he was holding scorching metal, but strangely enough, the axe’s handle was only made of hardened wood. The bandage wrapping his palm turned a smokey black. When his eyes glanced over it, it distracted him for a moment and he almost missed his cue to attack.

He swang as the fghel contracted. His eyes opened wide. He was late, too slow in attacking and that would cost him more than he was willing to give. The fghel in mere moments would unfold in a burst of motion and bury him solidly under its substantial weight.

Desperately he pulled the swing forward, dragging any strength left in his reserves into the attack. The pain and numbness in his arm flared with fury. And to his astonishment so did the axe. An angry orange flame bloomed from the bandage to the handle and the blade alike.

It trailed behind the swing, leaking smoke in its wake. Unable to stop the motion he watched as the burning blade entered the wound and sliced through easily the rest of the way. The axe emerged on the other side dragging him forward with momentum.

He fell on top of his collapsed foe gasping for air. His tongue tasted ash as he inhaled the dark smoke lingering around him.

It wasn’t comfortable, the fghel’s skin was rough, as if caressing a tree’s bark would ever feel soothing, but he didn’t get up from where he had fallen. His axe lay on the earth, released from his hand, its handle blackened, yet free of the fire that had so unexpectedly flared.

James brought his right hand in front of his eyes. There was no semblance of the scorching heat he had experienced, nor was there any burned flesh on the skin of his palm. It was only aching from all the beating it had taken.

The bandage though was gone, burned, leaving only ash smeared on the palm. Turning it the other way, he gulped. The mark Jane had left him with was alive.

Surfacing from under his skin the thumbprint-size mark swirled in yellow and orange light—a true volcanic eye.

There was no intense heat coming from the glow, its fire was already extinguished, but to his eyes, it span and twisted in an infernal dance.

There was depth and depth to the crater the size of a thumb. He was captivated by the sight, losing himself in its rivers of magma and the alien letters swimming in them informing him he had gained another…blessing.

Blessing of Minor Fire.

Jane’s gift. Or curse, depending on Omny’s reaction to this addition. And the thirst, ah the thirst that came after was reeling. He gulped air, wishing some saliva was left to soften the motion his throat made involuntarily.

Despite his exhaustion, he got up from the fghel’s still body, left the blackened axe behind, and searched for salvation in the form of a stream. This close to the mountains it was an easy affair to find.

After cleaning the filth from his hands, he gathered the water trickling down the bedrock from a small spring and drank greedily, clenching his thirst.

His body was cooling down yet fine mist was dispersing from it, as newly produced sweat evaporated rapidly. When water touched the mark on his hand it hissed angrily before vanishing as steam in the air.

No matter how much water he drank, he still felt thirsty. Despite that, after each gulp, he threw a handful of water on his head to help with the sweating. It took him almost five minutes to bring himself back to a comfortable temperature. Instead of sweat, pure water dripped down to the shirt he wore, drenching his shoulders and chest and creating mud puddles out of the dirt stuck on it. There were tears and holes in several places revealing scrapes and bruises underneath. He looked like he had come out of a collapsed building. Not surprisingly he looked and felt alike.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Nasty blessing. He thought, holding the bedrock where the small spring gushed out water.

How did the rest combat these side effects? Was he missing something essential? He didn’t see them being very useful if, after each use, you fell on your face from the aftermath.

Forget that. There was something that he needed to address. Had he somehow messed up?

Would the fghelhead be alright after chopping it off with a fiery axe? Wasn’t it a plant? That could stunt its growth if not outright kill it.

And how would he explain to Hox that he had damaged his treasured weapon? Oh boy, that would be a hell of a thing. He could keep the axe and buy the grumpy gleemix a brand-new weapon. But what if the axe he kept needed the handle to be replaced? It would certainly cost him dearly.

Damn this world. Where are the credit cards when you need them most?

James slowly, limping slightly from the left leg, returned to the crime scene. Carefully as if he was holding a newborn he cradled the damaged fghelhead. There was some extra coating of sap on the burnt side of the chop, which had already started to harden.

Relief flooded inside him as he observed the slow healing process. The fghel crown was still alive. And so were his hopes and dreams, a silver coin at a time.

—-

A semi-permanent camp was set up in the heart of the valley. Two simple wooden structures that functioned as a barracks and a storehouse stood out from several makeshift tents surrounding them. At this hour it all looked quite deserted.

Undeterred, James made for the storehouse carrying the two fghelheads under each arm. The sap had already hardened enough to not stick to his hands. Despite his considerable strength, battered as he may be, they were heavy, each easily weighing above 20kg, and without handles? It was an awkward walk to the storehouse.

What Hox had done for him the first day, he had to take care of himself from now on. According to the gleemix, he would provide the two ‘intact’ fghel-crowns as proof of his farming efforts, and inform where the bodies lay to be gathered by the cultists that would transport them back to the city.

Not every cultist was eager to get themselves hurt to gain a few coins. Some chose to be useful in different ways—just like the halfling that manned the front table of the storehouse.

A literal case of being buried by books, or ledgers in his case. The halfling was comfortably seated cross-legged on an open page, holding a long stylus, scribing letters with utmost concentration. Two towers of paperwork stood at his sides reaching his shoulders in height. His spectacles were tied to the back of his head, the straps pressing over his long brown hair. And for the moment it seemed that he hadn’t noticed James entering.

“Excuse me, I’m here to register my…farming?” He said, but seriously who farmed with an axe? It still sounded ridiculous to his ears even when he was the one who said it.

Without taking his eyes off his paperwork the halfling puffed out a long tired breath and signed with one hand for James to continue.

“I have the fghels here…”

The halfling lifted his eyes in shock and cut him off before he could unload his burden by waving his stylus dramatically. “Stop! What do you think you are doing? Do not soil my desk with this filth! Put the crowns neatly in the back, first.” The halfling waved him by with an exasperated look towards rows of potted shelves. The storehouse was a giant storage space for fighelheads potted in individual ceramic containers.

The plant creatures, famous for their aggressive temperament to any intrusion, comfortably enjoyed the shade the roof provided. The fact that they were unable to move about in this state also helped preserve the serene atmosphere in the storehouse.

Moving along the filled rows searching for vacant pots, James overheard the halfling’s high-pitched grumbling words. “Does this look like a storage space? Where does the cult leader find these knuckleheads?”

A little embarrassed, James did as told. He placed each fghelhead in a pot, patting the soil around the creature’s head. Strangely, now that they greatly resembled houseplants, he wished them well, a swift recovery and regrowth.

When he returned to the front desk, he found the halfling already observing him, or maybe protecting his desk from the dirty human that had wisely stopped his approach early. He made sure to place his right hand out of the halfling's sight.

After a tense moment of locked gazes, the halfling asked. “And what is your name, human?”

“James Ki…just James is fine. And yours?” He replied standing before his much smaller opponent hunched over on the desk.

The halfling had brought forth a ledger, turning pages in search of something, mostly probably James’s name in the cult’s registry but when James replied, the halfling momentarily stopped.

“My name? I did not ask you out of courtesy, but if you must know I’m called Kinfin.” The halfling said before continuing with his search.

“Well met, Kinfin. I’m very new to the cult, you will probably find me dead last on your lists.” He had been right, that was exactly what Kinfin had been looking for. “Don’t want to take more of your time than I have to.” He continued, wearing his most charming smile.

A little perplexed Kinfin nodded before scanning the last entry on the ledger.

“James King?” He asked confused, his brows furrowing. The expression on the tiny face of the halfling almost made James laugh.

“A little misunderstanding. Just James is fine, really. Erm, I brought two crowns...”

The halfling took a moment to jumpstart but when he did he pulled two coins seemingly out of nowhere.

“Two silver Verithians, here. I will call for a cultist to accompany you to the fghel’s location. I expect everything is well with the bodies.”

“Shouldn’t I be paid tomorrow, you know, after the fghels have been sold?” That is what Hox had informed him initially.

“Do you want to be paid tomorrow?” Kinfin deadpaned.

“On second thought, thank you very much.” James pocketed his earnings eagerly. It was the largest amount he held since arriving in this world. Dealing with Hox came next. Hopefully, the next day when he didn’t feel like a bus had run him over.

After showing a grey wolf beastkin the fghels’s location, he made for the valley entrance with as long strides as his aches allowed.