The transition from the West to the East wasn’t exactly subtle. It was a shift in the very atmosphere.
Sol moved through the undergrowth, a shadow wrapped in the skin of a shadow. The matte-black hide of the Cobra draped over his shoulders swallowed the dappled sunlight, making him look like a flickering glitch in the forest’s texture.
He checked the sun through a break in the canopy. It was getting late. The Annual Hunting Rite or "Rite of Courage" the tribesmen like to call, was nearing its end.
"Time to find him," Sol whispered, his voice a low vibration in his throat.
He adjusted the bone dagger at his hip and the iron-hard antlers tucked into his belt. He was ready.
As he moved deeper into the Eastern Zone, the sounds of the jungle changed. The singular, terrifying silence of the predators gave way to the chaotic noise of human struggle. He heard shouts of panic, the wet thud of spears hitting hide, and the roar of beasts who were angry about being poked with sticks.
Crash. Thud.
The scream shattered the humid air, raw and wet with agony.
Sol slowed instantly, his heightened senses flaring. He blended into the shadow of a massive iron-bark tree, pressing his back against the rough wood, becoming invisible.
Fifty yards away, in a muddy ravine, a nightmare was unfolding.
A group of three young men... participants in the Rite... were frantically fighting off a pair of Terror-Birds. The beasts were terrifying avian throwbacks, seven feet tall with hooked beaks like pickaxes and talons the size of sickle blades.
The boys were losing. Badly.
The scene was chaotic. Their spears were broken, snapped like twigs under the birds’ talons. One boy was dragging himself through the mud, sobbing uncontrollably, his calf mauled into a ruin of red meat and white bone. His blood painted a stark, horrifying trail in the dirt.
"Aaaagh! Someone! Please!" he shrieked, reaching out to his companions. But his companions were backing away. Terror was written on their faces, but beneath it was a cold, calculating survival instinct.
CRUNCH.
The bird struck again, its beak tearing a chunk of meat from the boy’s thigh.
Sol felt a sudden, violent lurch in his gut. Bile rose in his throat.
It was his first time seeing this... seeing humans being hunted. He was, after all, a man from the modern world. Seeing gore this fresh, this real. In his modern life, violence was pixelated, sanitized, or hidden behind news screens. Here, the smell of copper and bowels was thick enough to taste. The sound of meat tearing was sickeningly wet. He wasn’t used to seeing a human being eaten alive in high definition.
For a heartbeat, the old Sol... the "nice guy" from a world of laws and safety... clawed his way to the surface. The one who held doors open and dreamed of being a hero... screamed inside his head.
Move! Help them! You have the power!
His muscles tensed to spring. He gripped his spear.
I have the power, the old voice whispered. I could save them. One Command. One rock. I could be the hero.
He almost stepped out. He almost risked his neck for a pat on the back and a tearful "thank you."
But then, he froze.
The image of Vurok flashed in his mind. The threat to him, the beating,and more importantly the threat to the girls.
He stopped himself, his grip tightening on the bark until his knuckles turned white.
"Think," he hissed to himself. "Don’t feel. Think."
What is my objective?
His objective was to kill Vurok without raising suspicion. That was the only reason he had circled through the Western Zone. That was the only reason he was here.
If I step out now, Sol calculated, his eyes narrowing, I expose myself. I reveal that the ’cripple’ is strong. I reveal my new strength, my new speed, and my location and the fact that I can fight beasts.
And for what?
He looked at the three boys. While the injured boy screamed, the other two weren’t forming a defensive line. They weren’t trying to distract the bird.
They were backing away.
Are they reliable?
Sol saw the look in their eyes. It wasn’t just fear; it was calculation. One of the boys, a lanky kid with shaking hands, actually shoved his companion slightly forward, trying to put a meat shield between himself and the beak.
Sol’s lip curled in disgust. A dry, humorless chuckle escaped his throat.
No. They aren’t reliable. They are trash.
"Make them promise?" he thought, the idea tasting bitter. "I could save them and ask for their silence. But look at them."
They were cowards. If he saved them, they would worship him for a moment. But the second Vurok or an Elder applied a little pressure? The second they thought selling out the "freak with the black magic" would gain them a crust of bread or a higher rank?
They would sing like canaries. They were liabilities. Walking, talking loose ends.
Even if they were saints, the risk was too high. Witnesses were liabilities.
Sol took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the jungle... rot, blood, and indifference. He steeled himself. He shoved the "nice guy" back down into the dark, drowning him in the cold reality of the jungle.
This isn’t my old world, he reminded himself, watching a beak descend. That peaceful world, at least it pretended to be peaceful. But... this one is a primitive world. Cruel, untamed, and absolute. Running on a single, bloody logic: Survival of the Fittest. No morals. No police. Just consequences.
Those boys were weak. Nature was simply culling the herd.
He watched for another ten seconds, analyzing the terror-birds’ attack patterns... peck, kick, screech... learning from the boys’ failure.
He watched for one more second as the uninjured boys turned and scrambled up the muddy bank, abandoning their screaming friend to his fate.
He gave the dying boy one last look. It wasn’t pity; it was a lesson.
"Sorry," Sol whispered, his voice devoid of warmth. "I’m busy."
He turned away from the screams and slipped into the brush, not looking back, his conscience cold and silent, leaving the ravine to the birds.
He left the screams behind him. They faded into the background noise of the forest, just another animal dying in the food chain.