Ilha tried to pull up Kichiro onto her horse by his left arm, eliciting a cry of pain. She looked at his ravaged shoulder.

‘You’re wounded.’

‘Thanks for informing me,’ Kichiro replied sarcastically. Ilha smiled. Kichiro was pleasantly surprised. He had never seen Ilha smile before. It was a pretty smile.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked.

‘You were supposed to come back yesterday,’ said Ilha, ‘I came to collect your corpse.’

Ilha looked a little embarrassed, and Kichiro bit back a smile.

‘How did you escape the giant marmot?’

‘How do you know about my Quest?’

‘Jirgalang told me,’ said Ilha.

Kichiro looked away, trying to hide the pride in his face.

‘I didn’t escape,’ he said, ‘I killed it.’

‘Oh really?’

Ilha didn’t let it show on her face but she was astonished. How could a clumsy and ill-equipped Level 1 Steppe Rider like Kichiro possibly have killed a giant marmot? The things were ferocious. Usually, a hunting party of three to four Steppe Riders were assembled to hunt them down before they wreaked havoc in camps, but Kichiro insisted he killed one by himself.

When they arrived back in camp and Kichiro ducked into Jirgalang’s tent to report to him the completion of the Quest, Jirgalang’s big eyes went even bigger for a moment before he composed himself.

‘So you’ve returned, foreigner,’ he muttered, turning away, ‘You killed the giant marmot?

‘So I have.’

By notifying the Quest-giver of the fulfilment of its objectives, the conditions for the completion of the Quest were met.

You complete a Quest: Find and kill the giant marmot!

You’re now a Level 2 Steppe Rider! You’re now a Level 3 Steppe Rider!

Although Kichiro did not complete the Quest in the capacity of Steppe Rider, that is, he did not kill the giant marmot by shooting it with arrows from atop a horse, the Quest was technically given to Kichiro with the objective of raising his experience as Steppe Rider. As a result he was rewarded with XP that went towards his Steppe Rider Job. Kichiro winced at the discomfort as his brain developed new skills in an instant. Additionally, Jirgalang threw him a jingling bag of Gold, making a sour face.

Kichiro counted it. 200 Gold! Enough to buy a new horse!

He remembered his poor mare, and how her throat was ripped out. If I had your neck treated, maybe you’d have been able to escape.

Guilt coursed through him, and he offered a quick prayer to Izanami, Goddess of the Underworld of the Rising Sun Isles, that the mare be treated well. Then he remembered that he was in Red Earth Country, and wondered whether beings here went to another underworld than to the one in the Rising Sun Isles. Pondering this for a while, Kichiro snapped out of the reverie when Jirgalang waved his hand impatiently in his face.

‘Listen to me, foreigner,’ he said, ‘Go to the abode of Fodo the Shaman and tell him Jirgalang sent you. He will heal your shoulder for free. In three days you will return to my tent and I will give you your next Quest.’

Kichiro felt a little moved that Jirgalang was having him heal his shoulder for free. He seems like a good man after all, he thought to himself.

When he left Jirgalang’s tent, he saw Ilha outside Jirgalang’s tent, staring at him intently. She was usually on her horse, but now her two feet were firmly planted on the ground.

‘Kichiro, we need to talk,’ she told him, ‘Come to my yurt tonight at dusk. We will dine together.’

Kichiro looked down at Ilha. The Steppe Champion of the Teal Banner was actually a head shorter than him. She had the majesty of a queen when she rode her horse, but now it was even more evident to him that ultimately she was still just a young woman around his age, and far from the tall, slender archetype of an aloof Red Tassel lady of noble blood. He could hardly suppress his excitement at her invitation.

‘What about?’ he asked, trying to look as innocent as possible.

Ilha glanced hastily at the armoured guard at the entrance of Jirgalang’s tent.

‘I will tell you there,’ she hissed at him quietly. Her conspiratorial tone did nothing to quench Kichiro’s anticipation.

***

Before Kichiro went to visit Ilha’s tent, he looked for the above of Fodo the Shaman, as instructed by Jirgalang. Making his way through the Teal Banner’s main camp, he coughed as dust blew into his face and clutched his left arm in agony. He felt deeply sorry for himself. He had hardly slept the night before because he was disturbed by hungry wolves and an irritable forest spirit, then he had undertaken half a day’s journey across the steppe, and now he was to trek the length and breadth of the Teal Banner’s main camp, asking for directions every now and again. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep.

After a walk of two hours or so, Kichiro finally arrived at the abode of Fodo the Shaman, or rather, the palace. The yurt he now stood before matched the Teal Banner Marshall’s in size, and outdid it in opulence. The outer cover of the tent was covered in embroidery depicting dramatic displays of shamanism, from the resurrection of the dead to the summoning of storms. All featured a shaman with a red beard and blue skin.

When Kichiro entered the reception room of the great tent, there was already several people huddled around a hot stove, their expressions despondent. The majority seemed to suffer from some sort of ailment. One man had a gangrenous foot, another sprouted an unsavoury growth from his neck. One woman looked heavily pregnant.

A man with a red beard and blue skin, robed in golden silk, was in the middle of an argument with an old woman, who stared at him with indignant, pleading eyes, seemingly close to tears.

‘No, it’s 50 Gold for a Consultation,’ he informed her, ‘That doesn’t cover the treatment.’

‘I beg of you, Brother Fodo, I’ve run out of money!’

So that is Fodo, thought Kichiro, Seems like he’s made quite the living out of his medicinal magic.

He approached Fodo as the old woman shuffled away, tears rolling down her aged cheeks.

‘And who might you be?’ asked Fodo. His otherworldly blue skin was weirdly free of any blemish and his beard was impeccably trimmed. It was impossible to tell what age he might be.

‘I am Kichiro. Jirgalang sent me.’

At that, Fodo smiled at Kichiro, but it was an artificial smile that made Kichiro’s skin crawl.

‘You must be here to get that shoulder healed,’ said Fodo, ‘Follow me.’

Fodo pulled aside a curtain, and ushered Kichiro through to an area beyond the reception. It was a lavish place, not unlike the yurt interiors of richer families. However, the walls were lined with gold-lined cupboards boasting hundreds of little drawers. Upon the cupboards rested several cages hosting a great variety of animals; rats, little birds, snakes and huge hissing cockroaches among them.

Fodo guided Kichiro to sit on a sofa and had him take off his shirt. He examined the wound for a moment, prying apart the flesh with his long blue fingers to reveal the shoulder-bone beneath. Kichiro winced.

‘This is nothing serious,’ said Fodo, ‘It will just take a moment.’

He got up and reached into a cage. With a sudden movement that reminded Kichiro of an attacking rattlesnake, he snatched up a rat by the neck. Then he placed one palm on Kichiro’s wound. The rat squeaked incessantly for a few seconds, but then all it could was weakly gasp for air as it withered alive. Its grey fur fell out and before long it was little more than a bag of skin filled with bones. Meanwhile, the pain in Kichiro’s shoulder subsided rapidly. When Fodo lifted his palm, a satisfied smile upon his indigo face, the wound had completely disappeared, replaced by baby-smooth skin.

Kichiro gasped in surprise.

‘What did you do?’

‘The ways of the shaman are a closely guarded secret,’ replied Fodo, his voice like dripping butter, ‘But I can tell you that I used up this poor rat’s life force to restore your flesh.’

***

Ilha’s home was unremarkable, just another yurt in a sea of yurts. It was approaching sunset and the cloudless sky was painted orange. Kichiro ran a hand through his hair and dusted off his jacket before he knocked on the plain wooden door. A strong-jawed man who looked to be in his late twenties popped his head out and grinned at Kichiro.

‘Sorry,’ said Kichiro, excusing himself, ‘Must be the wrong place…’

The man interrupted him.

‘Wait, foreigner! I’m Ilha’s brother. We’re expecting you.’

He ushered Kichiro into the yurt. Ilha was crouched by the stove, warming her hands, and glanced up at Kichiro, her face grave. She had undone the bun she wore when she rode and her long, jet-black hair fell down past her shoulders. With her big pouty lips, she looked cuter than ever.

Kichiro couldn’t help but be slightly disappointed as he watched her tall, broad brother cut up some hot mutton. Ilha passed Kichiro a cup of salty goat’s milk tea.

‘So, what am I here for?’ asked Kichiro as he sipped on the tea. He got the feeling that Ilha didn’t just want a bit of company tonight.

‘Jirgalang wants to kill you,’ replied Ilha coolly.