Four hours had passed since Rey left the ancient ruins.
He didn't stop to rest.
He couldn't.
The wound on his thigh burned with each step, reopened by constant movement, but he pushed forward. Sweat soaked through the remains of his torn shirt, and every heartbeat echoed in his skull like war drums.
He had to keep running.
The landscape had changed from jagged stone to dry jungle—if one could even call it that. The trees were tall but leafless, with black bark that flaked like ash and twisted branches that resembled claws more than foliage. The earth was cracked and crumbled beneath his boots, and not a single bird or insect stirred in the air.
Only the wind whispered.
And the howls.
They came from the east first. One low, guttural cry, distant. Then another. Closer. Answered by two more from behind.
Rey didn't wait to see them.
He sprinted through the dry underbrush, ducking low branches and vaulting over exposed roots. Behind him, movement—the rustling of limbs, the snap of twigs, the heavy breathing of something feral and fast.
Wolf-like.
But not normal wolves. Their growls echoed with unnatural depth, and when Rey glanced back for just a second, he saw eyes—four of them—glowing red in pairs on a beast larger than any canine should be.
The pack was hunting him.
Adrenaline surged again. His legs screamed, lungs burned, but he didn't slow down. He wove through the terrain, hoping the twisted trees would slow the monsters more than him.
And for a while, it worked.
He dove into a small crevice between two boulders, slid down into a hollow carved by time and wind. Dirt showered his head, and his breath came ragged and loud. For minutes, he didn't move.
The howls faded.
And then—silence.
Rey's heart pounded, unsure if they had truly left or were waiting.
Time passed slowly. Eventually, as the sun—or whatever passed for it in this realm—dipped toward the red horizon, Rey dragged himself out from the rocks. He didn't celebrate. Didn't sigh in relief.
He had escaped.
Barely.
This was the second time today he had nearly died. Once from monsters in the ruins… and now from beasts in the wild.
His legs trembled. His body screamed for rest.
But more than that—his mind burned with one truth:
"I can't keep doing this…"
He looked around. The forest was thin now, almost more desert than woodland. A dry riverbed lay nearby, and further ahead, a cliff rose up—offering higher ground.
He'd have to rest soon. But not like this. Not out in the open. Not while those things hunted at night.
For the first time, the chaotic thoughts in his mind settled into something more focused.
A plan.
Not a grand one. Not a revenge or escape.
Something simple.
"I need to build shelter."
His eyes scanned the area again—broken branches, loose stone, sand, and bark. No tools, no proper weapons.
Only what the Abyss gave him.
And somehow, he would turn it into a home. Even a temporary one.
He had been running from the moment he arrived in this nightmare.
It was time to stop running.
It was time to survive with intent.
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