He looked at the flexible branches around him, then at the corpses scattered across the clearing. Four vultures—killed by part planning, part luck—but luck alone wouldn't keep their bodies hidden.
In a few hours, they would bloat and stink. Burying them all in the shrubs would take too long.
His eyes brightened.
Snapping a slender branch, he stripped it quickly, peeling out fine fibers.
With the teardrop halves gathered beside him, he knotted the fibers one by one, weaving a crude necklace that displayed each incomplete Taijitu—red apertures cores on one side, black spirit core on the other.
When he finished, he slipped it around his neck with a strange, quiet pride. A warning—and a declaration: he was no longer prey.
With half his new "image" complete, he turned to clothing next.
He couldn't leave his little brother dangling between his legs any longer, not with everything he now had available.
His claws tore through leather-like skin with ease as he worked along a vulture's feathered pelt. He cut with surgical precision: along the collarbone, down the back of the neck, then across the mutilated chest. He separated the wings, then slid his claws between skin and flesh, peeling fat away in long, silent strips.
Ripp… ripp…
He freed the torso skin and trimmed it down to a wearable size—enough for a loincloth and a crude cloak.
Next, he needed something to bind them.
His gaze drifted to the vulture's throat. The torso skin was gone, but the creature still had more to give.
He sliced through the thin, flexible skin around the neck and cut it into long strips. One he wrapped tightly around his waist, securing the loincloth.
Then he grabbed the extra pelt meant for a cloak.
At first he considered tying a strip around it to form a hood—until a better idea formed. He snapped more branches, peeled more fibers, and shaped a small rectangular frame.
He skinned the remaining vultures, plucked their feathers, and stretched the hides over the frame until it resembled a satchel. He padded the inside with down. Afterward, he dug through the soil, hunting for sharp stones or metal—anything with an edge.
But there was nothing: only blunt rocks and gnarled roots.
So he returned to the creatures that had supplied him well so far. Even in death, they offered what he needed—their beaks.
The hooked black keratin was tough and naturally razor-edged. If he removed the top and bottom pieces cleanly, he could fashion two blades. So he set to work.
Crkkk… crRRRk… rrrip—
The first beak tore free from cartilage with a wet pop.
He did the same to the others, harvesting each set. By the time he finished, his weapons were ready, the satchel slung over his shoulder, and his makeshift clothing tied securely in place.
He peered out into the night.
The redwood showed no signs of alarm. The birds that had circled earlier had drifted off or settled back into their nests.
This was his chance—his only chance—to strike when they least suspected it.
The predators rested in their dark nests, filled with a false sense of satisfaction and supremacy after preying on the newly hatched demons, feasting on their fear and souls throughout the night.