The jungle swallowed Ahayue whole. Days blurred together into one endless rhythm of hunger, exhaustion, and silence.
He had thought leaving the village would feel like triumph—like stepping into manhood. But instead, it felt like dissolving into something bigger, something indifferent. Every path was blocked by vines that clawed his arms, every river seemed too deep to cross, every night too dark to breathe.
And when the loneliness grew heavy, when his stomach howled louder than the howler monkeys, the thoughts came.
What if I should have stayed? What if I die here, and no one remembers me? What if this was a mistake?
He shook his head violently, pressing his palm into his eyes until colors burst behind them. But the doubts clung.
That night, when the moon was a thin blade, the shadows began to move.
At first, he thought it was his tiredness—that the flickering firelight was tricking his eyes. But then, one shadow detached itself from the tree line, pooling across the ground like liquid black.
It moved toward him.
"Ahayue…"
His name. A whisper too soft to be real, yet too clear to be imagination.
He froze, his breath locked in his chest. Do not answer voices from the dark, the elders had warned. They are hungry things.
The shadow spread, reaching like a tide.
And then the jungle was gone.
—
He stood in a place of white silence. The ground was smooth, endless, like stone polished by a thousand hands. The sky was blank, without stars, without sun. The air held no sound, not even his own breath.
Panic tightened his chest. His first thought was that he had died.
"Do you know why you are here?"
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, shaking the air though nothing moved.
Figures rose from the white floor—silhouettes of people he knew. His mother's tall frame, his father's stooped shoulders, his grandmother's walking stick, his playmates chasing each other. But their faces were gone, smooth and featureless, as if scraped away.
Ahayue's lips trembled. "What is this? Who are you?"
The voice answered with calm cruelty. "A trial. Only those who endure the shadow may carry the fire forward. Tell me, Ahayue—do you deserve to live?"
His body went cold. He wanted to shout yes, to scream that he had the right, that he was strong, that he was no coward. But the faceless figures stood there silently, like judges awaiting his confession.
Do I deserve to live? The question rooted in his chest, heavier than hunger, heavier than fear. He had run from safety, from family, not because of courage but because of pride. What if that meant he deserved nothing?
The white ground rippled. The silhouettes began to melt, dripping into pools of black that spread like ink. From those pools, creatures rose—shadow-beasts, their bodies warped and snarling, mouths too wide, claws too long. Their eyes burned pale and hollow.
They circled him.
"Fight."
The voice was no longer calm. It was command.
Ahayue clutched his crude spear, his hands slick with sweat.
The first beast lunged. Its body was smoke and yet its fangs sank into his shoulder with icy pain. He screamed, staggering back, thrusting his spear wildly. The weapon pierced nothing—but the beast recoiled as if struck, dispersing into mist before re-forming.
Another came. Then another.
They crashed into him with weight, though their bodies were half air, half nightmare. One claw raked across his chest, and fire spread under his skin. Another slammed into his back, forcing him to the ground.
I can't. I can't fight them. They're not real. They're not real—
But the pain was real. His blood, hot and sticky on his skin, was real. His screams were real.
"Coward," the beasts hissed. Their voices echoed his own doubts, twisted and sharp."You ran.""You left them.""You are nothing."
Tears burned in his eyes. He wanted to deny it, but the words hit too close. Every wound dragged out another memory—his father's disappointed stare, the jeers of older boys, the way he had clenched his fists and sworn he would prove them wrong.
But now—now he was only prey.
The beasts lunged again, a storm of claws and teeth. He raised the spear, but it snapped, splintering uselessly.
He fell to his knees, chest heaving, the taste of iron in his mouth. Shadows swarmed.
This is it. I'm going to die. No one will know. I'll vanish into the dark.
Then—her voice. His grandmother's, clear as firelight.
"Ahayue, when the jungle tests you, do not answer with fear. Answer with your name. A name carries weight. A name is a root that no storm can rip out."
He clung to it, the words like a rope in the flood. His throat burned, but he forced the sound out.
"I—am Ahayue!"
The shadows hesitated. Their claws froze mid-swipe.
He rose, trembling, bloodied, but louder now. "I am Ahayue! Son of the jungle! Grandson of fire! My name is mine, and you cannot take it!"
The beasts shrieked, their forms unraveling. Smoke peeled from their bodies, and one by one they dissolved back into the faceless figures.
But the voice was not finished.
"Then prove it."
The white plain warped again. From the far horizon, something massive stirred. A beast greater than the rest, towering and shapeless, its body a storm of shadow and bone. Its many eyes blinked open, each one a pale flame.
Ahayue's breath caught. His broken spear was still in his hands, useless against this titan.
It roared, a sound that shattered the silence, and charged.
For a moment, terror drowned everything. He could not run, he could not hide. But then, beneath the roar, he heard his own heartbeat. Steady. Fierce. Alive.
I am Ahayue.
He lifted the shattered spear, gripping it like a knife. The beast's shadow engulfed him.
He ran toward it.
The world collapsed.
—
Ahayue gasped awake. He was back in the jungle, curled near the ashes of his fire. Sweat soaked his body, his chest heaved as if he had run for hours.
He touched his shoulder—smooth, unbroken—but the ache of phantom wounds lingered. The air pressed heavy, the trees leaned silent.
But the voices were gone.
He sat there trembling, staring into the night, his broken spear still in his grip. And slowly, through the fear, something else flickered in his chest. Not triumph—not yet. But defiance.
The jungle had tried to break him. And it had not.
His lips moved, a whisper into the dark.
"I am Ahayue."
This time, it was not a plea. It was a vow.
And the jungle listened.