By the time we left that canyon soaked in blood and fire, the sun was already setting.
The procession stretched out in a long line, casting even longer shadows on the ground. Everyone was silent, with only the weary snorting of the livestock and the creaking of wheels over gravel escaping from the ground.
That place was like a man-eating sack; once you've finally managed to squeeze out, nobody wants to look back.
Shira followed in the middle of the group, the sword on her back feeling heavy—not in weight, but in the sensation. The bloodstains on the sword had been barely wiped off with sand from the road, but there was still a lingering smell of rust mixed with something else.
He tried not to look at his sword-wielding hand as he walked, but when he did, he could see that the skin between his fingers was still red.
One moment my mind is filled with the Giant Rock's wide-open eyes, the next with the Mandrill's twitching body and that rusty knife, all tangled together in a chaotic mess that I can't shake off.
My stomach feels empty, a little nauseous, and a bit numb.
He wanted to find something to do to distract himself, but he couldn't muster the energy to talk to anyone. Asuka, on the other hand, recovered quickly. Even with his arm in a sling, his mouth was never idle. He was whispering to Sasori, probably bragging about how well he had dodged the attack earlier.
Sasori responded half-heartedly, his mind mostly on the puppet parts he was holding, which had been re-wrapped in cloth. His fingers unconsciously rubbed a tear in the cloth, his eyes somewhat vacant, lost in thought.
Sada walked on the other side, his back ramrod straight, but his face was deathly pale, and his lips were pressed into a thin line.
Captain Reppu walked at the front, his back resembling a weathered stone, his expression unreadable. Every now and then, he would stop, listen to the sounds around him, and wave for the team to catch up.
The atmosphere in the caravan grew even heavier. People had died, some goods had been lost, and most of the survivors were wounded. The crying had stopped, but the dull, suffocating feeling, like being cut by a dull knife, was more painful than crying itself.
Those driving carts and leading livestock all lowered their heads, staring at the tiny patch of ground beneath their feet.
There was a boy, probably an apprentice, whose eyes were red and swollen. He walked along wiping his face with his sleeve, and then he started shivering. It was hard to tell whether he was cold or scared.
They walked in silence for half a day until it got dark, then set up camp under a low, sheltered cliff. Nobody had the heart to prepare anything decent to eat, so they just ate some hard, dry rations with cold water.
The Kakkō was small and flickering, illuminating the tired and blank faces.
Shira sat down next to a rock, taking small bites of the dried meat his mother and Ameno had prepared for him. The meat smelled delicious, but he couldn't quite taste it.
Not far away, several caravan porters huddled around a small fire, silently warming their hands.
An older man, his face deeply lined with wrinkles, was flickering in the Kakkō. He clutched an old leather bag, carefully took a small sip, and coughed softly, probably from the cheap liquor.
" Old Man Vulture, drink sparingly, this stuff burns your throat and's expensive," a burly man with a scar across his face, running diagonally from his brow to his chin, said in a low voice. He had a freshly bandaged wound on his leg, making his sitting posture look awkward. "Just save it to warm up."
"I know, I know, Scarface." The old man, called Old Man Vulture, wiped his mouth, stuffed the leather bag shut, and hugged it like a child. His cloudy eyes stared at the flickering flames, and his voice was low and hoarse, like a broken bellows being pulled.
"I just feel so choked up. Marutetsu, that kid, he's such a good person. He only has an elderly mother at home who's sick, and Tenten saying that if he makes this trip, he might save some money to buy medicine."
"That's terrible, the person is gone, sigh."
The Marutetsu he mentioned was probably one of the porters who died from poisoned darts during the day.
The people nearby didn't respond; they just kept their heads down or stared blankly at the flames. A thin piece of firewood popped open with a "crack," sending up a few sparks before quickly going out.