Morning came with a warmth Arka hadn't felt since he first arrived in this world. He awoke not to the cold or hunger, but to a sliver of sunlight peeking through a gap in the stilt house's window. Near him, three bundles of fur—Bullyu, Hanzo, and Selen—slept soundly with full bellies. For the first time, this place felt like a home.
The previous night's success—felling the giant rabbit with a single arrow—had planted a seed of confidence within him. Perhaps, he thought, he truly had a hidden talent. Perhaps the memories of this body's owner would always guide him. With renewed spirits, he took his bow, determined to secure their food supply.
However, the forest did not grant the same convenience twice.
He spent hours stalking a deer-like creature, trying to replicate the perfect form he'd felt the day before. But something was different. The echo of that memory was there, faint, like a song whose melody he'd forgotten. His body knew how to stand, how to raise the bow, but the calm, the focus, and the perfect moment of release never came. His arrow flew wide, sending the deer fleeing in a panic. The failure tasted more bitter than any rotten fruit he had ever tried.
A burning frustration drove him to find other prey, this time with fiercer determination. That's when he saw it. In a small clearing, a giant wild boar was rooting through the earth with its snout. Its body was stout and muscular, covered in coarse black bristles, and two yellow tusks curved from its jaw like twin scythes. The creature was savage, dangerous, but also an abundant source of food.
Arka swallowed, adrenaline beginning to pump. He hid behind a tree, took a deep breath, and aimed for the spot between the boar's eyes. He held his breath and released the arrow. The shaft flew fast and true, but instead of piercing its mark, it merely ricocheted off the boar's thick skull with a pathetic
TING! .
A moment of silence was replaced by an enraged, thunderous snort. The boar lifted its head, its small red eyes blazing with fury. It let out a piercing shriek that froze Arka's blood, then began to paw at the ground, preparing to charge. Arka panicked. He tried to nock another arrow, but his hands were shaking too violently. Too late. With a speed impossible for its size, the boar charged at him like a living locomotive.
On instinct, Arka dropped his bow and drew the short sword from his waist. As the boar closed within a few meters, something triggered in his head. Time seemed to slow. A storm of memories that weren't his own exploded in his mind:
a different forest, the swing of a sword deflecting a clawed attack, the firm planting of feet on slippery ground, a voice shouting in his head, "Hold your ground! Don't let it push you back!".
His mind knew what to do. As the boar hit, Arka tried to mimic the deflecting motion from the memory. He succeeded, but the impact was still brutal. The clang of steel against tusk sent a painful vibration up to his shoulder, and he was thrown several steps back.
The boar didn't stop. It turned nimbly and attacked again. Arka was forced to dance on the edge of death. Every time he tried to replicate an elegant move from his flashbacks, his own clumsy body nearly got him killed. In one desperate move, he tried to stab the boar's neck as it passed, a motion that felt right in his mind. But he was too slow. The boar dodged, and one of its tusks caught Arka's thigh, tearing through the fabric of his pants and leaving a deep, gaping wound.
Searing pain exploded in his leg. Arka cried out, falling to a sitting position. The boar turned for the final kill. Amidst the pain and panic, one last memory flashed, clearer than the others:
a straight downward thrust, just behind the shoulder, where an animal's natural armor is usually thinnest.
With his remaining strength, fueled by pure adrenaline, Arka rolled to the side just as the boar charged. For a brief moment, the monster's flank was exposed. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he summoned all his power, gripped his sword with two hands, and plunged it downward.
The blade sank deep. The boar shrieked in terrible agony before finally collapsing with a heavy thud. The forest fell silent again.
Arka lay on the ground, gasping for breath, blood pouring from his thigh. He had won, but the victory felt hollow. He had survived not because of his skill, but because of a ghost's whisper from another's body. With great effort, he propped himself up against a tree. It was then that he began to understand.
For some reason, Arka thought, the memories in this body are sealed. They only react when there's a trigger
.
The shot to the rabbit's eye was a perfect storm of luck and a powerful trigger.
The fight with the boar was the same—the memories surfaced the moment I held the sword.
It like being given a blueprint, but with no clear instructions. After reflecting, the next challenge awaited.
He painfully tore the bottom of his shirt, grabbed some leaves he vaguely recognized (based on a faint body memory) might help stop the bleeding, and tied the wound tightly. It was a poor makeshift bandage, but at least the bleeding slowed. The pain was still a sharp, throbbing ache.
As he rested, Selen approached cautiously. The small vixen sniffed at his wound, letting out a soft, worried whimper. Before Arka could stop her, she began to lick the blood-soaked fabric.
"Hey, stop that, Selen! You'll get it infected," Arka said, trying to gently push her away.
But Selen insisted, licking the wound tenderly. Strangely, after a few moments, the burning pain in Arka's thigh began to subside, replaced by a soothing coolness. Curious, Arka peeked under the bandage. He gasped. The flesh of the wound, which had been red and inflamed, now looked calmer, and the bleeding had almost stopped completely. He stared at Selen in amazement, who now sat demurely, tilting her head. Her saliva... could heal? In this harsh world, he had just discovered that his smallest companion was a priceless healer. This victory was paid for in blood.
Now, the real challenge began: processing the massive carcass before him. This task brought him back to a brutal reality. Although he had managed to butcher the rabbit the day before, the process had been a gruesome spectacle. Now, faced with a much larger boar, he felt just as incompetent as he had been then. The process took hours, leaving him exhausted and filthy.
After managing to cut off some of the meat, he faced the next hurdle: fire. Rekindling a fire from last night's embers proved more difficult than he'd imagined. He realized he didn't actually
know how to make a fire; he had just gotten lucky once with a spark from a stone.
He was no longer a fantasy hero. He was a survivor. And his lessons had only just begun.
The first months passed like that. A long cycle of painful failures, interspersed with incredible discoveries. He learned that each member of his small family had a unique role. One day, while frustrated after losing the trail of a forest fowl, he realized Hanzo was gone. He panicked for a moment, calling the quiet fox's name to no avail. Suddenly, as if appearing from thin air, Hanzo was standing beside him without a sound, pointing toward a thicket with his front paw. That's where the bird was hiding. Arka realized Hanzo's faint presence made him the perfect silent scout and hunter.
Another time, while exploring a new part of the forest, a wolf-like predator leaped out from behind some rocks. Before Arka could even raise his sword, Bullyu, whose body was now larger and sturdier, instinctively jumped forward. He stood between Arka and the wolf, barking fiercely, the fur on his neck bristling. Even though Bullyu's body wasn't as big as the wolf's, he didn't back down an inch, becoming a living shield for his master.
Arka was no longer a lone survivor. He was the leader of a small team. Bullyu was his shield, Hanzo his eyes and ears in the shadows, and Selen his healer. They grew quickly; after just a few months, they already stood a meter tall. Arka's lessons were no longer just about himself, but about how to fight alongside them.
Every fire he managed to light, every kill he managed to process, and every night he passed safely with his small family, was a new page in his own story—a story written in sweat and blood, not ink.