The Legend of number 7

Chapter VIII: Spanish Migration Bureau. The cramped office of the Immigration Department.

Clara, a department officer who had spent years among rigid laws and dry paperwork, felt a surge of genuine kindness toward the great soul hidden within Iru’s small frame as she heard his story. Leaning her elbows on the desk and looking directly into Iru’s eyes, she asked in a soft voice:

“How did you end up here, Iru? Tell me, my little friend, do not be afraid.”

Iru recounted everything openly: how he had hidden among the treacherous wheels of the lorry, how he had shared his sorrows with a young lion in the pitch-black, animal-scented cargo hold of the aircraft, and even how he had frightened the staff by mimicking a roar. Yet, he did not utter a single word about his true reason for coming to Madrid – the crumpled magazine and the name of the “saviour” within it. Yesterday’s encounter, where the star footballer had belittled him and shoved him aside, had shattered Iru’s small but mountain-like pride. He had believed that everyone would be as generous and merciful as described in the magazine, but this city built of stone had shown him its cold and merciless face instead.

Pitying the boy’s situation, Clara offered him an incredible opportunity that many could only dream of:

“Iru, we know that conditions in your tribe are harsh and life is very difficult. If you wish, we can help you stay here. Spain is a modern and wealthy nation. You will receive an education, have a warm home, and eat delicious food. You do not have to return to those parched lands.”

Iru gazed for a moment at the skyscrapers piercing the blue sky and the sleek, shimmering streets beyond the window. Then, with firm resolve, he shook his head and met Clara’s eyes with a sharp, steady gaze.

“I did not come here dreaming of new clothes or the city,” he said, biting his dry lips. “My people are thirsty. My grandfather’s well is drying up more each day. If I stay here, who will bring them water? I did not come to find my own happiness; I came to save my tribe.”

Seeing such immense responsibility and self-sacrifice within this small frame, Clara could no longer argue. In accordance with international law, and under the supervision of special bureau officers and doctors, Iru was deported from Spain to his homeland. A few days later, he arrived back in his beloved village, upon the soil of the Vax-Ru, into the warm embrace of the savannah.

Inside the hut, a pitch-black darkness and a graveyard silence reigned. Iru’s mother knelt at the feet of the elder, Kax, weeping bitterly as she pleaded for mercy for her child, her little hero. Her salt tears fell upon the parched, thirsty earth and vanished in an instant – much like all of Iru’s noble hopes. Yet, Elder Kax’s decision remained as steadfast and immovable as a desert cliff. Looking directly into his daughter’s sorrowful eyes, he whispered in a deep, hollow voice:

“Iru erred. He was lured by the lies of a glittering, alien world and forgot who he was. A man who forgets his identity and his origins is the greatest threat to the integrity of the tribe. Therefore, I have exiled him, so that he may find himself and return. Do not be grieved, my daughter… Though nature may seem cruel, it is, in truth, the greatest teacher. Only the wild and pure breath of nature can restore Iru to himself.”

Iru walked with his head bowed along the dry riverbed on the outskirts of the village – a bed that had not felt moisture for long years. The “Spanish T-shirt” he wore, put on backward and remaining as a souvenir from that luxurious world of Madrid, now felt foreign, redundant, and heavy. Iru had wandered far from the village. All around lay the boundless, arid savannah, shrivelled by the sun and gasping for its final breath. The heat distorted the horizon in shimmering waves, and the temperature scorched his skin.

A whole day of walking combined with endless spiritual torment had completely exhausted Iru. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, he knew well that the hour was approaching when the savannah’s predators would awaken and the darkness would take hold. The muffled, terrifying roars of lions and the blood-curdling howls of hyenas began to echo through the air. Iru spotted a tall, sturdy baobab tree nearby. With the agility of a monkey, he scrambled up its rugged trunk to a safe height. He broke off the lower, weaker branches to ensure the predators could not follow him.

Leaning against a thick, strong bough, he closed his eyes in exhaustion. The dangerous sounds around him no longer seemed terrifying; the pain of rejection in his heart was sharper than any predator’s tooth. Clinging tightly to the branch, he drifted into a heavy sleep – not out of fear of the enemy, but from a profound weariness of life itself.

Chapter IX: An Unexpected Encounter. The Fallen Star

The next morning…

Iru was jolted awake by a strange, droning, and unprecedentedly terrifying sound in the air. When he opened his eyes, he saw not the pure white sun on the horizon, but streaks of black smoke polluting the sky. A small, two-seater private plane had completely lost its balance; its wings were shimmering unnaturally as the engine roared in flames. The steel bird spiralled pathetically through the air several times before crashing with a horrific thud into a dense thicket of acacia trees not far from where Iru stood. The impact was so powerful that all the birds in the forest took flight in a massive flock, and the very earth trembled for a moment.

Iru leapt nimbly from the tree and raced toward the rising dust and flames. The aircraft had not hit the ground directly but was caught among the sturdy branches of the thick acacia trees, hanging suspended in a strange manner. Iru navigated through the mangled fuselage and fallen wings to peer into the smoke-filled cockpit. There, to his utter disbelief, he saw two people lying unconscious and bloodied. One was the pilot, who had sustained a severe head injury; beside him, strapped into the seat with a safety belt, his face covered in blood and ashen dust, was Crio Ron!

The past few weeks had been a living nightmare for Crio Ron, the star of the “Royal Club.” A string of painful defeats, the vitriolic criticism of millions of fans, and entanglements in his personal life had left him spiritually shattered. He had planned a secret getaway to Africa, seeking to rest, rediscover himself, and escape the cacophony of the world in the embrace of nature. Yet, in a twist of fate, he crashed directly into the “death zone” of the very boy he had once pushed aside.

Early that morning, he had taken to the skies in a small, weathered aircraft from the dusty runway of a local airport. Crio Ron had yearned to flee the turmoil of civilisation and soar in silence over the savannah, observing nature’s pristine beauty from the heavens. Unfortunately, the aging engine of the iron machine could not withstand Africa’s scorching heat and suffered a mechanical failure. The technology defied human control, and within seconds, the steel bird was caught in the branches of the acacias with a horrific impact. The searing heat of the engine and the stench of burning spread the breath of death through the air. Every second was precious – the crippled plane could erupt in flames at any moment, or the fragile branches might snap, sending it plummeting to the ground.

As Iru cautiously approached the mangled cockpit and saw the blood and dust on Crio Ron’s face, he froze for an instant. Before him lay the great “legend” he had once risked his life to find, then hated for his cold indifference – now helpless and frail. A fierce and merciless struggle erupted within Iru’s small heart: his wounded pride urged him to “leave him be, he did not value you,” while his innate conscience and his grandfather’s teaching – “never mistreat a guest, even if they are an enemy” – commanded him to act.