There's No Love In the Deathzone (BL)-Chapter 47 - 46. The Gate of Security

The first time I saw him, he was being kicked and beaten by a man beside the fence of the residential area. He was small, I didn’t think he was any older than eight. I couldn’t see his face, just his curled-up body; dirty clothes, dirty black hair. The man was barking viciously, ’why haven’t you awakened yet’ or something like that.

When the man stopped and walked away with curses, he didn’t get up for a while. I had thought he died or something. It wasn’t uncommon here—people drop dead every day, only to be replaced by other exiles and runaways. Espers died in dungeons like flies, and guides dropped dead, exhausted after being used. But at least people cared when they did. Civilians and children were no more than fodders, no one gave a shit when they died.

I got curious after a while and wanted to check, but the boy twitched when I just managed to come out of my hiding place. He got up slowly, and when his face lifted, our eyes met.

Even with bruises, with dirt and caked blood, he was pretty. The blue eyes shimmered like a mystical lake, before he brought them down, out of sight.

I didn’t see him again until a few weeks after. He was within the groups of children enthusiastically rummaging through the junk pile for any meagerly useful thing. My family’s mercenary group collected recycled stuff from the higher zone and brought them to the red-zone residential area for the civilians to scavenge. This particular pile was filled with children’s stuff; toys, books, clothes, and useless trinkets the rich threw away after they got bored. Well, it was useless for them, but it was a treasure for these kids.

The boy was pretty but fierce in the war; the blue eyes glint sharply to snatch the one with the best quality—those that haven’t got damaged too badly. The bruises had gone from his body, and he looked as healthy as ever. He walked away cautiously after his hand was full, and I had this curious urge of following him. That was how I found out where he lived.

And perhaps, if I stayed to watch him that day, he wouldn’t emerge looking like a sandbag the next day. I saw the clothes he took yesterday on another child’s body, and the toy on another kid’s hands. I found him crouching down on the site of the pile yesterday, looking at the flat ground with nonexistent junk. The blue eyes had no shimmer on them.

When I asked my sister about him, she just said not to bother. As I thought, he was not even eight at that time, and his condition was complicated. The man beating him at that time was his father, which meant he wasn’t an orphan. He wouldn’t be able to ask for protection from the agency, and we couldn’t take him under our wing unless his father gave consent—that was the community’s rule. It was actually hilarious that we bothered with things like rules while living in this lawless land.

I saw him several times since then, or rather, my eyes were always drawn to him. Perhaps because of his situation, he rarely joined other kids’ groups. I usually saw him beneath the fence of the residential area, on my way back from training with my father and sister. There was a big boulder on the north side of the border, a few meters away from a narrow cliff. Sometimes I saw him reading tattered books, sometimes I saw him sleeping against the boulder. Sometimes, I saw him looking down from the cliff, and I would dryly think I might not see him again.

One day though, I saw him crouching down with his fist curled up. Familiar bruises across his scrawny build. He was eight at that time.

’Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. You can’t cry.’

He muttered the words softly, over and over like a prayer. The blue eyes opened wide, glaring at the hard, dry soil, for if he closed them, tears might start rolling down.

I found myself stupidly staring at him, wondering why. Why wouldn’t you cry? It must be hurt, whether it was your body or your heart. Wouldn’t it hurt more if you kept it inside? Like a festering wound, like a poison?

Those thoughts swirled in my mind, but the only thing I did was stare at him, until he looked up, found me, and ran away with a flinch.

I found the answer a few years later.

He had grown up. Was he thirteen, fourteen? His father sold him to one of the rogue guilds after he awakened as a guide. Regret and shame were growing inside my heart, but there was nothing I could do as a trainee esper that hadn’t even gotten his license yet. I had no power of opinion within the mercenary group, even if I was the leader’s son. And truthfully, our group had no financial power either.

Moreover, I was sent to a training facility before the boy awakened, and only got his story from my sister after I came back. That the boy was not only sold to the guild, but also saddled with two toddlers out of nowhere.

How absurd! He couldn’t even take care of himself properly!

But he did manage; taking care of himself and the two additions the best he could. He scraped up his only payment—food—and brought it home for his brothers. He quietly wandered around the red-zone at night, guiding poor espers with food and used clothes as payment.

No one ever saw him cry. No one saw him whining. It was a useless thing to do in the red-zone, because no one had spare compassion to be shared with another miserable soul. He always stayed quiet, and his pretty face was now hidden beneath a mask.

I only heard him raise his voice once. It was when his younger brother cried after they fought with other kids. He pulled them harshly toward that boulder he always went to, and he scolded them with red eyes.

"Don’t cry! I told you guys not to cry!" he grabbed their shoulders tightly. His voice, which was obviously never used to yell before, was hoarse. "If you have to cry, do it in a place no one can see! You can’t let other people see you as being weak or you’ll die! We won’t be able to survive if people think we’re weak!"

Ah. So that was why. It was not that he wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t. Because he had no shield to protect him from the repercussion. He steeled his young heart, and buried his pain deep inside.

And each day, the glimmer in those beautiful blue eyes dimmed further, as he tried to survive while protecting others.

The first time I came face-to-face with him, was when he came to our group—or rather, came to my sister. Turned out, she had been helping him here and there; looking for a client, teaching him self-defense, teaching him a bit about the world.

I wished it was me.

That night, I opened the door for a beaten, bloody teenager, as he weakly called out the name of my sister before passing out. His head was burning, and his body was full of wounds. Again, it wasn’t a rare occurrence for people living in the red-zone, but certainly, not for a fourteen-year-old boy.

He just came for his first dungeon excursion, we found that out a few hours later when he amazingly woke up. He spent a few good minutes retching inside the bathroom, and I was reminded of my sister’s story about her first time inside a dungeon. Gods—I hadn’t even come inside one yet.

Before my sister even managed to tell him to stay and rest, he caught her hand and started to guide her. And before I could snap out of my bewilderment, he grabbed my hand and guided me next. His blue eyes were firm and emotionless, unlike the shaking, retching figure I saw a while ago. They were devoid of light, the gaze of someone who already accepted their rotten fate. With a dry tone, he said it was the payment for the treatment, and walked away.

That dawn, on the bed where he laid down a few hours before, my tears were falling.

Throughout the years, I witnessed his growth. Despite years of abuse, his scrawny body was filled with muscle, and he grew taller than ordinary guides. He was tenacious, and vicious when he wanted. He grew to be an extraordinary guide that was acknowledged by the espers of the red-zone.

He never cried, still.

With the growth of his skill and physique, the festered wound grew deeper, and the pain filled the crack and chasm inside his heart and soul that much more. From time to time, when he felt stressed out, he would spend time in our house, just to have a quiet time, and I enjoyed every part of it.

We grew closer that way, and once I was an official esper, I employed his service from time to time. It was during those serene times that I could observe him more deeply—his deep wound, the corrosion that no one could cure. So one day, I offered myself to him.

I had nothing but my body, and my secret affection. Against all norms; that I was an esper and he was a guide, that I was physically bigger, that I was older—I let him feast on my body. No guiding, not even love on his part. I was his first, and I drank on that fact with strange joy. When I saw a bit of spark in his eyes as he felt pleasure, I felt elated.

But a spark was just that. A spark. It could never drown the pain and poison inside his heart. I might be able to comfort his body from time to time, but I never managed to heal his heart. I had no strength to protect him, no wealth to offer him, and not enough willpower to shoulder his misery.

So I gave up.

"Zen," I told him one day, when he was visiting our house as usual. "You know I loved you, don’t you?"

He looked up from the book he read, staring at me for a few seconds, just like how my father and sister stared at us dumbfounded.

"I know," he answered simply, without any fluctuation in his voice.

"Damn, I thought you’re the dense kind," my sister chimed in from the couch, laughing.

"No," he replied calmly, like usual. "I’m just cruel," he stared at me with those mesmerizing blue eyes, even when they had lost their light. "I’m glad you stopped."

No, rather than stopped my feeling, I just decided to stop projecting it. I decided to stop looking for his reply, and stop yearning for his affection.

His pain was too big for me to handle. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

Misery loved company, but two miserable people being together mostly led to even bigger misery. And he had enough pain as it was.

"You need someone strong enough to shield you when you cry," was what I said back then. It was my parting words, not to him, but to the cowardly me and this feeling I buried.

The little spark that I provided, was instantly drowned inside his harsh current. He needed—he deserved someone whom he could comfortably concede in, who was strong enough to protect him, not just physically, but emotionally. Someone whom he could trust enough to provide him the security, for him to cry and shed all the pain festering inside his soul. Someone who would persistently chip in his defense, even with his coldness and cruelty.

He disappeared before I could be that kind of person. Before he could find that kind of person. His pain had multiplied, but still, I did nothing but let him go. It wasn’t like I had the right to stop him in the first place.

I wondered though, if I managed to gain that strength a bit right now.

"Zach, this came in today,"

It was because of the piece of paper brought by my sister just now. A notice.

"It’s just a forward notice, but it’s as good as an invitation," she grinned widely, excitement all over her face.

I understood that sentiment. The invitation to the annual gathering held by the Sentinel Association only came to three mercenary groups in the entire Eastern Federation. Being chosen as one of them meant we were finally getting acknowledged as one of the best.

"In six months, huh?" the same grin crept to my face. "Where will it be?"

"The yellow-zone, Projo," she hopped on the desk, even though I repeatedly told her not to sit there. There were perfectly functional chairs in the room, Sis. "You know, once we officially join the gathering, it means we’re strong enough to be a representative group. Do you want to try, then?"

"Try what?" I folded the notice letter and looked up at the suspicious grin on her face.

"To bring Zen to our group," the grin on her face grew wider. "Isn’t that why you’ve been working extra hard these past four years?"

I felt my heart drop for a second. Ah, damn. This old hag really knew how to read people. "That’s not the only reason," I let out a grumble.

But I couldn’t deny it too. Zen was strong, and more than competent. But the Borderland was a treacherous place, and nothing was more dangerous than the Deathzone.

"I just hoped it wouldn’t be too late,"

* * *

Just as his old acquaintances talked about him, Zein was looking out of the long-distance bus traveling from the orange-zone’s Arnet town.

He had spent a whole night hitchhiking the supply truck to traverse the Redridge plain and mountain, and bought a ticket for the bus that traveled to the higher zone. Armed with Captain Agni’s clearance complete with military-grade seal, and a one-time special worker travel permit from Mortix that Naomi gave him at the end of the expedition two months ago, his transfer to the better bus that brought him to the green-zone was a smooth business.

The Captain had told him, if he brought that travel permit to Mortix’s subsidiary in area 14 where Naomi was stationed, they would probably give him access to the inter-zone portal that was used by the executives, or at least send him there with an aircraft. Technically, it would give him less trouble regarding his residence permit.

But Zein took the bus anyway. Although he did decide to go to the higher zone, he still hadn’t made up his mind about his objective. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to work with Mortix, or joined Trinity, or met Bassena again. For now, he just wanted to move, somehow, from the shackle of guilt and uncertainty.

So this long long ride with the bus was a good thing for him. He could spend the journey calmly looking over the scenery. The gradual change from dry ground to lush fields, the air that got cleaner and cleaner, the building that got sturdier.

And then he saw it, the sparkling big river surrounding his destination; the green-zone of Area 13. And as the bus traveled across the bridge, the blue eyes gazed upon the giant, imposing, sturdy arch at the end of the way.

The Gate of Security.