Neil sat still for a long moment after the battle, surrounded by silence, the weight of the fight pressing down on him. The ground was scattered with broken branches and churned earth. Blood stained his sleeve, his arm still oozing from the deep gashes left by the wolf's claws.
Eventually, he stood—slowly—and began searching the underbrush.
It took some time, but he found it: the broken sword.
Its chipped edge and cracked hilt caught the low sun's reflection. He picked it up, weighing it in his hand. The blade felt heavier now. Not just in mass, but in meaning. It had saved his life, even if briefly.
He looked at his arm. The blood had begun to clot, but the wound was wide, ugly. He sat down against a nearby tree and used the sword to slice long, rough strips from the bottom of his shirt. Each cut burned as he moved, but he grit his teeth and forced himself through the pain. He wrapped the cloth tightly around his arm, forming a crude bandage.
Once the bleeding slowed, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
And thought.
The fight replayed in his mind—the moment when he punched the wolf. When its head shattered like glass. When he felt something move through him. From the Core. Into his arm.
He brought his focus inward. To that steady rhythm at the center of his body.
The Core.
He tried to push the energy again. This time not out of panic, but with intent.
It answered.
The flow was faint but real—subtle as breath, but unmistakable. He could feel it curl through him, like warmth moving through muscle and marrow. He concentrated it into his arm.
The sensation intensified.
He stood and swung the sword.
Power. Raw, surging force. He felt it. A clear difference between his normal strength and what he had just summoned. He swung again—faster, stronger. It wasn't just adrenaline. It was energy.
He focused, trying to push that same power into the blade.
Nothing.
The energy flowed to his hands, but not through them. The sword remained lifeless—just metal.
He tried again. Again. Still, the energy wouldn't pass into the weapon.
Frustrated, he sighed—and then, for the first time since transmigrating into this strange world, something primal stirred in his gut.
Hunger.
His stomach growled.
His limbs ached with exhaustion. A real, human exhaustion. Months in this world, and only now did he feel the weight of his body's need. He looked toward the wolf's corpse, and then to the downed hog.
Both were still.
He approached the wolf first, placing a hand on its lifeless flank. The energy that lingered in the aura—the dull, gray shimmer he felt rather than saw—was still there. Barely.
He focused, trying to draw it into his Core.
A trickle.
Only the faintest trace of essence seeped in, like catching the last drops from an empty cup. He tried the hog next. Slightly better—gentler, calmer. But still weak.
The power was fading.
Whatever remained, it wasn't much.
He exhaled, then set to work.
He skinned the wolf first. The fur was thick and coarse, and he worked with care, knowing he would need it—he had just destroyed his shirt. He'd need something to cover himself once the bandages dried.
Then came the meat.
He carved slabs from both animals with the broken sword, stacking them beside a patch of flat stone. His hands were sticky with blood, the air heavy with the coppery scent of it all.
But now he faced another problem.
Fire.
He had no flint. No matches. Nothing but wood, air, and desperation.
He gathered dried bark and sticks, arranging them into a small pile beneath a canopy of trees. Then he sat, grinding sticks together, trying to create friction. Hours may have passed—his arms were strong, his endurance immense—but no spark came.
Frustration churned inside him.
He looked at his hands. Focused again.
Core.
He moved the energy to his fingertips.
He could feel it gather there—but it wouldn't exit. It remained locked inside his skin. Bound.
He tried to push it out. Command it. Force it.
Still nothing.
Exhaustion deepened. Hunger twisted in his gut.
He stared at the dead firewood, breathing hard. About to give up.
Then he remembered the moment of impact—when he shattered the wolf's skull. The sensation. The clarity. That intent.
He hadn't been focused on energy.
He had just wanted it dead. Wanted to end it.
And it had worked.
What if… what if it wasn't about brute force? What if it was about visualization?
He stood, fingers trembling slightly, and stared at the woodpile.
He closed his eyes.
Imagined his hand turning to stone—tough enough to handle heat. Focused the energy not just into his finger, but into an idea: the tip of his index finger becoming hot. Like a brand. Like flame.
Control it. Make it small. Just enough.
His finger began to heat.
At first it was subtle—then sharp. The tip turned red, glowing faintly. The heat bit into his skin, but not the hand itself. He held it close to the bark.
The firewood caught.
Thin smoke curled upward.
Then flame.
Neil staggered back, staring at his fingertip—blistered and burned. But his palm, the rest of his arm, were untouched.
He grinned through clenched teeth.
It had worked.
It hurt, but it had worked.
He tore a strip of cloth and wrapped the burned finger. Sat down beside the fire. Took the meat, skewered it onto sharpened sticks, and held it over the flame.
Smoke rose. The scent of cooking flesh filled the air.
And for the first time in this strange world, Neil ate.
His body welcomed the food with desperation he hadn't realized he had. He devoured the cooked meat in silence, letting the warmth spread through him.
The fire cracked. The wind shifted.
And Neil sat beside the flame, a primitive wolf-skin vest replacing his torn shirt, watching the night fall.
His arm ached.
His stomach settled.
And a new thought settled in his mind:
"If I can learn this… I can learn more."