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Six-Fingered stared at his six-fingered hand. In the Blue Mist Tribe, it was tradition to make a child born with six fingers a shaman. Every generation in the tribe never failed to see one or two children born with six fingers, as if they were bestowed by the heavens.
Crunch.
Six-Fingered clenched his blackened teeth. He picked up a knife as he gazed at his six fingers.
“Kuk, kuk, kuk.”
Six-Fingered’s laughter made the candle flicker.
‘How many times have I wanted to cut these damn fingers off.’
His fate was sealed from birth. At a young age, he was dragged away by eccentric old men to learn all sorts of tricks. He was forced to swallow herbs so revolting they made him want to vomit, memorizing their tastes, names, and effects. When he was forced to dig through the entrails of animals, the stench would cling to him for days.
‘I ran away several times but was always caught again. I was beaten all night and even hung upside down.’
The path of a shaman was not easy. Although they did not die in battle like warriors, the hierarchical and apprenticeship system of the shamans was brutally harsh.
‘And before I even realized, I had become a priest of our tribe.’
But there was no freedom for Six-Fingered. Samikan, who became the chief in the same era, was more of a monster than a human. The power that should...
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