Chapter 4: Wounds and Warnings
With one more person in the little ranch house, there was one more thing to do every day.
Fixing fences, tending cattle, brewing medicine.
The days stretched longer, and cicadas screamed from the cottonwoods outside. The heat pressed in, thick as syrup, sweat prickling down my back. Marcus was too kind-hearted. After a few doses of medicine, he became much less guarded around me.
When he smiled with his brows curved, it made people feel warm inside.
The only bad thing was the wounds on his body.
I snuck a peek one night when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The wounds that had scabbed over broke open again, blood flowing and mingling.
Over and over, I didn’t know how many times.
I wanted to look closer, but he blocked my view.
"Don’t worry, it’ll heal on its own."
It won’t.
Everyone says that those with spirit cores are born special, unable to die or be harmed.
But someone like that, once stripped of their core, is worse off than an ordinary person.
At least we don’t suffer again and again.
The system sneered: "I told you long ago, his injuries aren’t that easy to heal."
"Instead of wasting your time here, you’d better send him over sooner."
My stomach twisted. I’d been on the losing end before. You don’t hand good people over to the wolves.
"Send him over, and then what?"
Be forced onto that unwilling path again?
The story is long, but it never directly mentions Marcus. It only describes how much effort Noah spent to get the person he longed for.
The noblest man in the world, his world shrinking from the open range to a tiny bedroom.
They call this forced love.
But if it was truly willing, why did Noah have to use such awful means, and why did he rip out his spirit core?
The system was silent for a moment: "But you can’t really blame Noah. The person he likes stands too high, too far away..."
"Then he should strive to climb up, not drag the other down into the dirt with him."
I didn’t dare let my tears fall into the medicine pot, so I could only wipe them away again and again with my hand.
My hands were raw and red, the scent of camphor and rubbing alcohol clinging to my skin. The hurt ran deeper than the bruises ever could.
"Don’t blame your protagonist; blame Marcus for not guarding against the guy he raised himself."
"Blame him for being so compassionate back then, for insisting on taking in a troubled kid and raising him."
Look at that, raising such a big ingrate.