Chapter 403 The Pain He Couldn’t Put into Words

Hermit’s ears twitched nervously, but he quickly turned his attention to the hatchlings, breaking off small pieces of bread and soaking them in water to make them easier for tiny creatures to eat. 

 The hatchlings, sensing food, began to stir, their tiny heads poking out from the layers of cloth and hay. Their large, glassy eyes reflected the firelight, wide and desperate as they chirped and clicked in a frantic chorus.

Hermit’s heart ached as he placed the first piece of softened bread in front of them. The hatchlings, driven by a hunger so fierce it bordered on madness, lunged at the food with a desperation that made his chest tighten. Their tiny claws scrabbled against the crate, their fragile bodies trembling as they fought over the morsel. One hatchling, smaller than the others, was pushed aside by its siblings, its weak chirps barely audible over the others’ frantic clicking.

“No, no, there’s enough for everyone,” Hermit whispered, his voice breaking as he gently separated the hatchlings and placed another piece of bread in front of the smaller one. The tiny creature hesitated for a moment, its eyes darting nervously between Hermit and the food, before it dove in, chomping on the bread with a ferocity that belied its size. Its tiny jaws worked furiously, crumbs scattering as it devoured the food, its body shaking with every bite.

The other hatchlings were no less pitiful. One of them, its skin still translucent and fragile, tore into the bread with such force that it toppled over, its tiny legs unable to keep up with its hunger-driven frenzy. Another hatchling, its ears torn and scarred from some unseen struggle, let out a high-pitched squeal as it fought to keep its share, its tiny claws gripping the bread like it was the most precious thing in the world.

Hermit’s vision blurred as tears welled up in his eyes. It was too heartbreaking. These tiny creatures, smaller than his palm, were fighting for their lives with every bite. Their hunger was so raw, so all-consuming, that it seemed to override every instinct but survival. He could see their ribs pressing against their thin skin, their tiny bodies frail and undernourished. They had been alone in that dark cave for who knows how long, with no one to care for them, no one to feed them. The thought made his chest ache with a pain he couldn’t put into words.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice trembling as he placed more food in front of them. 

“You’re safe now. You don’t have to fight anymore. There’s enough for everyone.”

But the hatchlings didn’t understand. All they knew was the gnawing emptiness in their tiny bellies, the primal need to eat, to survive. They chirped and clicked as they devoured the bread with a ferocity that was heartbreaking.

Hermit’s tears spilled over, streaming down his cheeks as he watched them. He remembered what it was like to be that small, that helpless. He remembered the hunger, the fear, the overwhelming need to survive. And he remembered Kaka, who had saved him, who had fed him and cared for him when no one else would. Now, it was his turn to be the protector, the provider. But the weight of it was almost too much to bear.

Hermit, unable to speak past the lump in his throat, gently picked up one of the hatchlings, its tiny body still trembling as it clutched a crumb of bread in its claws. He cradled it against his chest, his tears falling onto its fragile skin. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you. You will be a happy gobby. No pain, no hunger. No more.”

They were so small. Too small. Their thin, fragile bodies trembled from exhaustion, their tiny limbs looking almost too weak to support them. Their bellies, hollow and sunken, growled louder than their pitiful cries. Some of them could barely lift their heads, their movements sluggish, slowed by days of starvation.

Hermit swallowed hard and knelt down, pulling out the last loaf of bread Suzuka had gave him. His hands shook as he broke it into small, uneven pieces, his breath catching when the scent alone made the hatchlings lose all control.

A shrill, desperate squeal rang out as one of them lunged, sinking its tiny teeth into a chunk before Hermit could even offer it properly. Another one scrambled over, shoving its sibling aside with weak, shaky paws to grab at the crumbs.

Then all at once, chaos erupted.

Hunger madness took over.

Tiny claws raked against the cold ground as the hatchlings scrambled forward, their little bodies colliding, tumbling over one another in frantic desperation. Their instincts drove them wild—starved, half-blind, and too weak to pace themselves, they attacked the bread.

Hermit watched in horror as they bit too fast, too hard—one choked, its frail body convulsing before it managed to swallow. Another gnawed on a piece too big for its tiny mouth, letting out a sharp cry when the jagged crust cut its gums, dribbling thin trails of blood onto its trembling hands.

“No, no, slow down—!” Hermit pleaded, his voice breaking as he tried to push the bread closer in smaller portions.

But they wouldn’t slow down. They couldn’t.

They had gone too long without food. Their tiny bodies were in pure survival mode, driven only by instinct—eat, eat now, or die and Hermit knew the feeling all too well.

One hatchling suddenly let out a sharp, pained squeak and clutched its stomach, curling in on itself. The others barely noticed. They trampled over it, still scrambling for the last few crumbs.

Hermit moved quickly, scooping the little one up in his hands. It twitched weakly, its bloated, malnourished belly rising and falling in uneven spasms. It had eaten too fast.

Tears welled in Hermit’s eyes as he rocked it gently, whispering soft reassurances, his voice cracking. 

“I know, I know—just breathe, little one, breathe...”

He reached for the small bowl of water and held it up to the hatchling’s trembling lips. It took a few slow laps, its body still shaking from hunger and pain.

The others noticed the water.

Weak, thin limbs pushed toward him, tiny hands clawing at the bowl with the same wild desperation as before.

One of them slipped, smacking its head hard against the wooden floor in its frantic rush. Another shoved a sibling face-first into the dirt to get to the water first.

Hermit clenched his teeth, forcing back a sob as he steadied them, his hands moving fast to help without hurting.

The moment Hermit placed the shallow bowl of water down, frail little bodies lunged forward, crawling, scrambling, and tripping over each other in a frenzy. Clawed fingers clawed against the dirt, weak limbs flailed, and starved little mouths opened wide, all driven by the same desperate instinct—eat, drink, survive.

A sudden, horrible gagging sound filled the air. The tiny creature froze, its body jerking in panic. It had lodged a piece of stale bread in its throat.

Hermit’s heart stopped.

“Wait, no—stop!” he yelped, reaching for it, but another hatchling had already shoved past, its own frantic claws scraping at the ground to reach the meal. The choking hatchling stumbled back, pawing desperately at its throat. Its wide, glassy eyes bulged in terror.

Before Hermit could intervene, another disaster struck.

The shallow bowl of water, meant to soothe their dry, parched throats, became another battleground.

The hatchlings lunged at it all at once.

Tiny, trembling bodies collided, claws dug into each other’s frail limbs, desperate to be the first to drink. One hatchling shoved another aside with such force that the weaker one faceplanted straight into the water.

A sharp, wet splash filled the air as the hatchling thrashed, its weak limbs struggling to push itself up. But its muscles were too atrophied, too starved, and the water—barely more than a puddle—suddenly became a death trap.

It was drowning.

Hermit dove forward, yanking the tiny creature out just as it began to go still. It coughed violently, hacking up water, its frail chest convulsing with pitiful little heaves.

The others took no notice.

One hatchling, in its blind hunger, bit down on another’s hand instead of the bread. A shrill, ear-splitting screech rang out as blood welled up from the deep bite mark, but the attacker didn’t even realize what it had done—it kept gnawing, as if hoping food would somehow come from its sibling’s flesh.

Another hatchling got trampled in the chaos, its fragile ribs crushed beneath a pile of desperate, scrambling feet. It wailed in pain but couldn’t escape, its limbs pinned under the frantic movements of its siblings.

Tears blurred Hermit's vision as he ripped the bread into smaller pieces, shoving portions into their trembling hands, forcing them to eat slowly, gently prying their claws apart when they refused to let go. He held them back from drowning themselves, steadying the water bowl so they wouldn’t knock it over, catching the weakest ones before they collapsed from the sheer effort of existing.

By the time the worst of the chaos was over, the hatchlings were too exhausted to move.

Hermit, his face streaked with silent tears, gently gathered them close, wrapping his arms around their frail bodies as they curled against him for warmth.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly, rocking them as they drifted into fitful sleep.

His hands trembled as he stroked their heads, the weight of their suffering crushing him. Hermit moved with the utmost care, as if the tiny, trembling bodies in his arms were made of the most delicate glass. His breath was unsteady, his heart ached, but his hands—his hands were gentle.

One by one, he lifted the hatchlings from his lap, their tiny limbs curling instinctively toward the warmth of his body. They were so light… too light. Their bony frames barely had the strength to move, yet in their sleep, they still sought comfort, their frail fingers clutching at his skin, their small tails twitching against his arm.

“It’s alright, little ones,” he whispered, his voice hushed and tender as he cradled them close.

 “I’ve got you… I’ve got you.”

He carried them over to the wooden crate he had painstakingly turned into a makeshift nest. It wasn’t much—just a simple box lined with every soft scrap he could scavenge, rags piled high to form a crude bedding—but to them, it was home.