Ding!
[Multiversal System Report]
• Exterminated Species: 214,037
• Surrendered Species: 684 (612 remaining)
• Current Homo sapiens Population: 3,612,883,742 (~45% remaining)
Ethan stared at the glowing numbers until they blurred. Two billion lives gone in a single night. Entire species erased in the space of a heartbeat. The silence of it weighed heavier than stone, pressing against his chest.
Sadness hollowed him out. Those numbers weren't just statistics—they were voices he'd seen in the chat, people struggling the same as him, now gone without a sound. For a moment, he felt the pull of despair, as though their absence left him standing on thinner ground.
But as the ache deepened, something harder grew beneath it. His jaw clenched. I won't join them. I refuse. If billions could vanish, then the only answer was to fight louder, claw harder, and endure longer.
He opened the chat, letting the words scroll across his vision:
[Homo sapiens Species Chat]
DrHarper_Bio: I have been observing this chat for the past five days, and it is clear that our species was scattered across the entire planet. That means many people were placed in regions without resources, especially fresh water. It makes the idea of two billion dying overnight from combat completely implausible.
ProfLin_Anthro: The human body cannot survive without water for more than three days. We have simply reached that wall now.
Saito_Eng: exterminated species spiked too. hundreds of thousands wiped. same cause.
Anon243: nah. system culled them. u really think that many just dropped at once??
GrimWolf: predators. shelters crushed. don't act like it's just thirst.
Watcher22: funny how all the "scientists" in here r still alive tho. how'd u make it when 2 bil didn't?
ProfLin_Anthro: Knowledge, luck, and water. That is all it takes.
Anon243: keep coping. truth's worse than u think.
Ethan closed the chat with a flick. Words wouldn't keep him alive. Theories wouldn't raise walls. What he had was here: a Safe Zone, two hands, and the will to last.
He opened his inventory; its faint glow settled against tired eyes.
[Inventory]
Raptor Carcass
Thornhide Strider Carcass
Wood (42 Units)
Stone (13 Units)
Fiber (8 Units)
Bow (1)
Spears (3)
His body throbbed with exhaustion, cuts stinging even under the Safe Zone's dull warmth. The shallow gashes from the Strider burned every time he moved, but it was the deeper ones from the raptor that reminded him how close he had come to losing everything. Every swing of the axe, every stone pried loose, every vine stripped bare—he felt it now. It had been a mistake, forcing his battered frame to do the work of ten men.
The truth was clear. Manual farming in this condition wasn't just slow—it was dangerous. With his injuries still healing, he could work himself into the grave before his shelter advanced a single level. Trading was the way forward. He had potential in storage—meat, hide, bone, tendons—and he could turn those into weapons and food, then into clay, stone, fiber, and water.
He drew the raptor from his inventory. What remained was only the upper body, the legs already cut away days ago for tendon. The torso hit the dirt with a wet thud, heavier than he expected, the smell of old blood immediately filling the air. The Safe Zone dulled fatigue and closed shallow wounds, but it did nothing to stop the stench. Ethan's stomach tightened as he knelt beside it.
The blade bit into the hide, sawing through thick muscle until he reached the bone. Each strike echoed against his sore arms. He carved slowly, pulling slabs of shoulder meat free and stacking them onto a flat stone. Ribs cracked one after another beneath the knife's edge, splintering as he wrenched them loose. He worked with urgency, sweat rolling down his temple, always glancing toward the treeline. When he reached the head, its jaws were still locked in that death-snarl, teeth bared as though the beast wanted to lunge even now. Ethan grimaced, pressed the knife hard against the joint, and finally severed it.
The Strider was worse. Whole, intact, and heavier than the raptor had ever been, its body resisted every motion. Thorn ridges caught on his sleeves, scoring shallow cuts across his skin even in death. The knife scraped along armored hide until he forced it beneath the scales, peeling back layers with a grunt. The flesh beneath was slick and pale, ropes of tendon winding through like cords. He sliced long strips of muscle from its flank, piled them beside the rest, then drove his weight into the blade to break through joints. Bones came free with effort, tendon pulled long and wiry like bowstring, hide peeled reluctantly away with its thorn plates clattering into the dirt. By the end, his hands were sticky, his arms trembling, and the ground was scattered with piles: slabs of meat stacked on flat stones, bones laid in rows, tendons coiled tight, and hide folded in rough heaps. Thorn plates from the Strider glinted dully in the low light. He sat back on his heels, chest heaving. The smell was thick, cloying—blood, fat, and earth mingled into something that made his stomach turn.
He glanced toward the treeline. Even with the Safe Zone's faint protection, he didn't trust it to keep the scent contained. The stench would travel. Predators would follow. He needed to mask it, and he needed to make the meat last.
He dragged stones into rough circles, stacking and shaping them into shallow basins. Damp soil was pressed across the gaps to smother smoke, leaving only narrow vents for heat to rise. One fire pit became three, then five. He fed them with wood, coaxing small flames to life, then spread racks of branches across the tops. The first strips of meat hit the heat and sizzled, fat spitting into the coals. He checked the covers constantly, but once, when his attention was on the carving, one slipped. A plume of smoke coiled skyward before settling again. Ethan never noticed.
While the meat cooked, he pulled branches from his inventory. His hands fell into rhythm: carve, shave, split, lash. Spear after spear joined the pile until the line looked like it belonged to an army.
[Skill Gained: Spear Crafting]
[Spear Crafting: Lv.0 → Lv.1]
• Slightly improved lash stability
[Progress: 30/150 XP]
[Spear Crafting: Lv.1 → Lv.2]
• Improved balance for short shafts
[Progress: 0/225 XP]
[Spear Crafting: Lv.2 → Lv.3]
• Craft speed increased
[Progress: 0/338 XP]
[Spear Crafting: Lv.3 → Lv.4]
• Straighter shafts
• Slight durability boost
[Progress: 177/506 XP]
By the time the ninety-sixth spear hit the ground, Ethan's arms burned and his palms ached. He flexed sore fingers, wiped sweat from his face, and turned to the staves he'd set aside.
The first bow bent unevenly, tendon string quivering under strain, but it held. The second was smoother. He grew quicker with each, shaping the wood, drawing cords taut, testing pull and release. Arrows followed—shafts hardened over flame, bone splinters lashed to tips, crude fletching tied down.
[Bow Crafting: Lv.0 → Lv.1]
• String tension slightly improved
• Reduced snap risk
[Progress: 70/150 XP]
Sixteen bows joined the heap. Bundles of arrows lay beside them. Around him, spears stood stacked like cordwood, bows leaned against the wall, meat roasted slowly on racks.
Ethan pulled the Trade tab open and hesitated. Showing this much would mark him. But without clay, stone, and water, the shelter would never advance. He listed them anyway.
Spears (98)
Bows (16)
Arrows (44)
Cooked Meat (40 portions)
Requests: clay, stone, fiber, and water. Always water.
The listings went live.
[Global Homo sapiens Chat]
Ironfang: Who the hell just dropped a mountain of spears into trade?
Mari: That's… that's a lot of cooked meat. Too much for one person.
RickDale: Looks like a settlement. No solo could've made that many weapons.
Harper: Not necessarily. Observing this chat, I can say people were scattered across the planet. Two billion dying from combat in one night is implausible. Someone focused only on production. Still, this much output is unusual.
Anthro: Whoever it is, they're ahead. Tools and food will be worth more than gold.
Unknown: Please—if you see this, I'll trade anything for water. Please.
Ethan closed the panel. Their disbelief, envy, and desperation couldn't touch him. His survival was here, in what he'd carved with his own hands.
Miles away, two elves crouched at the base of a tree, fingers brushing over the earth where blood had long since dried. The flakes crumbled at their touch, brittle and dark.
"At least a day old," one murmured. "Something bled heavily here."
The other picked up a splinter of wood, jagged and weathered, turning it between his fingers. "A weapon, maybe. But not one I know."
They scanned the quiet clearing, noting the scuffed soil and snapped branches. Signs of a battle lingered in every mark, but no creature remained to claim them.
The first elf straightened, eyes narrowing toward the horizon where a faint plume had curled earlier before vanishing. "Whoever fought here survived. They moved on, and not far."
The second gave a slow nod. Together they slipped back into the treeline, moving light and sure as they followed the trail toward the cliffs.
From another direction, a lone survivor climbed, lips cracked and steps faltering. Their eyes locked on the memory of a smoke plume that had briefly risen against the sky. Smoke meant fire. Fire meant food. Food meant someone alive. They pressed on.
At the cliffside, Ethan fed another branch into the fire. The meat crackled, weapons gleamed faintly in the glow, and he sat unaware that from two different horizons, strangers were already walking toward him.