Shadow of Self-Reliance. Part 2

Wild began to venture out. Not abruptly, not boldly, but gradually, like dipping a toe into water before plunging into the unknown. Each step beyond his room was a trial—not just for his frail body, but for a mind accustomed to walls, silence, and solitude. The Dakota estate, with its towering spires and frigid corridors, had been a prison, yet also a shield. Beyond its confines, the world loomed vast and chaotic, teeming with sounds and shadows he couldn't decipher. But Tarvek's words—"cast out all the helpless and hideous"—rang in his head like a bell, a reminder that staying inside meant surrender. He didn't want to surrender. Not again.

His initial forays were brief. He hobbled along the estate's outer walls, clinging to the rough stone to keep from falling. His legs, long and brittle, quaked beneath his weight, while his hands grasped at anything within reach—branches, ledges, even thorny shrubs that left scratches on his skin. The outside world smelled different: damp earth, bitter herbs, smoke from distant fires. He heard voices—harsh shouts of warriors training in the courtyard, the soft murmur of servants drifting from the kitchens, the rare laughter of children playing near the gates. But the moment he appeared, the sounds hushed. Gazes—sharp as daggers—pierced him, and he felt them even with his back turned. "Freak," they whispered. "Dakota's shame." He didn't look at them, but he knew: they saw not a person, but a mistake.

Yet he persisted. Each day, he ventured a little farther—to the ancient oak behind the estate, to the babbling brook in the hollow, to the path winding down to the village at the hill's base. The world unfolded before him like a book, its pages inscribed with both beauty and cruelty. He caught snippets of conversation—from servants, from traders delivering goods to the gates. They spoke of wandering teachers—figures who roamed the roads, offering knowledge in exchange for food or shelter. Some called them gifts from the gods, others dismissed them as charlatans masking greed with kindness. "They teach magic, swordplay, writing," one servant remarked, scrubbing a cauldron by the fire. "But for free? I don't buy it. Everything in this world has a price."

Those words lodged in Wild's mind like a splinter. He sat by the brook, staring at his reflection in the murky water—a warped face, one eye larger than the other, a mouth like a scar. He thought of his past, of the room where he'd penned novellas no one read. Back then, he'd believed effort could be selfless, that art was its own reward. But the world had proven otherwise: ten views a month, silence, indifference. Now, in this realm of swords and sorcery, he saw the same truth, only sharper, like a blade's edge. Nothing came free—only cheese in a mousetrap. And that trap could snap shut at any moment, cleaving you in two.

He thought of Tekra, her magic, her words: "You'll be able to do it too." She was the sole exception—the only person whose kindness didn't feel like a snare. But even she was drifting away now—her lessons, training, and clan duties stole her time, and their meetings grew sparse. Wild felt loneliness creeping back, but this time, he refused to hide. He wanted to learn. He wanted to find those wandering teachers, to grasp magic or a sword—anything to make him more than a shadow, to make him a person. Yet skepticism gnawed at him like a starving beast.

"What if they're like everyone else?" he wondered, clenching his fists. His fingers trembled, faint sparks of mana flaring and fading, mirroring his doubts. "What if they see me and turn away? Or worse—use me? Knowledge, power, even mockery—that could be their price." He knew this world too well, even without fully understanding it. There was always self-interest. Warriors fought for glory, mages for power, gods for worship. Even the Author of the Apocalypse, as Tekra had described, wrote his endings with purpose—crafting chaos, reveling in it like an artist with a canvas. And Wild? What could he offer? Deformity? Weakness? A raspy voice no one cared to hear?

He rose, leaning on a gnarled stick he'd found by the brook. His legs shook, but he forced himself onward—toward the village, where smoke curled above rooftops and voices grew louder. He heard a trader haggling with a blacksmith, children shouting as they chased a hoop down the street. He paused at the outskirts, hiding behind a tree. His heart pounded, not just from fear—something else stirred within, faint but tenacious. Desire. Not merely to survive, but to understand. To find a teacher who wouldn't recoil. Or, if they did, to prove them wrong.

"Nothing's free," he whispered to himself, his voice a hoarse, barely audible rasp carried off by the wind. "But if I don't try, I'll stay nothing. Again." He remembered his past life—gray, empty, where he'd feared crossing the threshold. He'd lost then. Here, he wouldn't lose. Let the world be full of traps, let every step be a gamble. He'd take that step. Not for Tarvek, not for the family, but for himself.

In the distance, on the path leading to the village, he spotted a figure—solitary, cloaked, moving slowly with a staff in hand. Something in their gait felt odd, almost otherworldly. Wild froze, his breath catching. A wandering teacher? Or another mousetrap? He didn't know. But for the first time in ages, he felt ready to find out.