Evan exhaled shakily, his hands still raised as the warriors regarded him in silence. The leader, the one with the obsidian blade, studied him for a moment longer before murmuring something to the others. A decision was made.
Before Evan could react, rough hands seized him. He yelped, barely suppressing a panicked whimper as they forced him down, the damp earth pressing against his bare skin. Abaca rope looped around his wrists, tight enough to bite into his flesh. Someone barked an order, and just like that, he was yanked to his feet and prodded forward.
He was naked.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
Evan's heart pounded, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts. He wanted to fight, to push back, to do anything but stumble forward like a trussed-up pig, but fear held him rigid. No claws, no heightened senses, no supernatural strength to fall back on. Just his frail human body and a creeping, irrational dread that these men might eat him.
The hunters were lean, their bodies honed from a life of surviving in the wilds, their eyes scanning him like he was a strange beast caught in one of their traps. Which, in a way, he was. But unlike a beast, Evan had no fight in him. All he could do was shuffle along and hope they didn't decide to kill him outright.
They muttered among themselves, their voices blending into a low hum, fragments of conversation slipping through the haze of Evan's fear.
"No markings of a tribe."
"Naked like a newborn. A bad omen."
"His skin is too light. Not like ours. Maybe his mother was one of those pale ones from the big ships?"
One of the hunters reached out, grabbing Evan's chin between calloused fingers, tilting his face up to the light. He grunted, unimpressed, before forcing Evan's mouth open, checking his teeth as if he were livestock. Another prodded his ribs, muttering something under his breath about how scrawny he was. Evan flinched but didn't resist. What would be the point? He had no strength, no leverage, no claws to bear in defense. He was at their mercy, and from the way they handled him, brusque, impersonal, he was starting to suspect they weren't entirely sure what to do with him yet.
Evan nearly tripped over a tree root, and before he could catch himself, the sharp yank of the rope sent him sprawling into the dirt. His face burned with humiliation as rough hands hauled him back to his feet without an ounce of mercy. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on the only thing that mattered: putting one foot in front of the other. He could survive this. He just had to… not die.
The journey was grueling, the sun relentless. They waded through shallow streams, cold water rushing against Evan's legs before leaving them caked in mud. They pushed through thick foliage, where vines snaked around their feet, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves. Occasionally, one of the hunters would pause, scanning their surroundings with sharp, practiced eyes before signaling the group forward.
He didn't know how to feel about being in ancient Philippines. Have the Spaniards already given it that name? Given that he could understand the language while knowing only Tagalog, he was fairly certain he was somewhere in Luzon. But what time period was this? Was this still a world untouched by colonization? The questions swirled in his mind, but he had no idea how to ask them without risking a spearbutt to the ribs.
Still, there was one small comfort, at least they weren't treating him like a complete outsider. There was wariness, yes, suspicion in the way they looked at him, but there was also recognition. Like they were trying to place him, to fit him into something they already understood. That was better than outright hostility. For now, he'd take what he could get.
At one point, the hunters paused, bodies low and silent as they readied their bows. They motioned for Evan to stay back, positioning him at the rear of the party. Confused but eager to comply, he shifted slightly, only for his foot to land on a dry branch with a sharp crack. The sound wasn't particularly loud, but it might as well have been a war drum. Their sharp-eared prey scattered in an instant, vanishing into the undergrowth.
Frustrated whispers followed, some unmistakably curses. One of the hunters shot him a glare so sharp it could have flayed him on the spot. Evan swallowed hard and shrank into himself, vowing to move as little as humanly possible.
Evan had no idea how long they walked, but by the time they neared their destination, his legs trembled from exhaustion. His stomach churned with hunger, his mouth was dry, and his pride, what little remained, was crushed beneath the weight of his situation. But he was still breathing. That was something.
In the distance, past the thick wall of trees, a waterfall cascaded down a jagged cliff, its white froth catching the sunlight like scattered pearls. The water plunged into a hidden basin below, veiled in mist, its roar a steady, rhythmic pulse that reached Evan's ears even from afar. For a fleeting moment, he let himself focus on it, on the way it carved through rock and jungle alike, timeless and unyielding. A stark contrast to his own uncertain place in this world.
The village came into view in a series of raised bamboo huts, each perched on sturdy stilts to guard against flooding and unwelcome creatures. Thatch roofs rustled in the wind, and wooden walkways connected some of the homes like a suspended labyrinth. Life bustled around him, women pounding rice in large mortars, children darting between the huts, their laughter light and careless, and elders weaving fishing nets beneath the shade of nipa palms.
Beneath the chatter and movement, he could still hear it, the distant waterfall, now reduced to a faint, rhythmic thud, like a heartbeat against the edges of silence. It was barely there, swallowed by the sounds of the village, never fully disappearing.
But the moment the hunting party entered, the air changed.
Conversations halted. Eyes turned. A few children peeked out from behind their mothers, wide-eyed with curiosity, while the adults' stares were wary, guarded.
Then, a man stepped forward.
He was taller than most, his broad shoulders carrying the weight of leadership with ease. Tattoos covered every warrior, but his were packed so close it was like he wore a second skin of ink. His face was chiseled by years of authority, his expression unreadable as his dark, piercing gaze swept over Evan, unraveling him in a way that made his stomach twist.
"Did the hunt succeed? Who is this?"
A wiry woman with sharp cheekbones stepped forward, her tone edged with resignation. "No. The boy spooked the deer." She exhaled sharply before continuing. "We found him by the river. Alone. He speaks, but his words are strange. His skin is light, like those who trade gold and silk with the great datus."
The chief studied Evan for a long, agonizing moment before speaking again. "Take him to the Babaylan."
That didn't sound promising.
Evan barely stifled a groan as he was hauled forward again, this time by two men whose grips were like iron. They led him toward a larger hut, its entrance adorned with woven talismans and bundles of dried herbs. The air inside was thick with the scent of smoke, medicinal roots, and something metallic, something like blood.
Before he could steady himself, they shoved him forward, and he stumbled, hitting the rough bamboo floor with a graceless thud. Pain jolted up his knees and palms
Seated at the center was an old woman, her hair streaked with silver, her face lined with age, yet her dark eyes were sharp, too sharp. She did not look at him. Not at first. Instead, her fingers traced the air in front of him, feeling something unseen.
Beside her, a low shape sat in the shadows, its form too still, its eyes too knowing. A thick ruff framed its narrow face, and when it exhaled, the air seemed to hum, as if it carried whispers meant for the babaylan alone.
Then, finally, she spoke.
"He does not belong here."
Her voice was low, layered with something ancient. Evan stiffened. Was she guessing? Or could she actually sense something about him? He had no power. No wolf lurking beneath his skin. But the way she looked at him made him feel exposed, like she was peeling him apart, layer by layer.
"But neither is he an ordinary man."
A ripple of unease passed through the room. The warriors shifted, eyes flicking between the babaylan and the datu, waiting for a verdict.
At last, she turned to the leader. "The spirits have not decided his fate." Her gaze was steady, unreadable. "For now, he is yours to command."
Evan barely breathed as the weight of her words settled in the room.
The Datu's face remained impassive, but Evan didn't need an explanation. He already knew what that meant.
If this was truly the ancient Philippines, then he understood one thing: these islands were rich. The land was fertile, the rivers teemed with fish, and the forests overflowed with food. True famine was rare, only happening when nature was especially cruel or when leadership failed catastrophically. Hunger wasn't the problem here.
But there was one resource always in high demand.
Labor.
These societies thrived on manpower, on warriors to defend, farmers to plant, hunters to provide, builders to shape their world. And when there weren't enough hands to do the work? They took them. Slavery wasn't just a consequence of war or misfortune; it was an economy, a necessity, a measure of wealth and power. A datu's influence wasn't just counted in land or goods but in how many people owed him their labor, willingly or otherwise.
And right now, Evan had the sinking feeling he was about to become part of that system.
He could survive this. He had to.
From what little he remembered from high school history, he knew that slave escapes weren't unheard of. Some fled into the mountains, vanishing into the thick jungle. Others were ransomed back by their families, if they were lucky.
Evan swallowed hard. He just had to keep his head down. Obey. Stay useful. And pray that, eventually, an opportunity would come.
But even if it did, where the hell would he go?
The datu's voice cut through the murmurs in the hut, steady and commanding. "Come closer, boy. What's your name?"
Evan barely registered the words. His mind was still spinning, the disorienting journey, the familiar yet ancient world he had woken up in, the imposing presence of the datu and the babaylan. His body moved on instinct, too numb with shock to think. Seated on the hut's floor, he shifted without realizing it, on his hands and knees, he crawled forward.
A brief second passed as everyone processed what they were seeing.
Then the guards laughed.
Their booming voices filling the space. Even the datu's stern expression wavered, his brows lifting in surprise. The babaylan, normally unreadable, blinked as if momentarily thrown off by the absurdity of the sight.
Amid the laughter, a familiar voice rang out. It was the tall hunter, the one who had spoken to him first back at the tree, the one with the obsidian blade. He clutched his stomach as he doubled over with amusement. "Maybe a dog," he said between laughs. "Maybe that should be his name."
"Aso," he added, grinning as the others chuckled along.
Evan's face burned with humiliation, but before he could process it, the datu spoke again, his voice still firm despite the amusement lingering in his eyes. "What's your name, boy?"
Evan swallowed hard, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He hesitated, then stammered, "E-Evan, sir."
The datu tried to repeat it, his tongue rolling over the unfamiliar syllables. "Evan… What a strange name." He considered for a moment before nodding to himself. "Until your family ransoms you, you will be known as 'Aso.'"
Evan barely registered the laughter ringing through the hut. Aso. Dog. It was meant to humiliate him, to strip him of dignity, but more than that, it was a cruel reminder of everything he had lost. He had once been something more than human, something powerful, something untamed. How ironic that fate had granted him those gifts in a world where he hadn't truly needed them, only to take them away when they would have mattered most.
For a former werewolf, no name could have rubbed more salt into the open wound of his loss.