There were still many eyes watching in the slave camp. To avoid exposing himself, Kane merely listened to the contents of the trial, forcibly suppressing the stormy waves in his heart before hastily dismissing all the believers. Only Little John remained behind to look after Anvil, who needed rest.
For the moment, silence returned to the shack.
Little John looked at the still hideous scars covering Anvil's body, his small face filled with guilt.
"Uncle, it's all my fault. If it weren't for me..."
Anvil stretched out his broad, rough hand and gently patted the boy's head. Forcing out a smile, he said in a booming voice, "What nonsense are you talking about? You brat are clearly my lucky star. If you hadn't been here, I might really have fallen asleep for good."
"Besides, we were the ones who told you to go out. You don't need to blame yourself."
He paused, and his voice softened.
"You should head back first. Uncle is a little tired and wants to rest alone for a while."
"But your wounds..."
"No buts. Be good and go back." Anvil's tone was gentle, yet brooked no argument.
Little John hesitated for a moment, but in the end, he obediently nodded and left the shack, looking back every few steps.
Once he confirmed the boy had left, the exhaustion on Anvil's face was instantly replaced by a complicated mixture of anticipation and caution.
He took a deep breath and recalled the words that soft, glutinous voice had left behind when his consciousness had been fading—"When no one is around, knock three times on the rock wall behind you, and I will answer."
With a measure of reverence and even more uncertainty, he did as instructed.
His knuckles struck the rough, icy stone, producing three dull knocks—"knock,