The goblin's blood was thicker than Devon had expected, and its stench—like rusted metal and meat on the turn—clung to his hands even after he'd scoured them with sand and river water until his skin was raw and red. He sat by the same water's edge that had once given him hope, but the clear water now only reflected the face of a monster. Not a green one with yellowed fangs, but one with eyes just like his own. The sobs that wracked his body weren't of relief or loss; they were born of self-loathing. His first lesson in becoming strong had taught him one thing: to kill a monster, you had to tear something out of yourself, and you never knew if that part would ever grow back.
The lavender sky began to deepen into a bruised purple, heralding the encroaching twilight. Hunger, a relentless enemy, began to gnaw at his hollow stomach, a brutal reminder that survival didn't care for moral crises. He had to eat. He had to keep moving.
With movements that felt mechanical and heavy, he retrieved his spear. He stepped back into the cold water, the new gash on his thigh and the bite mark on his arm screaming as the water touched them. This time, there was none of the novice hunter's enthusiasm. Only a grim efficiency. He had learned from his failure with the horned rabbit. He had learned from the goblin's agility. He no longer lunged blindly. He waited, his breath controlled, his eyes scanning the current not as a landscape, but as a battlefield. When a sizable fish passed, his movement was swift, economical, and lethal. A vibration ran up the wooden shaft, and he lifted the spear. Two fish writhed on its tip. There was no cry of victory. Only silence.
He tied his catch to the spear's haft with strips of bark fiber. Shouldering his weapon, which now doubled as his pantry, he started back in the direction he believed his cave to be. Every step was a struggle. The woods, which had started to feel familiar, now seemed menacing once more. Every dancing shadow looked like the silhouette of a nimble goblin, every rustle of leaves like stalking footsteps. He no longer saw the forest as a training ground; he saw it as a vast graveyard where he was just one of many creatures fighting not to be buried.
He finally reached the stone ridge, his natural fortress. A desperate relief washed over him at the sight of the curtain of blue vines covering the entrance. Home. A word that felt so sacred, and so fragile. He would build a fire. He would cook his fish. He would sit within the relative safety of his cave and try to forget the feeling of bone shattering beneath his knuckles.
He pushed the vines aside cautiously and peered inside.
And his heart seemed to stop.
Inside his cave, where a pile of cold ash and his precious leather pouch should have been, a massive creature was asleep. It was the bear. The same mossy-backed bear, the size of a small car, that had torn apart his nightmare wolf as if it were a common rat. The creature was curled up, filling nearly the entire space. Each of its breaths was a deep, powerful gust of air, a sound that radiated an absolute power that made the hair on Devon's arms stand on end. His cave, his castle, his fortress—it had never been his. He had merely been a squatter, lucky that the landlord was out.
"Oh, brilliant," Devon whispered, his voice hoarse with despair. The sarcasm was a bitter taste in his mouth. "Now where am I supposed to sleep?"
There was no choice. He backed away slowly, his steps as silent as he could manage, his heart pounding so loud he was sure the bear could hear it. He didn't stop walking until the stone ridge was out of sight. He was alone again. A vagrant in this alien world.
He was hungry. He was exhausted. And he needed to find someplace safe. He walked aimlessly, moving away from the bear's territory. He eventually found a small hollow between the roots of a colossal tree, not as good as his cave, but it offered some cover on three sides. He slumped to the damp earth, the ache in his body and soul feeling like a physical weight.
He set down his spear and looked at the two fish hanging from it. He had to eat. He had to make a fire. Fire meant warmth. Fire meant security. Fire meant cooked food.
He gathered some dry twigs and grasses, arranging them carefully. He reached into his pocket for his treasures, the flint and steel.
The pocket was empty.
A sharp, cold panic lanced through him. He checked his other pocket. Empty. He patted down his filthy, torn jeans. Nothing.
Then he remembered.
The small leather pouch. He'd left it in the cave. Right next to where the bear was now sleeping.
"Brilliant, Devon. Absolutely brilliant." The words came out in a hiss, laced with self-hatred. All of his progress, his fragile victories, had depended on those two pieces of rock and metal. And he had lost them. He was well and truly back at square one.
But he wouldn't give up. He'd seen it in movies. He'd read it in books. Primitive man made fire before he had steel. He picked up two stones from the ground, making sure they were hard and dry. He began to strike them together over his nest of dry grass, mimicking the motion that had worked before.
Clack. Clack. No spark. Just the dull sound of rock on rock.
He tried again, harder. His hands, already bruised and scraped from his fight with the goblin, began to ache. Clack. A tiny shard of stone flew off and struck his cheek. He ignored it. He kept going, driven by a mounting desperation. He struck the stones together again and again until his knuckles were raw and bloody, a sharp pain shooting up his arm. But not a single spark appeared. These were just rocks. There was no magic in them. His efforts were futile, only serving to mangle his already battered hands.
As if the world had decided he hadn't suffered enough, the first drop of water landed on his forehead. Then another on the back of his hand. Within minutes, the sky opened up, not a gentle drizzle, but a cold, driving downpour that instantly soaked through the remnants of his clothing. The rain extinguished his last hope of a fire. His twigs and dry grass were quickly rendered wet and useless.
Devon could only lean back against the tree root, letting the cold rain plaster him. He was shivering uncontrollably, not just from the cold, but from utter defeat. His stomach rumbled loudly, a pathetic growl in the din of the rain. He looked around in the deepening gloom, but there was nothing to eat but the fish on his spear.
Raw fish.
The thought made him gag. He was Devon, a teenager from Tokyo. He ate sushi, of course, but that was carefully prepared, cleanly sliced fish served over rice. Not this. Not a whole fish, with its scales and vacant, staring eyes, freshly speared from a murky river.
But the hunger was a torment. A force that pushed all other thoughts aside. He looked at the fish, then at the wet darkness of the forest around him. He could starve. He could grow weak and become easy prey for whatever hunted in this rainy night. Or he could eat.
With a trembling hand, he took one of the fish from his spear. The scales were slick and rough. It smelled of river and funk. He closed his eyes, trying not to think. He was just a creature, and a creature had to eat to live.
He took the first bite.
It was horrible. The cold, yielding flesh felt like rubber in his mouth. There was a strong taste of mud and fish that made his stomach churn. He almost spat it out. But he forced himself to swallow. He took another bite, tearing the flesh from the bone with his teeth, ignoring the fine bones that pricked his gums. Rainwater mixed with saliva and blood from his mouth, dripping down his chin.
This wasn't food. It was fuel. It was survival in its purest, most disgusting form.
He finished the first fish and started on the second, his movements now faster, more feral. He no longer tasted it. He only felt the need to fill the aching void in his gut.
When he was done, he just sat there, in the cold rain, with the stench of raw fish on his hands and the taste of blood in his mouth. He had fallen further this night than he could have ever imagined. He had lost his home. He had lost his fire. And he had lost another piece of the person he used to be.
He stared into the darkness. He didn't feel strong. He didn't feel like a tough survivor. He felt like a cornered animal, soaked, terrified, and alone. He had learned the price of a roof and the warmth of a fire. And he had learned that in this world, sometimes you had to eat raw fish in the rain just to see the sun rise one more time.