Reborn as the Failed Lord with my Resource Gathering System.-Chapter 220: The cursed child (Ravina’s past) II

The four hunters froze, clearly surprised that their prey had offered herself up so easily.

The leader scoffed, lowering his spear slightly.

"Well, look at that. A little lost fawn. Where are your parents, girl?"

"Banished," I managed, the word tasting like ash in my mouth.

The hunters exchanged glances. Banished meant abandoned, unclaimed, and therefore valuable.

"Right then," the leader said, a cruel smile spreading across his face.

"Fetch her, boys. Looks like we found something better than deer tonight."

The lean hunter, the one named Feyn, waded in. With surprising gentleness, he lifted me out of the water.

The immediate, terrifying instinct to wrap my hand around his neck and drain the life from him surged within me, but I fought it down.

I was injured, weak, and alone. I needed to survive this moment, even if it meant suppressing my own defense mechanism.

They tended to me back at their makeshift camp, hidden a short distance into the woods.

They set my leg—not professionally, but well enough to stabilize it—and wrapped me in a coarse, dry blanket. They even shared their rations: tough, dried meat and stale bread.

For the first time in days, I felt a semblance of warmth and safety, albeit a deeply unsettling one. They were rough men, but they were keeping me alive.

They introduced themselves as Krell (the leader), Jorik, Balin, and Feyn, the one who had pulled me from the river.

For two days, they treated my injury. Feyn would often bring me water and check the splint on my leg. I was a silent, watchful patient.

I observed how they communicated, the routes they took when hunting, and the way they guarded their camp. I knew this relative peace wouldn’t last; I was too much of a burden to keep simply out of kindness.

On the third night, the moon was full, casting long, silver shadows across the forest floor. I lay awake, pretending to sleep, when I heard Krell and Jorik speaking in hushed tones near the fire.

"How much do you think she’ll fetch, Krell?" Jorik whispered, his voice thick with anticipation.

Krell chuckled, a low, guttural sound. "A lot, you fool. A child, small, and clearly of some exotic bloodline—look at those eyes.

The slavers south of the mountains pay a premium for this type. We mend her leg, dress her wounds, and say we rescued her from the wilds. I’d say five thousand gold pieces, easily."

My blood turned to ice.

Slavers.

I was nothing more than high-value cargo. All the warmth and safety I had felt evaporated, replaced by a cold terror far worse than being alone in the woods. They were going to sell me.

My banishment was already a death sentence, but slavery? That was a life sentence of continuous suffering until my body, overwhelmed by the mana, finally gave out and killed everyone around me.

I couldn’t run yet. My leg was still too weak. I needed one more night, perhaps two, to regain a tiny bit of strength. I resolved to wait until they were all asleep, then try to limp away, using the full moon to guide me.

The next morning, I practiced walking while they were out hunting.

I made it ten steps before my leg buckled, sending a fiery jolt of pain up to my hip. I bit back a scream, sinking into the dirt.

As I struggled to pull myself back up, a shadow fell over me.

"Trying to leave already, little one?"

Feyn stood over me, his face impassive. He hadn’t gone hunting with the others.

My heart leaped into my throat. There was no denying it; he had caught me red-handed.

"I... I needed water," I stammered, pointing weakly toward the river—a blatant lie.

Feyn crouched down, his dark eyes boring into mine. "Lying isn’t going to help you, girl. We’ve done you a kindness. Cared for your wounds. Don’t ruin it."

He reached out, his hand closing around my arm to pull me up. He used a surprising amount of force, frustration evident in his grip.

It happened in an instant.

The moment his bare skin touched mine, the mana I had been desperately bottling up surged—a hungry, invisible torrent seeking release. My body reacted automatically, instinctively draining the closest source of life force.

A faint, sickly green light enveloped Feyn’s arm where I touched him. His eyes went wide, not with pain, but with utter, stark confusion. He looked down at my hand, then back at me.

"Wha—" he started.

His body went rigid.

His muscles slackened, his eyes glazed over, and the breath hitched permanently in his throat.

He crumpled silently, a lifeless sack of bone and muscle, his skin already taking on the grey, shriveled appearance of a long-dead thing.

I stared, horrified, at the still-warm corpse of the man who had shown me the most kindness.

I hadn’t meant to. I truly hadn’t. It was an accident, a reflex born of fear and my body’s cursed hunger.

The sound of snapping twigs signaled the return of the other three.

They stopped dead, surveying the scene: me, kneeling next to Feyn’s shriveled husk, my hand still inches away from his cooling arm.

Krell’s face contorted into a mask of pure, murderous rage. "You little witch!"

He dropped his catch and charged, drawing a short, rusty dagger. Jorik and Balin followed suit, their spears aimed at my heart.

I tried to scramble away, but my broken leg betrayed me.

The first blow landed—Krell’s heavy boot connecting sharply with my ribs. A gasp of pain tore from my lungs. Then the others joined in.

A rain of kicks and dull blows hammered my body. My head snapped back and forth. I curled into a fetal position, hands instinctively covering my head, but the beating continued, merciless and brutal.

I could taste blood. My vision swam.

This is it, I thought numbly. This is how the disease finally claims me. Not by mana overdose, but by the furious hands of angry men.

I was going to die right here, beaten to death for an accidental touch.

The pain was a white-hot scream tearing through me. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the final, fatal blow.

"Excuse me."

The voice was calm, melodic, and cut through the sounds of the frantic assault like a blade through silk. It was neither rough like a hunter’s nor ethereal like an Elf’s, but possessed a smooth, measured cadence that instantly drew the hunters’ attention.

"May I ask why a child is being beaten so severely?"

The beating stopped instantly.

Krell, breathing heavily, turned around, wiping blood—my blood—from his boot.

Standing at the edge of the clearing, bathed in the moonlight, was a figure dressed in a heavy, flowing brown cloak.

The hood completely obscured the face, plunging it into deep shadow, and the robes hid any discernible shape or size.

The figure held no weapon, only a long, slender staff, its tip carved with an intricate, glowing rune that hummed with a power I had never felt before.