Chapter 13
Ben’s mechanical hand movements continued for quite some time.
While Ben dutifully wiped down the patient’s face, Mac—his mind still far from clear—ended up shedding tears. Watching Ben’s continued actions, he came to a great misunderstanding.
He thought Ben, as a fellow man, was tactfully pretending not to notice his tears—an indifferent yet delicate consideration.
That assumption was only possible because Mac knew nothing of Ben’s true thoughts.
In truth, Mac had already been thinking for a while that Ben was taking sincere care of him, and because of that, the resentment he had long felt toward him was beginning to waver.
On top of that, the series of incidents over the past couple of days had left his heart unusually fragile.
For the first time since coming here, Mac truly looked at Ben—then slowly closed his eyes.
He had been weak since birth. He shouldn’t have been, but that was how he was born.
He had always been surrounded by people whose sole purpose was to ensure his safety, and no one had ever made him exert himself.
He had never even dressed himself. He had never walked an unpaved road, nor had he ever been thrown into a situation where his life was directly threatened.
For eighteen years, he had grown up in an environment where everything existed solely for his protection.
So when he was swept onto this uninhabited island all alone, the first emotion he felt was fear.
He wasn’t strong enough to roam the wild with ease like Teri and Ben. He didn’t even have the stomach to eat frogs.
Having never lived without help, he also didn’t know how to live without it.
His vision went dark, and he wanted to die—but at the same time, dying felt painful, so he wanted to live.
Between those conflicting feelings, the decision was made just yesterday.
After fighting with Teri, he had left the shelter and wandered west without direction, eventually collapsing in the middle of the sandy beach.
Lying beneath the scorching sun, it became hard even to breathe.
At that moment, he thought it would be better to die than to painfully cling to life in a place like this.
Scoffing at himself for thinking such thoughts, he stood up and walked into the sea.
That was why his clothes had been wet.
The farther he went, the deeper the water became. When the current reached his neck, his heart began to pound violently. A ringing filled his ears.
As a wave rolled in and lifted his body slightly before letting it sink again, his feet no longer touched the sand.
Feeling that, Mac began to flail instinctively.
It seemed the resolve he had swallowed so firmly wasn’t heavy enough to pull his body under.
Realizing he was standing at the threshold of death, he understood that every fear he had experienced until now had been nothing.
A wave taller than his height crashed over him, forcing itself into the mouth he had opened to breathe. He paddled with all his strength.
Swept far to the west, he eventually managed to crawl back onto the beach after a desperate struggle.
When he came to, someone was carrying him on their back, panting as they walked.
It was Teri. Only then did he truly feel, with his whole body, that he was alive.
Mac recalled that Teri had left saying he was going into the forest—and still hadn’t returned.
There was an emotion that had been tormenting him like a lump he couldn’t swallow. That feeling was also directed at Ben, who had been wiping his sweat and tending to him.
He forced his uncooperative mouth open.
The pain that had tightened his throat every time he exhaled was gradually easing. He swallowed the saliva that had pooled in his mouth.
When he tensed his abdomen, air and voice leaked out together through his throat.
“I’m sorry…”
It was a phrase he had never once spoken aloud in his life.
Yet there had never been a time when those words felt so desperately necessary.
After speaking, he closed his mouth, and his breathing steadied. The cold air that had been passing through his swollen throat was now blocked.
He regretted not keeping his mouth shut earlier.
Meanwhile, Ben, for reasons unknown, raised a finger and held it under his own nose.
Mac immediately frowned, making his apology seem pointless.
“I’m not dead.”
A clicking of the tongue followed, sounding almost disappointed. Knowing it was a joke, the corner of Mac’s mouth lifted slightly.
Soon, a bland, quiet laugh passed between the two of them.
And as evening fell, Mac’s high fever finally began to subside.
“So the day comes when I’m wandering around looking for kudzu.”
When he was young, you could see kudzu vines just by walking around a little. Maybe this was karma for all the years he had ignored something so common.
On top of that, there were countless kinds of vine plants clinging to trees like hooks, so even if there was kudzu, he might just walk right past it.
“This is driving me crazy, seriously.”
The sky visible through the trees was染ing itself with the colors of sunset. Going any deeper from here would be reckless.
He had already come so far that he had no sense of where he was.
But he couldn’t go back without any results. In his life, he had never committed an act that useless or disgraceful.
He had to return with at least one medicinal ingredient.
Still, after wandering the forest for hours, there was one thing he had gained.
Now, no matter what insect he saw—scorpions, spiders—he had reached the point where he could greet them gladly.
He wiped away a spiderweb that clung to his face with the back of his hand. Thanks to rummaging around like a madman, his appearance was undoubtedly that of a beggar.
The bun he had tightly tied back at the beach had long since turned into a wild mess, and after slipping while climbing a slope, his face and clothes were completely covered in dirt.
Anyone seeing him would think he’d just come back from starting a peasant uprising.
He waved his hand around to chase away whatever kept flying near his ears.
Earlier, something like a grasshopper had flown at him; now bees were buzzing around, distracting him.
If they’d been hornets, he would’ve bolted immediately—but these were cute honeybees.
As long as he didn’t mess with them first, they usually stayed calm…
Wait. Honeybees?
In that instant, a jolt like lightning ran down his spine.
He lifted his head and looked around. About five meters to the west, there was a rock atop a small mound.
The bees were swarming around it.
As he approached, just as he expected, he saw a beehive wedged between the rocks. It wasn’t large—about the size of two of his palms placed side by side.
It was precious rock honey. Saliva pooled in his mouth. Only one thought came to mind.
If he harvested that hive and extracted the honey, he could brew tea with it and feed it to the poor celandine.
But just as he was about to charge in blindly, his grandmother’s voice—though she wasn’t even there—vividly grabbed him by the ankle.
—Don’t mess with beehives. If you want to die, go ahead and touch one.
He pressed his forehead. Things had never gone well when he ignored his grandmother’s words.
Had he wasted about three minutes stuck in that dilemma?
His heart had settled on becoming a rebellious contrarian, but an uneasy feeling still wouldn’t go away. If he was going to do something crazy, he needed at least some kind of justification.
Then, suddenly, he remembered the downstairs grandmother who had once shelled kidney beans beside his own grandmother.
Her words flashed through his mind.
—Just make smoke. Then all the bees will run away.
Eureka.
That was it.
He immediately tore his shirt hem further. What had once been a perfectly fine T-shirt was now a crop top that exposed a bit of his stomach.
But he had no time to worry about that.
To create thick smoke, he gathered damp grass.
Then he wrapped the grass and some wood suitable for fuel with the torn fabric, winding it tightly around the tip of his spear.
He had made both the head and handle of a torch. Now all that was left was to start a fire.
He cut off a wide, thick piece of bark from a nearby tree trunk.
Flipping the flat bark over, he carved a long groove along the grain. Rubbing a gathered branch vigorously along the groove, a flame sparked to life.
By the time he finished all of this, the sky had grown noticeably darker. He had to get that beehive before the sun fully set.
He lit the torch. The fire spread from the fabric to the wood, and smoke began to rise.
He hurried over to where the beehive was.
Luckily, since the hive was between rocks, there was no risk of the fire spreading into the forest even if he placed the torch nearby. He set the torch close to the hive, then jumped far back.
Soon, the hive descended into total chaos—no, utter devastation.
He cowardly hid behind a tree, waiting for all the bees to leave the hive.
Even as he did, his conscience pricked him, and he kept offering pointless apologies to the bees, now panicking like homeowners who couldn’t even file for fire insurance.
These days, people talked a lot about bees facing extinction.
He resolved that if he were ever stung by a bee again, he would endure the pain without uttering a single curse.
And then, as if God had ignored his earlier prayer completely and only now risen to test his sincerity, he approached the hive thinking all the bees were gone—only to be stung several times by bees still flying around like mad.
If someone set fire near your house and then robbed it too, a few punches would be generous forgiveness.
Having been stung by bees countless times back in his more reckless days, he calmly removed the stingers and went back toward the hive.
Just as he lifted the torch to extinguish the fire—
A snake suddenly jumped out from between the rocks where the hive was, startling him so badly that he fell flat on his back.
He was so shocked that he couldn’t even scream.
Gasping for breath, he scrambled back to his feet.
The snake, likely affected by the smoke, was clearly not in its right mind. Snakes usually don’t attack humans recklessly, but this one immediately raised its head and slithered toward him.
He had no memory of ever catching a snake. Even when he encountered snakes in the mountains, killing them had always been his brother’s job, not his.
Along with fear came the realization that if he’d been any later, he might have been bitten by this snake while collecting the hive. That thought calmed his mind instead.
Of course, it wasn’t pure calm—it was the kind of calm born from surviving a near-death crisis, tinged with madness.
He raised the spear toward the approaching snake.
Fine. Let’s see which of us dies first—you or me.
He stabbed at the ground. The snake dodged swiftly, letting out a chilling hiss. Its tongue flicked visibly between its jaws.
He remembered something his brother had once said, bragging and giving advice after killing a snake with ease.
—If you see a snake, always attack the head first. You have to strike the head. Always the head.
As the spear missed and struck the ground several times, the snake drew closer to his legs.
There was no time to hesitate. It would’ve been nice to have a rock, but since there wasn’t one, this would have to be settled with the spear.
He clenched his teeth. He stilled every other sense and poured all his focus into his vision.
And the moment the snake lowered its head to move forward, he smashed its head with the tip of the spear.
He struck it several more times, crushing it into the ground.
Only after confirming it was completely dead did he realize his body was drenched in cold sweat. He forced his weakening legs to hold him up.
He crushed the snake’s neck with the spear tip, tore it free, and stuffed the body into his backpack. He planned to skin it at home and roast it.
Even while dizzy from exhaustion, that was the first thought that came to him.
In a state he could hardly comprehend himself, he didn’t forget to collect the now-empty beehive and put it into his bag.
His heart was still pounding like a hammer. His vision swam, and nausea churned in his stomach—so badly he wanted to collapse and vomit right there.
If the darkness lurking in the forest hadn’t been growing thicker, he probably would have dropped to the ground and thrown up everything.
But he had achieved his goal, and before things grew more dangerous, he needed to leave the forest.
He followed the trail he had made, like Hansel’s breadcrumbs.
The entire way back, he didn’t know what he stepped on, what brushed against his hands, or what grazed past his face.
He just clutched the line and half-ran, half-walked forward.
When the nausea became unbearable, he vomited as he walked. He was battered by trees, branches, leaves, and bushes until his body felt wrecked.
When he finally felt his feet sink into soft sand instead of dry soil, he truly wanted to collapse and pass out right there.
Leaning on the spear like a cane, he dragged his unsteady body forward.
In the distance, he could see a campfire—and two silhouettes beside it.
