“Huff... Huff... Owwie!” His clone leaned against a tree, cradling his left arm. Blood trickled from his right shoulder, and both of his legs bore fresh wounds—holes or lacerations carved by the pheasants’ talons.
Daemon’s face darkened when he heard that sissy complaint spill out. He nearly coughed up a liter of blood at the sight of those wounds knitting together at a visible rate—while thanks to their cursed bond, all the pain and damage looped right back to him instead.
‘Thank the stars for Grunt’s Stats. At least I can soak this up and patch the worst of it before the summon fades.’ He checked over his battered fra, then sighed with cold relief when he saw nothing imdiately lethal. His situation could’ve been far better if the clone hadn’t ssed up again.
“No crying over spilled blood... I guess.”
When his clone said that, Daemon felt like he’d just swallowed a fly. “Easy for you to say. Gather our trophies while I untie so ropes. Be quick—before the sll of blood drags in sothing we can’t handle.” He tore a big piece from the sack-like linen that Da Niu used to call clothes, aiming to bind the worst wounds. Everything else could wait until they were back under cover.
“How many?” he asked, crouched by the pile of pheasants, looping rope around their stiff legs.
His clone tossed over the last two, pride thick in his tone. “Seventeen.”
Whistle.
Daemon whistled, feeling like he’d just robbed fate blind. For a second, he forgot the pain—until his left arm and right shoulder stabbed him with sharp reminders the instant he shifted his excitent too fast. Reality’s cold bite—victory always took its due.
Worst of all, these two deep gashes weren’t even his fault. They were courtesy of his clone’s sloppy bravado.
He clenched his teeth and pushed through. He slung the pheasants over his left shoulder, bit down on the rope to keep it steady—both arms would bleed rivers if he dared hold that load barehanded.
His clone shrank back, guilt on his face when he saw the real body staggering yet refusing to drop a single feather. But he stepped up, grabbing the other end of the rope to ease the burden however he could.
“Let’s move.” Daemon jogged just fast enough to keep the blood loss tolerable, each step dragging pain up from his legs to his ribs. The terrain mocked him with roots and low branches that clawed at torn skin—each brush another spark of agony.
Twenty brutal minutes later, they limped back into the tent’s battered clearing.
Daemon didn’t waste a word—he stripped and cleaned each wound under a hiss of bubbling water while his clone grabbed Da Niu’s only tool for heat: a thin, curvy stone that once served as a pot.
His clone sparked a fla with flint, settled the stone in place, and poured water until it brimd enough to boil. He grabbed the axe next, chopped a thick branch flat for a makeshift board, then tore into the biggest pheasant, plucking feathers in ragged handfuls.
Five minutes on, Daemon finished scrubbing the blood away, wringing out the filth from his clothes and old bandages, while his clone gutted the bird with a butcher’s calm—tossing scraps he wouldn’t touch even if half-starved.
The guts were buried deep away from camp. The clone squatted at the creek, washing the carcass so thoroughly Daemon half-expected him to rub it bald.
Daemon sterilized the ragged bandages in the bubbling water before binding up. The worst gashes looked better already—Grunt’s Stats pulsing inside him like borrowed fuel.
Dressed again, Daemon perched on a log outside, watching his clone work.
‘Damn it. I was hoping to squeeze in a quick trade run to the village. But at this rate, by the ti I’m done eating, the Summon tir will be up—and I’ll be stuck waiting on luck.’
“I just hope tomorrow’s Dice Roll doesn’t land on a black tile,” he muttered under his breath, “Not until I’m ready to deal with that crap.”
“Huh? What do you an?” his clone asked, half-listening as he skewered thin strips of pheasant over the fire.
“I’ll explain later. Flay the at thin—I want to see if gorging while I’m patched up helps speed the healing.” He tipped his chin to the sky, where the bleak clouds were starting to break and spill blue back onto the world. Sunshine crept through, warm against the raw sting in his skin.
The clone had already set the first pheasant whole over the fire, flas licking grease that dripped down to hiss in the coals. He hacked thin cuts from a second bird, laying them out while Daemon helped thread at on sticks—rough work, given they only had the edge of an Axe to “carve.”
Whatever wouldn’t cut cleanly got tossed aside. Waste nothing—once the pri cuts were done, bones and scraps would all boil down in that curvy stone, once Daemon finished sterilizing the last of his filthy bandages.
Back and forth Daemon went—checking the at so it didn’t char black, scraping the board clear for the next batch, chomping down bites so hot they scalded his tongue raw. But hunger trumped caution; each mouthful pushed warmth back into his trembling muscles.
His greedy eyes kept flicking to the real prize—the whole bird roasting to a golden crisp. His clone flipped it over and over, the fire popping as fat dripped, flaring up waves of rich, smoky scent.
Good thing their camp was tucked five minutes from the village’s edge and way more from the forest’s true predators. Less chance the sll would carry trouble their way. Still, the world had a habit of ignoring odds.
‘Don’t jinx it,’ Daemon told himself, rolling his shoulder. Already it throbbed less. The hot at and Grunt’s leftover boost dulled the sting of half-healed skin.
He tore a leg free from the whole pheasant, swung it to cool the heat, then ripped in—grease on his chin, teeth sinking down to the bone.
He ate in tense silence until the last shred was gone. Daemon tossed the stripped leg bone onto the fire and leaned back, belly warm and heavy. The clone, anwhile, scrubbed the curvy stone spotless before setting it on the fire again, filling it with water for the leftover bones, hearts, and livers.
He sighed dramatically as the broth began to bubble. “I never thought salt and spices would be so damn important,” he grumbled, swirling his rough-made wooden ladle.
Crack.
Both froze at the snap. The clone brushed it off, but Daemon’s ears twitched. That sound didn’t co from the flas—it ca from the village.
“Uninvited guests. Hide in the woods. Now. Leave your clothes—I’ll need them.” He sent the command through the link, already hauling up the fifteen pheasants by the rope. His clone hesitated only a heartbeat before stripping down and bolting for the brush.
Daemon felt the pulse in his legs, the raw ache in his shoulder. He could move—barely, but he could. The at and that rush of stolen Vitality bought him just enough ti. His wounds still stung, but they’d hold.
Ti to vanish before the real predators showed their teeth.
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