The Death March was not a prison defined by stone and iron; it was a boundless, lawless expanse of toxic, untamed jungle—a crucible known only as The Cradle of Murder. Its borders were not walls, but towering, venomous trees, and its single law was simple, brutal, and understood by all: Prove your strength, or perish. Twelve-year-old Kevin was hurled into this unforgiving reality. In the eyes of the hardened convicts, he was a negligible piece of meat, a ghost of a child.
For the first week, he did not seek shelter, food, or company. He sat, utterly silent and still, the jungle floor his seat. His mind, honed by seven years of solitary, hate-fueled survival, observed everything. His stillness was not fear; it was deep analysis. He watched the subtle movements of the predatory insects, the nervous habits of the guards patrolling the periphery, and the hierarchy of violence among the inmates. He knew the cost of a single misstep, the price of a moment of visible weakness. His father's lesson, "Live for the silence," was now his only religion.
It was during the apex of the afternoon heat—a time when even the convicts sought shade and stillness—that the silence was broken. Behind him, the low growl that preceded the attack. He was not a hidden observer anymore; he was the hunted.
A colossal, yellow-eyed Lion, a predator grown unnaturally large on the flesh of men, scented the isolated boy. The beast was slow-moving, confident in its power, seeing Kevin as an effortless meal.
But Kevin had learned speed in the terror of his mother's death and strategy in the solitude of the forest. He did not scream. He moved with a terrifying velocity, a burst of motion that seemed to defy his small frame, dodging the lion's initial pounce by a mere thread of air.
The lion's frustrated roar was deafening. Kevin answered with his father's cunning. He scrambled up the nearest sturdy tree, his movement fluid and noiseless. From his vantage point, he began to execute his primary defense: guerilla tactics. He snapped off thick, solid branches and sharp, woody fruits, launching them with precise, painful strikes at the lion's eyes and snout. Kevin knew the jungle's first rule: do not meet force with force; meet force with cunning.
The lion grew wild, tearing at the trunk. Kevin, realizing his improvised weapons were merely irritating the beast, took an audacious gamble. He waited for the animal's next lunge against the trunk, and in that split-second of vertical imbalance, he leaped down and scrambled onto the lion's broad back.
The beast's panic was immediate and colossal. It bucked and rolled violently, trying to turn its head to bite the clinging annoyance. Kevin clung to the matted fur, driving the sharp wooden shard he carried—a crude substitute for his father's Estoc—into the animal's neck and behind its ears. He poured every ounce of his small body weight and seven years of focused hate into the attack.
It was a brilliant display of calculated ferocity, a perfect execution of the Unseen Edge, but the animal's raw, magnificent strength was overwhelming. With a final, sickening surge, the lion threw Kevin clear. He hit a massive, jagged rock formation.
A sound of brittle ceramic filled the air as the bone in his right leg shattered and twisted. The pain was immediate, white-hot, and absolute. Yet, Kevin, driven by a discipline born of trauma, did not scream. He clamped his jaw shut, tasting the metallic tang of his own blood where he had bitten his tongue. He fought the blackness creeping into his vision.
The lion, though heavily wounded and slowed, turned its massive head toward the downed, broken boy. Its victory was assured. Kevin, ignoring the screaming agony in his leg, dragged himself forward, clutching the shard of wood. His speed was gone; his life was measured in seconds.
Just as the lion lowered its head to crush Kevin's neck, a black shadow streaked through the air. It was a heavy, razor-sharp spear—not flung by human arm, but launched with the force of a siege weapon. The spear found its mark with sickening precision, penetrating the lion's chest, right through the heart. The beast crumpled instantly, its last breath a wet, gurgling sigh.
Kevin looked up, his face slick with sweat and blood, his eyes locked on the figure that emerged from the deep shadows.
A tall, broad-shouldered young man, perhaps seventeen years old, stood over the kill. His face was a roadmap of old scars, and his eyes burned with a restless, chaotic fire. He was dressed in scavenged, torn clothes, and his hands were thick and calloused—a terrifying vision of pure, uncontrolled energy.
He looked at the dead lion, then down at the twelve-year-old boy. The corner of his mouth curled into an unnerving, almost amused smile.
"Your courage is commendable, kid," he said, his voice deep, resonating with untamed power. "But your strategy lacked power. The silence you seek only comes after you die."
This was Even.
Even didn't wait for a response. He bent down and, with effortless ease, scooped up Kevin. His hands were rough, and his grip on Kevin's shattered leg was firm, though he seemed oblivious to the pain he caused.
"The name is Even," the 17-year-old stated, moving with practiced stealth deeper into the thicket. "You're twelve. And here, I'm the rule. You survived the lion because you're smart, but you're too weak to survive the other things out here. If you show weakness, if you stop hunting for a single day, they'll carve you up. And I'll be the first one to rip out that silent, weak soul of yours."
He carried Kevin to a small, hidden cave-like lair he had established—a small island of order in the chaos. He dropped Kevin roughly onto the cleared dirt floor, his intense gaze boring into the boy.
"You have a great will to live, Kevin. That fire is useful. I'm going to turn it into a weapon. But for now," Even stated, his voice suddenly dropping to a deadly serious whisper, "you are just a broken piece of meat. And in this Death March, broken meat doesn't last long