Exasperated, Jaqui visits the guest house. It’s a hybrid between a tent and a cabin, with a raised platform made of logs, steps leading up to a deck, and a faded green tarp postulating a triangle. He knocks on the flap and says, "Scorpion?"

The witchhunter opens the flap, the inside of the tent bare, with a lantern hanging from the top beam, and a coat hanging from a mast. To the side, the cot lies partially hidden in shadow.

Wearing brown overalls, Jaqui crosses his arms and taps his foot, sighing deeply. "Something attacked one o’ the chickens last night."

Scorpion responds, "You need me for this?"

"Well, I figured you could identify what happened."

After Scorpion dons his overcoat, they head to the chicken enclosure, where a small hut constitutes as the coop. Various chickens wander in the distance, their feathers shining in hues of maple leaf, dark jade, silver, nightlake obsidian, and more. Unusually, dry pine needles mix with the glade floor, and clusters of pine trees dot the landscape.

Jaqui gestures to the empty side, where a puff of feathers had crowned the grass. Partially concealed by stalks, the hen’s corpse has its bloodied, stringed guts scattered. At first glance, it looks like something the size of a coyote did the damage, because the opening is cleaner. A smaller predator, like a raccoon or a possum, would strike multiple times, leaving more of a tatter around the edges. However, a coyote would not waste their food, and they are capable of transporting it. If an animal did this, it was interrupted.

"It lookin’ like a coyote," Jaqui comments.

"Agreed. I’m not sure why you need my help."

"If a coyote could pass through walls." Jaqui widens his eyes and throws his gaze upwards. "I swear on grandmama’s grave I locked the coop and counted every head last night."

He beckons towards the wired hatch and the hut. "Where the break in? Can you see anything?"

Circling the coop a few times, it’s confirmed that there are no signs of damage through the hexagon wiring.

"Normally, chickens be spooked for a couple days. The pullets would hide under logs, and the cocks would patrol, yet they scratching like nothing happened!"

It becomes clear Jaqui suspects a human culprit at best, and a ghost at worst. Scorpion holds up his hand and nods. "Alright, I’m interested."

For several minutes, he inspects the far perimeter of the scene, crouching and minding his footfalls. There are some animal tracks circling wide around the edge of the pasture. Wild beasts had detected the chicken, but did not have the opportunity to scavenge, so something else was present between the time of death and when the workers arrived.

"Who’s the earliest person to come here?"

"Be me, at the first ray of sunrise. I only let out the chooks when they woke enough."

Scorpion approaches the corpse, and he clasps his hands together in prayer. Closing his eyes, the peripherals of his magic activate, tracing the lines of astral energy. Letting himself ride along the journey, the motions are smooth and cyclic. Unfortunately, there are no irregularities around the corpse or the enclosure, ruling out paranormal activity.

For now, it’s safe to say the hen died of natural causes. He opens his eyes and returns to the physical world, and does another examination, gingerly brushing aside feathers. Around the shoulder, there are puncture holes, arranged in a jaw pattern. Did the burglar drop the chicken on the way out, and some other beast helped itself? No, the animal tracks don’t approach near enough.

His gloved hand pulls at the neck. When he bunches up the hen’s skin, the marks fail to mirror each other. Instead, the impressions seem to be made individually, like from a tool rather than teeth.

Scorpion regains his energy and stands upright. "It's not unusual for someone to steal a chicken." Perhaps they have a large family to feed, some desperate reason or other. "But leaving it here is strange."

Jaqui scratches his head. "I’m gonna report it as coyote so the bossman won’t dump coal on our beans. We ain’t got time to sniff out thieves. You get me?"

"Coyote attack. Got it. Any incidents before I came here?"

"Nope. You know we repaired every little fence and picket after Harcus died? We made this farm so iron-clad, not even a snake could slip in." In places where building a wall is too expensive, the guardian briar is cultivated. It’s a nebulous, greenish-red bush with thorns, maintained as tall henges.

On the merged path towards the privies, the adults encounter the plow driver. They exchange morning formalities, take dumps in nature, and stir up a chat. While the conversation starts friendly, as they travel closer to the crossroads, it somehow devolves into accusations. Hiding behind a tree, just out of reach of the briarhenge, Timo eavesdrops them arguing.

Jaqui clutches his straw hat with both hands, holding it by his chest. "You seem the type who’d ‘borrow’ a chicken. Ain’t your wife craving chicken lately?"

"Chicken is just one of her pregnancy cravings," the plow driver Nero retorts. "But my wife’s been making squash dishes all week, and I’m already sick of ‘em, but I bear with it because it's what she wants."

"Oi, witchslapper, make the man confess to his crimes."

"My main task is to investigate a homicide, not to give legal advice." Scorpion coldly turns a shoulder.

Nero pounds a fist to his hand. "That’s right, don’t go spewing fishdung just ‘cause you’re desperate. If you keep this up, the bossman’ll find out."

Jaqui spits at the ground. "You know how these things go. If it happen once, it happen again. Unless I do something, it’s gonna blow up in my face."

Timo thought he disguised the killing as animalistic, but the witchhunter already knows a human culprit was involved. What a bummer. I’m not as smart as I thought. Pretending to be animal is a waste of time. Timo is human, his methodology looks human, and a human will recognize human techniques. He crouches towards the ground, and idly turns pebbles with his finger.

Then, what would be incomprehensible to Scorpion? What would be so crazy, it would be superhuman--no, supernatural? How good is Mr. Scorpion with magic?

More importantly, how good am I with magic?

A long time ago, a priest had visited to examine him, who then told his mother, "Your child has mana farts." The priest had used words more sophisticated than ‘mana farts,’ but Timo can't remember exactly. His mother explained it was a condition of "always leaking mana, like farting a lot."

Timo isn't very good at magic, as far as he's concerned. There are prodigies out there who already bounce off walls and weightlift barrels. Him? He's supposed to be good at gardening, like his mama. It was the only thing Remelia cared about.

He loves his mama, which makes him all the more confused. One day she expressed, "I wish my hair was longer." Apparently, helping her grow out her hair was bad, and he got yelled at. He doesn't remember why it was bad, when he wanted to help her. Timo wracks his brain, trying to recall Mama's face. Oh! He remembers what she said: "You're supposed to ask before you touch someone."

Maybe that's why his father was always grumpy? Timo would sneak and jump on Papa without a word. All he wanted was to play wrestle. He liked being held in his father's arms. At some point, Papa stopped doing all that. Timo tried asking politely, "You wanna play?" He made the pose with his hands out, ready to grapple.

His father sneered and turned his back on him. "Only when you stop trying to kill me."

Timo wrinkles his nose. Why would his father think he's trying to kill him? There's absolutely no benefit in doing so.

It's kinda funny: Timo asked if Kazerus had murdered a person before. If you look strong, people will think you're a murderer.

Maybe Papa was trying to tell him he was good at killing, but didn't know how. Actually, Verius always praised the dog. He withheld praise from Timo on purpose. How annoying.

He knew Papa used to be a soldier, and Timo was constantly curious about his past life. Other kids and their pops played war, with sticks and forts. Timo used to play with the neighbors, until eventually they became 'too busy' to visit or invite the Felicitums. It was strange how only his father was reluctant to participate in mock sieges.

Timo figured Papa was bored of pretend play. If Verius had been through the real thing, then fake war must be boring. Thus, Timo set out to entertain his father. One night, after supper, Papa went to take a nap. The thoughtful son crept up to his side, pulled out a knife, and began stabbing the bedding.

His father woke up with loose straw glued to his sweating cheeks. The look on his face contained so much energy.

I've succeeded! so he thought. He asked, "Are you having fun yet?"

Timo got spanked out of the house for two nights and two days, during which his father sold every knife they owned. The family had to eat vegetables for a month, until, after many concessions, Mama bought new cutlery. That sucked really bad.

As he combs through his past, he has difficulty remembering anything he had been praised for. For the most part, he has to give himself affirmation. Wow, I’m such a talented hunter!

If Papa would ever say to him, "Wow, you're such a talented hunter!" he would be elated. Why does it always feel better when the same words come out of someone else's mouth?

How good is Mr. Scorpion at hunting?

Scorpion bids the men farewell, trudging uphill. Underneath his coat, he wears normal clothing without protective gear, suited for general labor. Earning his share is the only way he can gain the people's trust, so they will talk casually and spread rumors around him. Damn, he really needs a haircut.

The first day he had arrived here, he immediately went to the scene of the murder. They had long since swept the longhouse, but nobody had entered it since the deep cleansing. The energy around it was definitely altered, as he'd expect from a mage.

Casting magic leaves ripples behind. The source of mana would eventually flatten and equalize, but indoors, the settlement takes longer. While it was faint, he saw the "dent" where the culprit stood.

One of the workers handed him a parchment, a lifelike drawing of the victim's final state. At first, he thought it was a joke. "What's this? A meatball with eyeballs?"

"Don't make fun of him!" a stout butcher cried out. "He’s good at art! He makes our packaging for clients!"

The beardless artist frowned and said, "It really looked like that. If you don't believe me..." He scrounged out some old flyers and wax paper with doodles and unfolded them. Proportional and accurate were the inked portraits of boars, bulls, goats, lambs and dressed meats meant to entice buyers.

Scorpion looked back at the depiction of a ‘meatball’ and whistled. "Wow. Okay." If the picture was to be believed, it was something on the level of pure, unadulterated rage. Even the most severe of burn victims keep a human shape.

Naturally, Scorpion set out to find whoever had a grudge on the late supervisor. So far, all his leads feel cold.

If Harcus was alive in the morning, and his body was discovered in the early evening, the crime took place during the day. If the attack was magic based, then anyone who is a proficient Terrarius would get it done quickly.

He had pondered whether a beast could inflict such damage, but in his gut, something about it felt human. Expert's intuition?

Was there an argument that led to an accident, and the perpetrator tried to cover it up? According to eyewitnesses, the longhouse was filled with smoke, as the fire in the hearth wasn't put out. The killer either forgot to cremate the remains, or couldn't be bothered to.

Harcus was last seen herding out the child servants. Speaking of children, the ones he talked to said that Timo was the last to see Harcus alive. Timo started working for the butchers shortly after. Perhaps he should visit.

Scorpion exits his headspace, leaning over a fence. Tall corn grows in serene trenches, and beanstalks curl around them. Skinny posts with flapping ribbons stipulate the fields, and a cool breeze carries away his sweat. He stretches his arms and kicks up dirt with his boots.

"How's it going?"

"Hmm?" Scorpion looks down, and by the winds of fate, the boy is leaning over the fence next to him, grinning, a side tooth missing. The witchhunter replies, "You mean me or the case?"

"Both, I guess." Timo watches the field, imitating Scorpion's weathered gaze.

"I've got promising leads. It's just gonna take time to check up on each of them."

Timo looks back at Scorpion with intensity. "What do you do with criminals after you catch them? Do you send them to jail?"

"Sort of. I’d tie them up and send them to the chief, or whoever hired me. I'd present my findings, then the people decide what punishment is deserved." He shifts his weight to the other leg. "Say, can you answer some questions, to the best of your knowledge?"

Timo tilts his head before saying, "Sure?"

"When you were last with the late supervisor Harcus, what were you doing?"

"He needed someone to help him out of bed, so I stayed behind. He wasn’t feeling well and I took his dirty clothes." Timo leans close and cusps a hand around his mouth. "He pooped his pants at night but he didn't want anyone to know."

"Why would he ask you in particular?"

"Well..." Timo falters. "I’m handy with chores. Not even his own daughter can do laundry like I can. I guess that's why he asked me. Diarrhea doesn't ask for permission."

"Did you see Harcus again after that?"

Timo shakes his head. "I never saw him again."

The witchhunter fishes out a small copper coin from his pouch-belt. "Here," he says as he tosses it towards the boy, who skitters to catch it. "What makes you good at laundry? You an Aquarius?"

"Aquarius? No, nothing that special."

"What element are you?"

Timo bites his lip. "I haven’t been able to use anything. I heard ‘if you can’t master magic, then master the mundane.’ So I mostly do chores all the time."

Scorpion scratches his chin. "Maybe you’re a late bloomer."

"Will I really be useless forever?" Timo makes a pitiful face and stares at the witchhunter.

Not knowing how to respond, he gives a cookie-cutter answer: "I’m sure you’ll discover your element eventually. Why did you start working for the butchers? Their chores are even harder for you."

"The other kids leave me out of things, you know. They make fun of me. They said if there really is a werewolf prowling about, I should be sacrificed first to buy time for everyone else to run, because I’m the most useless. That’s why I ran away from them. I ran far, far away. When I was cold and alone, Kazerus saved me."

Oh, I'll have to be extra careful about using magic around the witchhunter.

The hard lines on Scorpion’s face had lightened. "Are you gonna be a butcher when you grow older?"

Timo darts his eyes round and round, in the fashion of an imaginative and pensive person. Finally, he connects his gaze back to his conversationalist. "I want to be a hero, like you."

A dry chuckle falls out of Scorpion's throat. "Your esteem of me is flattering."

Finding the tone of cynicism relatable, Timo asks, "You fight ghosts and the forces of evil. Isn't that right and good?"

"Yes. I wouldn't have it any other way." Scorpion twirls his fingers, possessing an invisible knife. Do outsiders admire his profession? It's wildly romanticized compared to what his cohorts think. "It's challenging, and you make hard decisions."

Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, he says, "Isn't it time we get back to our duties? I don't want to hold you here."

Timo climbs up the fence, balancing his feet on the beam. "Let me walk with you."

Interspersed between fences are crumbling stone walls, remnants of wells or houses. With his arms sticking out, Timo makes it a game to pass over obstacles as fast as he can. "Today would be a great day for candy."

"Why is that?" The witchhunter walks briskly, shaking his head at the child’s shenanigans. But, he was once a boy, and it would be pointless to stop boys from their folly.

"It would make a nice day nicer."

Keeping pace with Scorpion, Timo hops and skips. A rotting part of the fence retains dankness and moss. Timo slips. The foot shifts, the arms dance, and Scorpion sees cloth and hair flying towards him before the wind abandoned his lungs.

Scorpion grabbed the boy, holding him close to his chest. Without the burden of his gear, he tilted his shoulders. His thighs and calves strained as they powered the twist of his body, and his hips rolled lightly over the dirt, bounced once and skidded to a stop. The freshness of clipped plants, humus and human, wafted in the darkness, until he opens his eyes.

Lucky for him, he still has the Aerius touch, otherwise the damage would've been more severe. "Are you okay?" he asks, half grunting.

Timo hugs the adult very tightly. For what seems an unusually long stretch of time, Timo gradually tumbles off Scorpion, plopping onto his knees and palms. His eyes rove slowly, not at his environment, not at the ground, not checking his own injuries, but at the witchhunter. For that unusually long stretch of time, those eyes scraped him, as if to devour him.

Like the flicker of a shadow, Scorpion could not put his finger on it, but it’s not a positive feeling. A disconnect.

The boy’s face went back to normal. "Sorry Mister Scorpion!" Soft and worried. That’s considered normal.

The witchhunter pushes aside concern for now, releasing a hale and hearty laugh. "Mister Scorpion, huh?" He rises from the ground, patting his hips and elbows. The form of address teases him jolly, combining his business moniker with human formality. He almost never talks to children, but their use of language puts a smile to his face.

Timo quivers his lip. "I’m so sorry, I’ll be going now."

"It’s fine. Don’t be so reckless next time."

The two of them walk in silence, until they bid their part. Timo heads to the familiar sight of lush grass and the slaughterpen. A smoke trail rises from the distant hill, where the butchers are preparing a meal.

Hot like molten steel, Timo clenches his teeth and fists. Something had blocked him from being able to murder Mr. Scorpion right then and there. It was tougher than an iron castle. The mana that he thought he could splash freely, was frozen, like squeezing ice in the dead of winter. That was the difference between a layman like Harcus, and someone with combat training.

The failure displeases him greatly. He takes a few breaths, relaxing his shoulders and arms. Patience! Oh, patience. Soon, Mr. Scorpion will die. But first, lunchtime.