Road To True Freedom

Chapter 04

In the woods not far from the village, a ten-year-old boy moved silently through the underbrush, eyes low, feet light, hunger gnawing at his insides like a dull blade.

His ribs showed beneath the threadbare shirt clinging to his skinny frame, and his sun-tanned arms bore the faint scratches of brambles and branches—familiar marks from years of foraging.

No weapons to hunt and far too little experience to put traps, his options were limited. Mushrooms. Berries. If he was lucky, the scattered remains of an animal dragged off by predators and picked clean by vultures. He didn't mind. Survival had long since burned away any pride.

The boy stood out in this part of the world—blond hair and piercing blue eyes, a strange sight in a country where jet-black hair and brown eyes were the norm.

Even as a toddler, he’d known he didn’t belong here. It wasn’t just his appearance that set him apart—it was something deeper. The way he moved, the way he watched, the way he learned.

His so-called parents had never named him. He was "kid." "Leech." "Rat." "Useless thing." He was beaten up many times but they still fed him—even though they never loved him, never comforted him, never treated him like a child.

He had learned early not to expect kindness; he learned that kindness is not free, and everything has a price.

So he survived. That was his only mission. Eat. Sleep. Endure.

Every morning, he checked the dusty corner of the shack to see if Stanley or Wayla had left him anything edible.

Usually, they hadn’t. Then he would slip away into the woods before they could hurl more insults or find excuses to punish him for nothing.

He knew every inch of this stretch of forest—where the stinging bugs lived, which mushrooms made your tongue swell, which berries weren’t worth the cramps. He had learned the hard way. His belly still remembered the days it swelled like a balloon and left him curled up for hours on the forest floor.

But today, something was wrong.

The woods were too quiet.

No rustling birds. No distant snarls. Even the wind seemed to avoid this place. A chill ran down the boy’s spine.

For the past three days, he had felt it—a presence. Not animal. Not human either. Something watching. Following.

Today, the feeling was unbearable.

He froze, eyes darting from tree to tree. Nothing moved. Still, the pressure remained, like invisible fingers grazing the back of his neck.

His instincts screamed: Leave.

He didn’t overthink. He turned on his heel, and began retracing his steps, weaving quickly between trees, careful not to step on dry leaves or snap twigs. He didn’t look back. He knew better. Whatever it was—if it was even real—he didn’t want to meet it face-to-face.

The tension in his chest only eased when he reached the treeline and stepped back into the sunlit edge of the village.

But instead of going home, he made a detour.

Through alleys lined with cracked walls and patched roofs, past mud-covered streets and sleeping homeless men, he moved toward the outskirts. There, beside a dead, rotting tree, he dropped to one knee and began to dig with both hands.

His fingers struck cloth.

A moment later, he pulled free a sack wrapped in oilskin. Inside was his treasure: copper coins. Dozens of them, earned bit by bit over the last years. Carrying them on his body was dangerous. Hiding them at Stanley’s house was stupid. But here, buried under dirt and rot, they were safe.

He counted three coins and left the rest buried, smoothing the earth with practiced care.

Clutching the coins in his hand, he made his way toward the house of the only man he half-trusted in the village.

Pit lived in a squat, weathered building on the edge of town. A hunter, tall and broad-shouldered, with sun-darkened skin and a tangled mane of black hair, he stood nearly two meters tall.

The rumor was he’d killed his wife. No one asked questions. No one here had the moral high ground to do so.

The boy knocked softly. A moment later, the door creaked open.

Pit stood in the doorway, one hand on his hip, a deep scowl carved across his face.

“You again,” he grunted.

The boy bowed slightly. “Morning, Sir Pit. I hope you’re well.”

Pit snorted. “Cut the act. You don’t give a damn how I’m doing.”

The boy’s polite mask cracked just a bit. “Yeah, fair enough.”

Pit leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I’ve got nothing today. Killed a scrawny hare, and that’s mine.”

The boy nodded, trying not to show his disappointment. His empty stomach didn’t care for dignity, but begging would get him nowhere.

Pit noticed. He always noticed.

The man sighed. “You’ve been scrounging since you could walk. I don’t suppose those fat bastards at home are helping any?”

The boy shrugged. “They stopped feeding me months ago.”

Pit looked off into the distance, jaw tightening.

“Well,” he muttered, “you’re a tough one. Try the woods again. You know them better than most of the idiots here.”

The boy shook his head. “Something’s wrong in the woods. I’ve felt it for days. Like something’s following me.”

Pit narrowed his eyes. “I was out there yesterday. Didn’t see anything.”

“It’s not about seeing,” the boy whispered. “It’s a feeling. Heavy. Wrong.”

They stood in silence.

Then the boy’s stomach let out a traitorous growl, long and loud.

Pit exhaled through his nose, annoyed, then turned and walked back inside. A moment later, he returned with a piece of dried meat. He tossed it to the boy without a word.

The boy caught it with both hands, eyes wide. “Thanks—”

“Not free,” Pit interrupted. “You got coins?”

The boy pulled out the three copper coins.

Pit took them and tucked them into his pouch. “That covers half. Rest goes on your tab.”

The boy nodded. “That’s fair.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “It’s not just the woods. I feel like something’s… waiting. Watching. Not a beast. Something worse.”

Pit gave no reply, but his brow furrowed slightly.

The boy didn’t wait for more. He took the meat and left, clutching it like a prize.

As he walked back toward Stanley’s shack, the boy’s pace slowed. He wasn’t scared, not exactly. But he couldn’t shake the feeling. Something was changing.

He felt it in the trees. In the silence. In the way Pit had hesitated.

Something—or someone—was watching.

He didn’t know why.

But he had learned one truth in his short, brutal life: when instincts whispered, you listened.

And today, they weren’t whispering.

They were screaming.