Chapter 741 - 44: Infighting
"Dalit, go, deal with that deer."
"Dalit, go, find some firewood and bring it back."
"Dalit, go, scout ahead a bit."
"Dalit..."
...
Night was deep. The campfire burned, its crimson light painting the pitch‑black trunks.
Wind slipped through the forest; even sitting beside the flames, the chill could still be felt.
This was a high‑latitude region, close to the Arctic, and it was the Ice Age. Even if terrain made the temperature in the Black Forest slightly higher, it was still very cold for an Indian.
Ambedkar’s brown face was lit by the fire, turning a jujube‑red. He leaned his back against a tree trunk—
that could block some of the cold wind and let him feel a bit of warmth.
Though he didn’t want to recall it, everything that had happened since the challenge began kept replaying in his mind.
"Dalit" means untouchable; in India’s caste system, it sits at the very bottom. These people have another name: the nameless, or those not to be touched.
Below the lowest caste, there isn’t even a specific, insult‑laden caste name anymore—only a single "Dalit" used as a blanket term.
But Ambedkar was not an untouchable; he was a Shudra.
In the caste system shaped by the Aryans, Shudras might represent slaves, but they had not yet fallen to the level of losing their surnames and being addressed directly as Dalits.
At least in Indian mythology, they were still the feet of the "primeval man Purusha", not the soil beneath those feet.
Of course, none of that was the most important thing. The most important thing was his partner, that Brahmin named Sanjay Pandit, and the way he treated him.
It wasn’t the disdain of those above for those below, nor the arrogance of nobles toward commoners. It was aversion—total, all‑encompassing aversion.
Pandit even despised his smell: he insisted on eating separately from him, insisted on sleeping on the other side of the campfire at night, and would only call him over when there was something that needed doing. Most of the time he almost never spoke to him, as if saying even one extra word to him would sully the dignity of a noble Brahmin.
Ambedkar was not a slave from the Mughal Empire era, nor an untouchable without a surname from the period of Indian independence. He came from the 21st century.
Though rigid defenders of the caste system still existed within India, there were always some people who had truly stepped beyond the land fed by the Ganges and cast their gaze upon the outside world. Ambedkar was one of those people.
He knew very well that caste was unreliable, merely a tool deliberately forged during the process of making gods, used by the earliest ritual‑performing Brahmins to rule those below.
But he had never tried to explain any of this to his partner.
Because Pandit not only came from the Mughal Empire era and was stubbornly old‑fashioned, his combat power also far outstripped Ambedkar’s. As long as Ambedkar still wanted to survive this challenge, he had to depend on him, submit to his whims.
Still, hearts are made of flesh; even a mud Buddha has a temper. From the very start of the challenge he had been bearing the pressure, swallowing his anger up until now. Even though Ambedkar knew how precious life was, he was beginning to find it hard to endure.
Prodding the fire, he picked up the piece of venison that had already gone cold and rank, and tore at it viciously, as if he were gnawing at Pandit himself.
Flames burned in his eyes. Watching the sleeping Pandit, Ambedkar wished he could grab a knife and hack off that head.
Yet in the end he still didn’t do it—
supplies were about to be dropped. Even if it was only an act, he had to keep up the façade of obedience, hold out until they successfully secured the supplies. After that, whether he struck or not would be entirely up to his own will.
All these days, his disguise had been flawless, as if he really were a Shudra who, upon seeing a Brahmin, could not wait to bow down and perform the foot‑touching salute.
Throughout this, Pandit had never developed any suspicion toward him.
Their cooperative journey seemed as if it could continue forever in this eerie equilibrium. Only Ambedkar knew that very soon, this pair of "stable" partners would split apart in a blood‑drenched way.
No matter how strong Pandit’s combat ability was, he would never imagine that his most loyal and honest "Dalit" would seize the moment of his deep sleep to strike him down.
Imagining the scene of swinging the blade into Pandit, the rage in Ambedkar’s chest subsided somewhat. He couldn’t help but lift his head and glance at the beacon in the sky—
it was still descending, and seemed to be falling faster than it had during the day.
Silently calculating how to push Pandit to move faster tomorrow, to get him to take point and help secure the supplies, Ambedkar tossed another log onto the fire, then forced more than half a chunk of venison into his mouth.
Beyond the discomfort of the environment and his dissatisfaction with his partner, stranded in this foreign land, he deeply missed India’s myriad spices, especially masala. Living here without even salt to eat was pure torment.
...
The night grew ever darker. At some point the wind in the forest had strengthened, moaning as it passed the jade‑like treetops, like someone blowing some ancient instrument.
In the darkness, that sound, layered with the crackling of burning wood, only made one’s consciousness heavier, drowsiness surging up.
Chen Zhou had not closed his eyes for a full day and night. Ambedkar wasn’t quite as bad, but he too had been awake since dawn.
At first, bolstered by those beautiful fantasies of the future and the thrill of revenge to come, Ambedkar could still hold on. But as the firelight grew weaker and the space before him dimmer, he began to feel a bit dazed.
Pandit never agreed to take a night watch; by their established routine, Ambedkar had to keep watch until the first light appeared on the horizon before he could wake Pandit, then grab a short nap. That lack of sleep was also one of the main sources of the resentment in Ambedkar’s heart.