The Bloodthorns
- 114 years after the apocalypse -
A few weeks had passed since Jonan was forced to join the bandit group known as The Bloodthorns.
"Hey, kid. We're here," called the fat bandit.
Jonan had since learned his name—Picha.
Picha turned to look at Jonan, who stood beside him, his hands bound, a guard watching his every move to ensure he wouldn't try to escape. Jonan's eyes were heavy with exhaustion, his body worn from lack of sleep, his boots torn beyond repair. And yet—his gaze remained as sharp as ever.
Picha couldn't help but feel a flicker of admiration. The boy had spirit. A dangerous kind.
"This is your new home," Picha said with a smirk. "Might as well get used to it."
Jonan didn't respond. He simply kept walking, his expression unreadable.
So this is where I'll be living from now on? he thought. Considering the fact that I legally belong to them, I should get used to it. Maybe… it won't be so bad.
As he arrived at the Bloodthorns' base, Jonan couldn't help but feel a flicker of surprise.
The camp was far more organized than he had expected for a bandit stronghold. Thick wooden walls, lined with sharp spikes, surrounded the perimeter, with tall, reinforced gates marking the entrance. Watchtowers loomed over the area, manned by archers scanning the surroundings.
Inside, it wasn't just a ragtag collection of criminals—there was order.
Jonan spotted a blacksmith's forge, the glow of molten metal casting flickering shadows. A kitchen area, where a chef barked orders at his workers. There were supply tents, weapon racks, and well-built wooden cabins.
But what shocked Jonan the most—was the people.
Not just rough-looking warriors, but women, elderly, and even children walked freely within the camp, laughing, chatting, and going about their day without fear.
This isn't just a bandit camp… Jonan realized. It's more like a small village.
For the first time since he was taken, he felt something unexpected.
Not fear.
Not anger.
But relief.
Picha turned to Jonan and snapped, "Hey! Quit daydreaming. Move it."
Jonan took a deep breath and stepped into the camp. There was no turning back now.
This is my home now...
But before he could dwell on the thought, a shout erupted from one of the bandits.
"The scouting unit spotted a Zauron pack!"
The camp immediately shifted.
Picha's expression darkened, his usual smugness replaced by pure focus.
"How many?" he demanded.
"Ten," the bandit replied. "And one of them… has two horns."
At those words, Picha's face tensed.
"A two-horned Zauron?" he muttered, eyes narrowing. "That means it's a developed one..."
Without hesitation, his voice boomed through the camp.
"Get everyone back inside the walls! No one leaves! Gather all civilians in the storage hall! Prepare for a fight!"
His once round and sluggish figure no longer seemed clumsy. In an instant, he became a leader—a man who commanded respect, a man who knew how to protect his people.
Jonan stood frozen for a moment, watching the scene unfold.
This man...
This is the same person attacked me who tied me up. The same person hurt Luna.
And yet, he couldn't help but admire him.
The way Picha reacted instantly, how his first instinct was to protect his people, how he commanded his men without hesitation—it was nothing like what Jonan had expected.
He had seen them as nothing but barbarians.
But now… he wasn't so sure.
Picha turned to Jonan, his expression serious and cold. "Kid, are you any good with a bow? Or at least with that power of your kind? You're an abnormal, after all."
Jonan blinked, surprised, as Picha suddenly cut the rope binding his hands.
"I've never used a bow before," Jonan admitted. "And… I've never learned magic."
Picha let out a heavy sigh. "Figures."
Then, something clicked in Jonan's mind. He had read about this creature before.
"Zauron," he murmured. His voice steadied with newfound determination. "I can help. I read about them in the past. They're sensitive to salt and afraid of fire."
Picha raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And how does that help me? We're not exactly rich. We can't afford to waste our alcohol or the salt we have."
Jonan's mind raced. An idea formed.
"All I need is one sack of salt and a torch," he said. "I'll handle everything myself. You won't have to take the risk."
Picha called for one of the bandits to bring Jonan a sack of salt and a torch. As soon as the items were handed over, he let Jonan step outside the camp. "Don't go running off now," Picha muttered. "I'm trusting you, kid."
He didn't even believe his own words. Trust? In a child? In a child he had kidnapped? A child whose family he had attacked? A boy whose sister he had threatened? So why was he so willing to let him help?
Jonan, however, had no time for doubts. He knew what he needed to do.
Taking the sack of salt, he carefully spread a thin layer around the outer perimeter of the camp's walls. Then, he grabbed the torch and heated the salt he had poured.
Suddenly, the salt liquefied, bubbling and glowing with a fiery intensity.
Jonan repeated the process again and again, forming three full salt rings around the camp before his supply ran out. A barrier of burning salt.
Just as he finished, the Zauron pack emerged from the trees, thundering toward the camp.
Jonan rushed back inside, his breath uneven. "Don't fire yet!" he called out to Picha.
Picha frowned. "And when exactly should we fire, kid? They're charging right at us!"
A Zauron—a golden wolf like beast, standing over two meters tall, weighing nearly 180 kilos, with razor-sharp claws and a hide as tough as iron armor.
Jonan ignored the disbelief in Picha's voice. He had to time this perfectly.
The Zauron pack closed the distance. 30 meters.
"Kid, now?!" Picha demanded.
20 meters.
"Jonan, they're almost at the gates!" Picha shouted, a rare trace of panic in his voice.
Jonan's eyes narrowed. Not yet. Not yet.
10 meters.
"NOW!" Jonan roared. "Aim for the salt circles—light the arrows!"
The archers loosed flaming arrows, striking the rings of salt. Instantly, the circles ignited, forming a wall of fire around the camp.
The Zauron, caught in their charge, had no time to react.
Screeches of agony filled the air as the monsters slammed into the burning salt, their thick fur igniting, their bodies charring on impact. Their once-powerful forms twisted and convulsed, their golden hides searing, their eyes melting from the heat.
One by one, they fell—until only one remained.
The Alpha.
A two-horned Zauron. Even as it stood, it was barely alive, its breathing ragged, its body shaking from its wounds.
Picha wasted no time. Leaping from the walls, he landed before the beast. With a single, powerful thrust, he drove his sword straight through its skull.
Picha was surprised and muttered to himself, "This kid is way more useful than I thought" "Hey, kid," he called out to Jonan as he approached. "Good job." A grin spread across his face. "You'll learn to love this place. We take a real good care of those who help us—especially ur kind."
Picha laughed. "Of course. I'll make sure someone teaches you. But, kid, if I'm arranging for you to be trained, why stop at just the sword? You'll learn how to use a bow too."
He smirked. "And that's not all—we'll teach you how to track in the forest as well. That is, on one condition: you need to understand that you're one of us now."
His face grew serious as he locked eyes with Jonan, his gaze piercing into the boy's green eyes. "We're all family here. Sure, you joined us in an unpleasant way, but that's life. Move on."
Jonan met his stare, his expression unreadable. "I get it. I belong to you now, after what my father did. So, it's not like I have anywhere else to go."
He paused before adding, "As long as you provide me with water, food, and a roof over my head, I won't complain." His voice was steady, his face just as serious as Picha's.
Still, doubt lingered in his mind. He had no idea what his fate truly was. At first, they had taken him because he was abnormal, but now, he was family.
It confused him—but at the same time, it intrigued him.
What could he accomplish if he stayed here? What could he become?