Caleb sat beside the stove, silent, counting in his head as the fire crackled. He had at least three or four days' worth of chopped wood stacked neatly inside now, dry enough to burn.
That meant one thing.
It was time to hunt.
The jerky was almost gone. His body already ached from the lack of calories. If he waited too long, he'd be too weak to kill anything, let alone drag it back.
But food wouldn't just walk up to his doorstep.
As he bundled himself in the stiff, half-dried clothes he'd found, a new shimmer appeared in the corner of his vision.
"They crave warmth, and the heat of life. The scent of your blood calls louder than any bait. Let it fall upon the snow, and let patience be your weapon."
– Written in the curling script of old, the words flickered like fading ink, then vanished.
Caleb's breath caught. Another hint. And it was right.
Even here, in this dead world, predators existed. They were hungry, just like him.
And if they were drawn to blood…
He tied his axe to his belt, then grabbed one of the straighter branches he'd saved. A crude spear, hardened by fire. Not ideal—but sharp enough to kill.
He moved toward the edge of the dome, pausing beside the iron ring of the doorway. The cold outside still felt like a solid wall.
He exhaled, gritted his teeth, and stepped through.
The forest stood quiet and pale, as always. But this time he wasn't out here to chop wood. He was hunting.
He walked about fifty meters from the dome's edge, near a dense patch of pine trees where he'd noticed some disturbed snow earlier in the week.
When he found a branch low enough to climb, he pulled himself up slowly, making sure it could hold his weight.
Then came the hardest part.
He pulled out his knife, inhaled, and dragged the blade across the outer forearm, shallow but clean. Blood welled instantly.
He squeezed his forearm, letting the blood drop onto a rock below him, then quickly bound the wound with cloth.
It didn't take long.
Minutes passed.
And then, crunching through the brush, came a shape.
Broad shoulders. Bristled black hide. Yellowed tusks the size of his forearm.
A boar.
Twice the size of any wild pig he'd seen back home. Frost clung to its thick snout, and its breath steamed in the air.
It snorted and paused at the rock, sniffing furiously.
Caleb's heart pounded in his ears.
The boar turned, lowered its snout to the bloodstain—and in that second, he moved.
He dropped.
The snow cushioned the fall just enough.
With both hands, he plunged the spear down into the side of the beast's neck, just above the shoulder.
The boar shrieked—a horrible, warbling scream—and bucked wildly, throwing Caleb sideways.
He rolled, breathless, into the snow.
The spear still jutted from the creature's neck, blood pouring like black syrup down its fur.
It staggered, squealing, tried to charge—but stumbled.
Caleb scrambled up, yanked the spear free before it could break.
The beast lurched forward once, then again—until its legs gave out and it collapsed.
Twitching.
Bleeding out.
Caleb stood over it, panting, spear at the ready in case it moved again.
Then… silence.
Steam rose from its wound, staining the air with the smell of iron and filth.
He'd done it.
Meat. Real food.
And now… a whole new problem.
Getting it back.
End of 4th chapter.