Amukelo: The Burdened Path

Amukelo's breaths came in ragged gasps, his body trembling as he leaned heavily against the wall of the ancient chamber. His left arm throbbed with excruciating pain, the kind that felt like fire coursing through his veins. When he looked at it, a cold dread spread through him—his entire arm was now a dark, sickly color, and the poison had advanced well past his elbow. The veins were black, spreading outward in jagged, spiderweb-like patterns as if the poison was alive and determined to devour him from the inside out.

His vision blurred for a moment, and he blinked hard, trying to focus through the pain and panic. With trembling fingers, he tore at his pants, cutting long strips of fabric with his dagger. Each movement sent jolts of agony through his body, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. He wrapped the makeshift cloth tightly around his upper arm, just above the elbow, tying it off with as much strength as his one good hand could muster. The binding was so tight it bit into his skin, and his hand immediately began to tingle, the blood flow completely cut off.

Leaning back against the cold stone wall, Amukelo's head tilted upward. His eyes landed on the towering statues once again. They stood there in their silent, eternal vigil, unmoving and unfeeling as he fought for his life beneath them. Their stone faces held no pity, no acknowledgment of his suffering. He felt a wave of bitterness welling up inside him. 

"Ahh… how pathetic," he muttered, his voice cracking. "I couldn't even last a few months after leaving the village." His chest heaved as tears began to pool in his eyes, though he didn't wipe them away. "How could I ever achieve anything? How could I think I was ready for this world?"

He paused, his throat tightening as the weight of his failure pressed down on him like the ceiling of a collapsing cave. His voice grew louder, trembling with anger and despair as he cried out, "God, why do You do this? What are You punishing me for? What did I do wrong? You didn't even give me a chance to fulfill my promise to my mother… Why?!" 

The echo of his words bounced off the walls, mocking him in the silence that followed. But the pain brought him back to reality. A sharp, stabbing sensation in his hand caused him to look down, and his stomach twisted in horror. One of his fingers, where the darkness was most concentrated, had cracked along the joint. He stared, frozen, as the finger bent unnaturally and then fell off completely, landing on the stone floor with a sickening, soft thud.

Amukelo's breath quickened, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. "No… no…" he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. His voice rose in panic, "No, no, no!" He cradled his arm, as if somehow that would stop the disintegration, but another crack appeared on a second finger. He tried to move it, but the motion caused it to sever entirely, and it too fell to the ground. The pain was unbearable, radiating up his arm like molten fire. 

He screamed, his voice raw and ragged as the agony overwhelmed him. Tears streamed down his face uncontrollably, mixing with the dirt and blood smeared on his skin. His body shook violently, his mind spiraling into a chaotic storm of fear and desperation. 

Looking at the cloth he had tied around his arm, he realized with a fresh wave of terror that the poison was still spreading. The dark veins had climbed past the binding, creeping closer and closer to his shoulder. "No… please… don't!" he begged, his voice cracking as he pressed his hand against the binding as if to hold the poison back by sheer force. "Please, God… stop this. Don't let it end like this. Please…" 

But the poison didn't stop. Another finger cracked and fell off, and the realization hit him like a sledgehammer. There was no stopping it. His body wouldn't last much longer.

His gaze flickered to his sword, lying beside him. A new, horrifying thought crept into his mind, one he couldn't shake. His breathing became shallow, panicked, as he reached out with his trembling good hand and grasped the hilt of the blade. 

He looked at the sword, then at his arm, now nearly black up to the elbow. The trembling in his body grew worse as he held the blade over his arm. 

"I don't…" he stammered. "I don't want to die here… I have to… I need to survive. I can't let this kill me." His words sounded hollow, even to himself, but he gritted his teeth and pressed the edge of the blade against his poisoned arm.

The sharp pain of the steel breaking his skin made him cry out, but he pushed the blade deeper, his screams echoing through the chamber. The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt, tearing through him like a wildfire. Blood poured from the wound, pooling on the stone beneath him. 

But he couldn't do it. The pain, the fear, the sheer horror of severing his own arm—it was too much, especially when there was no hope he would even survive. His trembling hand lost its grip on the sword, and it clattered to the ground beside him. He slumped forward, his body shaking as tears streamed down his face. 

"I can't…" he choked out, his voice barely audible. "I can't do this… I can't… I will die here either way..." He laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and broken. "How pathetic… I'm going to die here. I'm really going to die here." 

He collapsed onto his side, his body too weak to hold him up any longer. His vision blurred, the chamber around him fading into darkness as his consciousness began to slip away. His voice was a faint whisper now, carried only to himself and God.

"Haha… it's the end. It's really the end… I die here… really…"

And with that, Amukelo's body went still, and the world around him faded as he lost his consciousness.

Then, Amukelo stirred as he opened his eyes, his body feeling light, his mind clouded in a strange haze. The last thing he remembered was pain—excruciating, unbearable pain—and the overwhelming despair that had consumed him before everything had faded to black. But now… there was warmth.

The golden glow of the afternoon sun bathed him, and the soft rustling of wheat swaying in the gentle breeze filled the air. He could feel the warmth against his skin, a stark contrast to the cold stone chamber he had collapsed in. The scent of fresh earth and ripened grain surrounded him, a scent so familiar yet so impossibly distant.

He found himself lying in the middle of a vast wheat field, the golden stalks stretching endlessly in every direction. The sky above was an impossible shade of blue. 

Amukelo sat up slowly, his body reacting as if nothing had happened to him. "What… happened?" he murmured under his breath.

Then, a familiar voice called out. "Oh, Amukelo, you're awake. Good, I just finished our work, so we can go back."

Amukelo turned his head toward the voice, and his breath caught in his throat. Standing there, amidst the golden wheat, was Eagor—his best friend. 

Amukelo blinked rapidly, his mind struggling to catch up. Eagor shouldn't be here. The last thing he remembered was being on the brink of death, alone in a collapsing cave.

"What…?" Amukelo whispered, rubbing his eyes. His heart pounded in his chest as he quickly checked his arm, expecting to see the hideous black rot of the poison creeping through his veins. But his arm was normal. There was no pain. No missing fingers. No broken bones.

Eagor's smile faltered slightly as he took a step forward, concern flickering in his expression. "Amukelo? What's wrong?"

Amukelo swallowed hard and stared at his friend. "Where… am I?"

Eagor chuckled, shaking his head. "What kind of question is that? We're in the wheat fields, same as always. You dozed off. I finished up the rest of the work, so we can head back now."

Amukelo felt his stomach twist. He looked around again. The fields, the scent of home, the warmth of the sun… it all felt so real. 

Then another thought struck him like a bolt of lightning. His voice broke as he suddenly asked, "What happened to my mother?"

Eagor's expression shifted completely. His brows furrowed, and for the first time, he looked truly concerned. "What? She's fine. She's probably cooking dinner and waiting for you. Why are you asking like that?"

Amukelo's breath hitched, and he felt himself stagger back slightly. "My mother… is alive? Alive?" He whispered to himself. 

That wasn't possible. She had died. He had buried her himself. He had spent years mourning her, carrying her memory as his motivation to keep moving forward. Yet here Eagor was, speaking as if she were alive, as if she were waiting for him at home, as if nothing had ever happened.

Eagor must have sensed the distress from Amukelo, he stepped forward and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "You must've had a really bad nightmare, brother. Let's go back. Your mother's waiting for you."

Amukelo felt his entire body go rigid at those words. A nightmare.

Was that what this was? Had it all been just a terrible dream? The years of hardship, the training, the suffering, the near-death experiences—had none of it been real?

His head swam with conflicting emotions. Part of him wanted to believe it, to throw himself into this world where his mother was alive, where he had never left the village, where he had never endured the horrors of the outside world.

But another part of him… the part that had fought, bled, and suffered… it couldn't accept it so easily.

Still, he didn't fight as Eagor gently nudged him forward. His feet moved on their own, carrying him down the dirt path that led home.

As they walked, Eagor glanced at him again. "What happened in that dream of yours, anyway? You looked like you saw a ghost when you woke up."

Amukelo hesitated. He wasn't sure if he should say anything. But as they continued walking, he finally said, "It… it wasn't a dream."

Eagor frowned but said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

Amukelo took a deep breath and spoke. He told Eagor everything. He told him how his mother had died, how he had trained under Syltar, how he had left the village, how he had lived in the wilderness, and how, most recently, he had nearly died in a cave deep in the mountains. He described the pain, the suffering, the battles, and the loneliness.

When he finished, his voice was hoarse, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He braced himself for laughter, for dismissal, for disbelief.

But instead, Eagor just smiled warmly and tapped him on the back.

"Don't worry, brother. You're back in reality. You have nothing to fear anymore. Your mother is alive and healthy. None of that happened. It was just a bad dream."

Amukelo swallowed hard. He wanted so badly to believe him.

He forced a small smile and nodded. "Yeah… I can't wait to see her."

A familiar warmth filled his chest at the thought, despite the nagging doubt still lingering in the back of his mind.

As they reached the edge of the village, they came to a familiar crossroads where the path split. Eagor stopped, stretching his arms. "Well, this is where we split. You remember where to go, right? Or did that crazy dream of yours mess with your head that much?"

Amukelo let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "No, I remember." He hesitated for a moment before adding sincerely, "Thank you."

Eagor grinned and waved as he started down his path. "See you later, Amukelo."

Amukelo stood there for a long moment, watching him walk away, before turning to face the path leading home.