The roasted meat had tasted better than anything Ren could remember eating.
Greasy, crisped on the outside, stringy but hot all the way through. He sat cross-legged by the fire, his jaw working through sinew and char, the taste of iron and smoke lingering on his tongue. The fire cracked as fat dripped from bone, and for once, his stomach felt full—bloated, even.
His shelter wasn't much. Just a slanted wedge of pine branches stacked against a fallen log, woven with dry ferns to hold back the wind. But it felt like safety. Primitive. Warm. After licking the grease from his fingers, Ren slipped inside, curling onto his side with the stone dagger hugged tight to his chest.
The warmth of food. The comfort of fire. The stillness of the night.
Sleep came swiftly.
At first.
But soon—his body betrayed him.
His tongue felt dry. His throat, parched. His stomach, once full, now twisted. He stirred. Swallowed. The back of his throat rasped like sandpaper.
His eyes cracked open, the roof of the shelter just inches from his face. Everything was quiet—unnaturally quiet. He sat up slowly, blinking at the fire's orange glow bleeding through the fern weave.
"Damn…" he muttered, voice scratchy. "I should've remembered to get water."
The words stung his lips. He wiped his mouth. Everything tasted like ash and salt. He crawled out of the shelter, his muscles stiff, hair tousled with sweat, and knelt beside the embers, squinting into the night.
The taste of meat still clung to his teeth, but now it was bitter. Hollow.
Just beyond the firelight, he could see them.
The corpses of the dire wolves. Charred. Broken. One still twitched in memory—a spasm of nerves long dead.
He exhaled.
And then—something shifted.
No sound. No wind. Just a sudden wrongness in the air.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up like spears.
His skin tingled. A cold wave of goosebumps swept down his spine. His heart, already sluggish from exhaustion, began to race.
He scanned the woods.
What is this?
His mind flared with alarm. His thoughts raced.
Did I miss something?
Then it came back. A memory. A quote.
Something an old hunter had once said near a fire, long ago—his voice rough with experience.
"Never sleep near your kills."
Another followed like a whisper chasing the wind:
"Always move and bury your leftovers… Bears will—"
His breath hitched. His eyes widened.
"Oh fuc—"
He turned.
And the words died in his throat.
Two eyes. Crimson. Burning like coals.
Set low. Wide. Watching him from beyond the trees. Perfectly still. Perfectly aware.
A silence fell between predator and prey.
And Ren—stone dagger in hand, mouth dry, heart slamming in his chest—didn't move.
The fire cracked.
But even its warmth now felt distant.
Ren stood frozen.
The forest was a cathedral of silence, but his heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. The air felt thick—soaked with tension, trembling on the edge of violence. A bead of sweat formed on his temple, slid down his cheek, and disappeared into the collar of his shirt.
The crimson eyes didn't blink.
They moved.
Slowly. Deliberately. Cutting through the trees like embers carved in flesh.
And then—it stepped into view.
A bear.
But not any ordinary beast.
Towering nearly two meters at the shoulder, its fur shimmered with deep crimson undertones, like blood soaked into fire-warmed stone. Its breath came in slow huffs, each exhale steaming in the cool night. Its eyes—those awful eyes—never left his.
Ren's throat was dry, and not just from thirst. His thoughts spiraled.
Play dead?
Run?
Fight?
He shifted his weight subtly, and instinctively reached for his stone knife—
But his hand closed on nothing.
Cold.
He had left it in the shelter.
The bear's massive frame crept closer. Its weight was soundless against the moss-covered earth, circling the log-shelter like a predator inspecting a trap. With every step, it came closer to the fire—and to him.
Ren backed away slowly, and as he did, he felt the heat of the flames lick against his calves. The fire was right behind him, casting wild, flickering shadows across the trees. The scent of ash and singed fur from the earlier hunt still hung in the air.
He dared a glance to his left—and saw it.
His wooden spear.
It stood propped against the shelter wall, just within reach… but not without movement.
Ren's breath hitched.
Should I grab it? Can I reach it before—
But then—something shifted inside him.
A pulse. Not physical, but primal.
His vision blurred for a moment… then sharpened.
A whisper echoed through his skull like a drumbeat from within.
[Skill Activated – Primal Instinct]
His eyes flared red, veins glowing faintly beneath the skin like threads of molten glass. His heart stopped racing. His limbs stopped shaking.
His thoughts vanished.
Only action remained.
No hesitation. No doubt.
Just movement.
He lunged forward.
The bear roared—a deep, echoing bellow that cracked through the trees—and charged. Its bulk smashed through the shelter like dry parchment, wood splintering in a violent eruption of debris. Ferns scattered. Ash flew into the air.
But Ren had already moved.
He snatched the spear as it fell from the shattered wall and pivoted sharply. The bear swiped at him with claws like hooked blades. Dirt exploded where its strike landed—mere inches from where his foot had been.
Without pause, Ren rotated his body and brought the spear in a wide, arcing swing toward its head. The shaft snapped on impact, splinters bursting like shrapnel, but the blow struck true—right across its snout.
The beast reeled.
Ren didn't flinch.
Didn't breathe.
He moved.
Slamming his heel into the earth, he launched forward—straight through the fire behind him.
Flames surged, engulfing him in a rush of heat. The smell of char and burnt leather filled his nose. Sparks hissed past his skin. Smoke stung his eyes.
But he didn't slow.
The fire was not a barrier.
It was a gate.
He emerged on the other side, embers trailing from his cloak, eyes burning red as the coals that kissed his boots. Behind him, the bear roared again, but now—he wasn't running.
He was hunting back.
The fire crackled behind him, casting flickering shadows across the clearing as Ren emerged through the flames like a phantom reborn. His cloak smoked at the edges, and glowing embers clung to his arms, but he barely felt them. His blood roared in his ears, fueled by the lingering effect of Primal Instinct, and every breath he drew burned with iron and adrenaline.
His eyes darted—then locked on a thick branch, half-charred, jutting from the fire.
He seized it.
The end was ablaze—a crude torch, nothing more. But in his hand, it felt like a weapon forged by desperation.
He crouched low, knees bent, one hand forward, the fire stick angled like a reverse fang. His muscles were coiled tight. Sparks drifted off his shoulders as he sank into a battle stance.
Across the fire, the bear circled.
Its eyes never left his.
It moved in a wide arc, nostrils flaring, the heat warping the air between them. Smoke clung to its fur where it had brushed too close to the flames earlier. A thin trail of saliva dripped from its blackened jaws, sizzling as it struck the dirt.
Then—it charged.
With a bellow that split the night in half, the crimson bear lunged across the fire's edge, its paws smashing embers as it closed the distance.
Ren didn't flinch.
He sidestepped, swift and low, the fire stick gliding across the beast's flank—not to strike, not to shatter, but to burn.
The stick barely touched fur. But that was enough.
A patch of the bear's coat ignited, smoking violently as it reared in surprise. Ren didn't waste energy on power—he used precision. Each time it lunged, he evaded just narrowly and branded its fur with fire. Smoke hissed up in coiling plumes. The scent of burning hair filled the air. The bear snarled and twisted, trying to rid itself of the heat—but Ren was already repositioning.
One swipe grazed his arm, ripping fabric and skin. He grunted, but didn't stop.
Another roar. Then a violent leap.
The bear lunged with both front paws, crashing down in a wide, sweeping arc. The sheer force shattered the fire pit, sending sparks flying like stars across the clearing.
Ren tumbled back, chest heaving, his vision blurring from the ash and pain.
The bear didn't relent.
It charged again, frothing and screaming, eyes wide with hate and flame.
Ren's foot caught on a root. He nearly fell—but then the opening revealed itself.
The beast roared and lunged again—mouth wide, fangs glistening with heat and spittle.
Ren dove forward.
His shoulder slammed into the bear's neck as he drove the flaming stick directly into its open maw. The wood cracked as it wedged between its jaws—then fire erupted from its mouth, smoke belching out of its nostrils in thick, gray gouts.
The bear screamed.
A sound that tore through the forest like a curse. It reared up, stumbling backward, clawing at its face in a frenzy.
Ren didn't wait.
He turned and ran.
Ash filled his lungs. His legs screamed with each stride. Branches tore at his arms. He didn't know where he was going—only that he had to move, had to survive.
Behind him, the bear tore the flaming stick loose. Smoke and cinders gushed from its mouth like a furnace turned wild. Its roar shook the trees—and it charged.
Ren could hear it.
Trees snapping. Brush crushed flat. Every step like thunder rolling behind him.
His heartbeat was wild. His breath tasted of smoke and blood. Panic threatened to return—but then he heard it.
A sound.
A single, crystal-clear drip.
Water.
He pivoted, sharp and sudden, slipping between the trees, angling toward the sound. Behind him, the crimson bear barreled on—its fury undiminished, its body smoking from within.
Ren darted low, weaving between trunks. He spotted a branch overhead—thick, straight, waist-length.
He grabbed it in a single motion and snapped it clean across his thigh. The end splintered into a jagged point. Not ideal—but it would do.
He ran harder.
The sound of dripping grew louder—then became a trickle. Then a gurgle. Then a full gushing rush.
A stream.
He followed it.
And suddenly—the ground vanished.
He stopped just in time.
Dirt crumbled beneath his foot. He looked down—and saw nothing but air.
A sheer drop. A wide, mist-shrouded ravine cut deep into the forest floor, with a crashing river foaming far below. The sound of the water filled his ears now, deafening and wild.
Behind him—the bear thundered into the clearing.
Still burning. Still enraged.
Ren stood at the edge, chest heaving, sweat burning in his wounds.
There was nowhere else to run.
Ren turned on instinct and bolted forward—but the ground betrayed him.
His foot struck moss—slick, wet, and treacherous. His balance slipped. He stumbled with a curse, boots skidding over the edge of a shallow slope. Dirt kicked up behind him. Ahead, the cliff yawned like a mouth waiting to swallow him whole.
But it wasn't over.
From behind—the trees exploded.
The crimson bear burst from the treeline, tumbling in a blind fury, body smeared in soot and blood. It crashed through a rotting stump and rolled once before landing hard on all fours. Steam hissed from its jaws. One side of its face was blackened with burn marks. Its gums dripped with saliva and rage.
It lifted its head—and spotted him.
Those eyes locked on Ren with raw, murderous intent.
If it could speak, it would've screamed, "I will kill you."
Ren's lungs burned. His pulse pounded. He scanned wildly—then saw them.
Rocks. Jagged, palm-sized. Scattered near the cliffside.
He didn't hesitate.
He flipped the broken spear to his left hand, crouched low, and snatched a rock from the ground.
The bear began to charge, roaring.
Ren stood his ground.
Waited.
Then—threw.
The rock whistled through the air. The bear saw it and reflexively reared back, lifting both paws to shield its face. The stone bounced harmlessly off its claw.
But Ren was already moving again—another rock in hand.
He dashed forward with momentum, every step thudding against moss and stone.
Just as the bear began to lower its paws—Ren hurled the second rock.
The aim was cruel. And perfect.
Crack.
A sickening crunch echoed as the rock slammed into the bear's left eye.
It roared. Screamed.
The beast reeled backward, blinded and bleeding. Its left eye slammed shut, and a ribbon of crimson leaked down its snout. It swiped blindly, tearing into empty air, jaw gaping in confusion.
Ren was already sliding.
His feet hit the moss-slick earth again—he dropped low and let his momentum carry him. He slipped under the bear, right between its massive legs, chest scraping across wet dirt, the scent of singed fur and blood thick in his nose.
He emerged behind it—still sliding.
Came up in one breath.
And then, with all the momentum and fury he had left, he thrust the jagged spear upward.
Straight into the one opening no armor, no fur, no muscle could defend—
The asshole.
The bear's roar cracked into a scream—a guttural, pained howl that shook birds from the treetops. Its body convulsed violently. Its hind legs kicked out.
Impaled from below, the beast leapt forward, panic overriding fury.
It couldn't see. It couldn't think. It just ran.
And there was only one way to run.
Forward.
Over the edge.
Ren stumbled to his knees, panting, bleeding, half-laughing in disbelief.
He looked up just in time to watch the flaming, blinded, bloodied crimson bear vanish over the cliff.
There was a long second of silence.
Then—thud.
A dull, distant crash below. Bone, rock, and rage all meeting the riverbed far beneath.
The forest fell still again.
Only the wind remained.
Ren sat in the moss, hair wild, body torn, clutching the shattered remains of his spear.
And in a voice raw with exhaustion, he muttered:
"…there's always a weak spot."
Then he collapsed down on the ground.