Famine 64: Eight Years

64
Eight Years

That thing hovered in the air, fading in and out of sight. Si Zhiyan decisively called, “Shi He.”

Perched on a branch with his rifle at the ready, Shi He immediately looked up.
His eyes were still tinged with red, but his sniper’s vision was excellent, and he quickly caught sight of the object in midair.

It was a palm-sized wooden carving, its lacquer chipped and worn, depicting a little calf lounging on a grassy field, chewing contentedly.
The carving floated behind the cola waterfall, suspended dozens of meters above the ground, gently rising and falling.

It was the wooden carving at the heart of the Bonegnaw Fatewheel.

Si Zhiyan was keenly aware—this thing had survived the Starship-Cola Rail Cannon completely unscathed.

“Can you get it?”

“I can,” Shi He nodded.
There was no time to dwell on his thoughts now; he had to act. Taking a deep breath and pushing his scattered emotions aside, Shi He pressed his earpiece and called, “Anderson.”

The familiar shimmer of a phase rift flashed by, and Shi He was already airborne.

The heavy night fog had risen. The boy began to plummet rapidly; the humid air howled past his ears. With the rush of weightlessness sweeping over him, Shi He stretched out his hand, fingertips brushing the wooden carving.

Buzz!

In an instant, everything before him changed.
Night, farm, blackthorn forest… everything receded like the tide.

Now he stood in a small, chaotic apartment. Just a single room: clothing piled in disarray over a computer chair, all but burying the back. The desk was cluttered with components, magazines, spent cartridges; a soldering pen perched haphazardly atop it. A pizza box lay half-opened, beside a gun dismantled for cleaning.

Utterly messy, yet pulsing with warm and bustling life.

On the bed lay a child of about three or five, gaunt and skinny, covered by a thin gray blanket.
His wounds had been bandaged; his body scrubbed clean, the faint air scented with shampoo.

Shi He’s shoulders suddenly began to tremble.

He would never, ever forget this scene.
—This was the morning he was found in a trash bin and awoke in a stranger’s home for the first time.

Creak.
The old wooden door opened.

A man entered the room, carrying a bowl of food.

Shi He could still faintly recall his first impression.

The young child looked up, only thinking how tall this man was, how strong—his loose T-shirt couldn’t hide the athletic lines of his frame.

It was midday; sunlight slanted through the blinds, dappling the room in shadow. A fine, downy edge of light haloed the man’s figure, making him seem overwhelmingly warm.

Back then, he hadn’t yet grown those dragon wings.

The man pressed the bowl into the child’s hands.
On top of a mound of steaming beef bourguignon were two thick slices of French bread, the tops glistening with buttery, golden crust, crisp and aromatic; the undersides already soaked with meat juice, the fragrance of red wine burrowing into the heart.

The famished child could not resist at all, devouring the food in big gulps, wolfing it down.

The man cleared a space in the clothing, straddled a chair across the room, slouched over the chairback with his chin propped in one hand, smiling and watching him eat.

“Kid, where are your family?”

“…” The child struggled to swallow a huge mouthful of bread and whispered, “They’re dead.”

“Oho!” the man clapped his hands cheerfully. “Well, would you look at that? My brother died too.”

Is… is that really something to call a coincidence? The child stared at him blankly, crumbs at the corner of his lips.

“Well now, look.” The man picked up some half-assembled parts from the desk and said, “Watch closely.”

Spring, barrel, magazine—his hands danced in a blur, and in a matter of seconds, a firearm took shape. He racked the slide—clack!—a round chambered.

The man grinned, “You see all that, kid?”

The child nodded, after a moment’s hesitation.

Like a conjuror, the man’s hands flashed again, and the gun dissolved effortlessly back into its pieces.

With a playful, teasing smile, he pushed the parts over. “You try.”

The child set down his bowl, wiped his hands as best he could, and, copying the man’s motions, picked up the pieces.
Heavy, cold metal met his grasp. Spring, barrel, magazine… one bit at a time, he fitted them together.

The man’s smile faded, replaced by a look of mild surprise as he watched.

The child didn’t remember every step; he made some mistakes, had to hesitate, and fumble a few times. But eventually, against all odds, he assembled an intact gun.

He mimicked the man, pulling hard at the slide—

Click.
The bolt jammed.

“…”

The child’s cheeks flushed red; he braced and pulled even harder—

Click. Still stuck.

—He was simply too small, too weak.

The room lapsed into silence. The boy’s shoulders hunched, his heart clenched tightly; closing his eyes, he braced for a scolding or a slap.

But that familiar hand never fell.

Ha!
The man burst out laughing, slapping the table, picking up the pistol to chamber the round with a click.
“Good job! Fantastic! You’re a real find—turns out I picked up a virtuous prodigy!”

“You pass! No problem—”

He leaned forward, smiling,
his patting hand a little rough, stinging just a bit, but filled with a closeness that was far better than being hit.

“Name’s Nidhogg, by the way.”

Even though it was better than a slap, it still stung, and the little boy trembled faintly.
Nidhogg was downright wicked; not only did he not stop, but he seemed to take joy in watching the boy shiver.

“Starting tomorrow, I’ll teach you a lot of things. Real skills—vital points of the human body, proper stances, CQB tactics, firearm maintenance, survival in all kinds of harsh conditions… In the shortest time, I’ll make you into someone who survives for a good long while.”

“I’ll raise you for eight years. My contract with fate starts now, and ends in eight years.”

“For eight years, I’ll teach you all I can. Once the eight years are up, we part ways, each to our own fate, all debts cleared.”
“That’s the fate I chose.”

“If you can manage that, from now on, this is your home.”

Nidhogg bent over, smiling, and patted the child’s cheek.

“What do you say?”

At that age, the boy was too young to understand what CQB meant, or what a scope was, or even what eight years would be. In his little head, only one thing made sense—

[From now on, this will be your home.]

He looked up, his eyes shining a little more with each moment.

“Yes!” he nodded vigorously.

Nidhogg spun around in his seat and plopped down in the computer chair. He propped his feet on the desk and grinned. “So, what do you call me, then?”

The boy, befuddled but suddenly inspired, looked up and called out, “Big brother.”

Nidhogg was delighted, ruffling his head gleefully. “Well now, you really do have sense. Good kid, good kid.”

Nidhogg’s hand was warm, strong, and dry, callused from grip—huge, big enough to cover half the boy’s head.
The child’s eyes sparkled, and he burrowed into that big palm.

Bombs fell outside the window, but the child no longer had to face the wind and rain. A breeze tinged with the smell of gunpowder smudged the fluttering calendar on the windowsill, setting it clattering.

From that day forth, through all the rushing years and hardship, Shi He never forgot one thing: he had a home.
Wherever Nidhogg was, that was home.

Now, watching all of this, Shi He’s face was expressionless, but his fingertips would not stop trembling.

“…Does it mean anything?” he said softly.

That little child had grown up into a handsome young man. With shaking hands, Shi He racked the bolt—

Clack!
The action that the child once could not manage was now second nature.

He gazed deeply at the boy in the vision, nodding furiously, his own eyes tracing the edges of grievance.

He raised the rifle, took aim, and—without hesitation—pulled the trigger.

Bang!
The harmonious illusion before him shattered like a pane of glass!

Night rushed back in a torrent; the calf wood carving had almost slipped from Shi He’s view.

With bloodshot eyes and gritted teeth, he lunged forward, hands flashing out to snatch the carving back.

[Fate Wood Carving – Calf]
The fate of an ox is to labor without end, working from dawn to dusk, until old age leaves him too feeble for toil.
Only at life’s end, lying down in the shed, does the ox realize the happiest days were those as a calf, nestled at his mother’s side, chewing grass.
The carving grows a fate disk around it, showing the fate of those who gaze at it.
Whoever touches the carving can return, for a short while, to the happiest days of their life.

[Next fate disk growth countdown: 13 days]

Falling through the air, Shi He shouted, “Anderson!”

Whoosh!
Shi He landed safely within the walls, on the soft grass by the lake.

Anderson rushed over. “Shi He, did you get it? What is that…”

The moment he saw Shi He, he stopped short.
“W-what’s wrong…” Anderson’s voice softened,

“How could you agree to that…” Shi He knelt on the grass, head bowed so deeply his slender shoulders shook. “How could you agree?”
“That after eight years you’d walk away, each accepting his own fate… That kind of laughable, utterly meaningless promise…”

“How could you ever agree to it?”

Anderson was stunned. “Wh…what?”
He truly didn’t understand, at a complete loss, until Si Zhiyan appeared nearby and signaled Anderson away. Anderson looked worriedly at Shi He, then blinked away in a phase flash.

Hiss.

A can hissed open. Shi He lifted his head.

Si Zhiyan was sitting beside him, offering an open can of cola. “Want a drink?”

“…Thank you, sir. Thank you.” Shi He swallowed, slowly taking the can.

Under the starry sky, the farm’s grasslands lay empty, a gentle breeze curling across moonlit water.

Si Zhiyan said, “You were so young, don’t be harsh on yourself.”

“…So you really could see.” Shi He gave a bitter smile.

“In fact… for a long time now, I haven’t been reconciled.”

“After I grew up, I regretted, every single day, ever agreeing to that promise so easily.”

“Why only raise me for eight years? Was I not good enough? Had I done something wrong?”
“Why didn’t he want to stay with me forever? Was I not enough?”

His voice fell lower with every word.

“I’ve obsessed over this… for so many years.”

“In the end, trying to avoid being parted, I made a terrible mistake.”
“My brother… he must hate me. I clearly promised him, and still did something unforgivable.”

“…I looked for him for so long, and every time we finally met, he would soon leave again.”
Shi He buried his face in his knees.
“He must have hated me—that’s why he set that eight-year limit. He must… really, really hate me.”

Si Zhiyan said nothing, only nodded at the can in Shi He’s hand. “Drink a little.”

Gulp.
The cold cola went down; sharp bubbles rushed up his nose, making Shi He cover his face as tears nearly spilled over—his focus abruptly shaken.

Si Zhiyan said: “Do you remember the date, the day you were taken in?”

Shi He shook his head. “I was too young then, I don’t recall.”

“Just now, while in the memory, I saw the date on the wind-blown calendar.”
Si Zhiyan said,
“That day was March 26, 2017.”

Shi He hadn’t yet registered it, answering blankly, “Hm?” Then, all at once, his pupils contracted.

“Exactly eight years later… that is, March 26, 2025.”

Si Zhiyan spoke slowly,

“The day the main god descended to Earth and Don’t Starve began.”