The air thickened as I left the hole at the base of the tree. The rough bark scraped my shoulder slightly as I climbed the last stretch, and for an instant, the darkness of the shelter behind me seemed to whisper for me to return. No… I've slept enough. The hole will still be there, waiting for me, when night returns. The mist remained low, tinged with a pale violet that the sun barely managed to filter. The world held an expectant silence, as if every creature held its breath.
I stretched my back and noticed the slight creak of each plate of my scale. My tail arched on its own, seeking balance as my body awakened. The tingle of the collar ran up my neck again, reminding me of its constant presence. Someday I'll understand what it's for… but not today. My breath formed warm clouds in the air. The ground still held the night's cold.
I decided to head west, where the reddish forest blurred into a slope dotted with gray rocks. The terrain seemed less dense, more suitable for prolonged exploration. I crouched for a moment and sank my fingers into the damp earth; the aroma was a mix of iron and sap. Something in me enjoyed this contact, as if my body needed to confirm it was still connected to this planet.
I moved forward. Each step drove my claws a couple of centimeters into the ground, leaving tracks that would soon be erased by fallen metallic leaves. My ears moved on their own, orienting towards the distant song of insects with translucent wings. The sun—that white, opaline disk—peeked over the gray mountains, tinting the shadows blue. I don't know if I should call it sun, but it's more comfortable than inventing a new name. After all, it's still a sphere of light that gives me warmth.
Crossing a clearing, I stopped to observe the vegetation. There were shrubs with twisted branches and leaves with serrated edges, exuding a silver resin that smelled of copper. I decided not to touch them; in this world, everything that shines too brightly can kill you faster than a predator (Or so I think). Further ahead, a group of blue fungi vibrated with the wind, producing a barely audible murmur. Fungi that sing? Well, here that seems normal.
I continued on my way.
The natural path led me to a rock formation that opened into a crevice. From inside emanated a current of cool, damp air, with a hint of ancient moss. I stopped, scanning with sight and hearing. From within came a slow rhythm: a deep, heavy, measured breath. My tail tensed immediately. It wasn't the echo of the wind; it was a living being, large, asleep or resting.
I approached cautiously, lowering my posture to reduce my silhouette. My claws slid silently over the stone. The scent became more intense: wet fur, earth, and a trace of old, dried blood. When my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I made out the shape. At the back of the cave, a massive, hunched body breathed with a deep snore. It was easily twice the size of a grizzly bear; its shoulders were broad, and its back was covered in fur between gray and ochre. The head was wolf-like, with an elongated snout and triangular ears, but the torso and legs resembled those of a bear, armed with claws the size of short daggers.
My heart pounded in my chest. It could kill me with one swipe if it wanted to (Well, that's just a possibility). However, it showed no sign of aggression. One of its eyes slowly opened halfway; a golden iris stared at me fixedly, without hatred or fear, only with curiosity. We held the gaze for several seconds. I lowered my head slightly, indicating I wasn't looking for a fight. Or at least I hope it understands that. The wolf-bear yawned, showing very white fangs, and let out a low growl that, strange as it seemed, didn't sound threatening. It turned its snout as if marking an invisible boundary: "You know I'm here. Don't cross that point."
—I understand —I murmured, although I knew it wouldn't understand me. Sometimes words are superfluous; the body speaks more clearly.
I retreated with slow deliberation, keeping my tail arched and my gaze fixed on its. When I was several meters away, the wolf-bear simply resettled and closed its eyes again. The air it exhaled was warm and smelled of aged meat. I let out a sigh. Not everything here kills on first encounter. Some beings just watch, evaluate, let you live if you don't give them a reason. A silent respect was established between us.
I continued on my way, circling the cave. The slope descended gently towards a more open valley. The ground changed from damp clay to a gray gravel that crunched under my claws. A cool breeze blew from the south, bringing with it scents of water and rotting vegetation.
Smells like a lake.
I quickened my pace.
After almost an hour of progress, the forest opened to reveal an immense, crystalline mirror of water that reflected the violet sky with hypnotic clarity. The lake seemed endless, surrounded by gentle hills covered in bluish grass. The air was fresher here, charged with humidity. My throat went dry instantly.
On the shore, dozens—perhaps hundreds—of strange birds moved in flocks. They were the size of geese, but with six wings folded in symmetrical pairs on their backs. Their feathers shimmered between blue and silver, their beaks ended in a pointed shovel shape, and they possessed four yellow eyes that rotated independently. Their movements were rhythmic, almost choreographed, as they pecked the mud in search of long, purple and pink worms that writhed when extracted.
I approached cautiously, hiding among the tall reeds. The birds emitted soft clicks, as if communicating with each other. Whenever one found a worm, it shook it in the air before swallowing it whole. Some spread their six wings to scare off others, raising small gusts of dust and mud. The reflection of the sun on their feathers created flashes that looked like sparks.
I crouched and sank my claw into the mud. A pink worm contorted, trying to bury itself again. Its skin was gelatinous but firm, and when I split it, it gave off a sweet, almost fruity smell. Curious… maybe they're edible. I'll try it later, but for now I won't risk it. My tail moved slowly from side to side, keeping my balance as I watched.
The lake, besides being beautiful, promised to be a vital source of resources: fresh water, protein in the form of worms or even birds, if I needed them. But it was also dangerous. Where there's so much life, there are predators. The sudden silence of the birds confirmed it for me. They all raised their heads in unison, their four eyes turning towards the aquatic horizon. A movement on the surface: concentric ripples, something large moving under the water.
I held my breath, digging my claws into the sand. A dark silhouette crossed the shallow area, large enough to make the birds retreat. They fluttered, raising a cloud of droplets and mud, before settling further away. Whatever it is, the lake isn't just water and worms. I made a mental note of it.
I approached the shore just enough to see my reflection: the reptilian face, the white mask with horns, the black eyes with vertical irises. For a moment, I felt a deep disconnection between the "human me" and the creature staring back. Who am I here? The one born on Earth or this predator? I ran a claw through the water, creating ripples that distorted the reflection. The answer, if it existed, would have to wait.
The rest of the day I spent circling the lake, mentally memorizing escape routes, climbable trees, and potential caves. The fresh breeze kept the scents sharp: mud, a touch of salt, aquatic vegetation. On several occasions, the birds approached within twenty meters, curious but without showing excessive fear. The whisper of their six wings unfolding sounded like silk tearing.
When the sun began to decline, shadows lengthened over the water. The song of insects resonated among the reeds, marking the beginning of dusk. I decided it was time to return to the tree hole. The journey back was calm, although I didn't lower my guard; every crackle among the leaves reminded me that the wolf-bear was still nearby. I passed by its cave with measured steps. Its golden eyes watched me for an instant before closing again. Yes, we're still in a truce. I hope it lasts.
The base of the tree greeted me with its dark, cool mouth. I descended into the hole and placed the clay water containers to one side. My body appreciated the dimness. I stretched my tail and settled in, listening to the distant echo of the lake and the calls of the six-winged birds. My mind reviewed every detail of the day: the tacit respect of the wolf-bear, the promise of resources from the lake, the reminder that everything here breathes, watches, and responds.
The tingle of the collar intensified slightly, as if approving or mocking my determination. I closed my eyes, breathing in the earthy scent of the shelter. Sleep would come soon, but not full confidence. This planet doesn't sleep; it only changes its face.
****
The darkness of the hole embraced me with its earthy dampness. The wood creaked above my head whenever the wind shook the treetop. Outside, the lake and the reeds were nothing but shadows. Inside, only my breathing and the slow beat of my heart could be heard. I settled against the wall, with my tail curled near my legs. The silence was thick, almost palpable.
Don't sleep deeply… not yet. This planet doesn't give away peace. I let my eyes close halfway, but my ears remained alert, turning in the darkness. The collar tingled on my neck; I didn't know if it was a warning or just another game.
The night air was cold, impregnated with dampness and sap. In the mist, metallic crickets intoned spaced-out chirps. Occasionally, a distant snap broke the rhythm. My reptilian body appreciated the drop in temperature; the heat of the day had vanished and my scales retained enough warmth not to shiver.
An indeterminate time passed. Minutes, maybe an hour. I floated in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness. Until… something.
A rustle, barely perceptible, to the left of the hole. Another, closer. My ears caught the friction of leaves. The smell also changed: a sour tint, fresh iron mixed with mud. I opened my eyes fully; my vertical irises dilated and the darkness vanished instantly. The cavern became sharp, and the outer night revealed itself as a tapestry of blacks and grays. I can see… as if there were a full moon. Part of this reptilian body.
Yep. No doubt.
My heart beat strongly. I dug my claws into the sandy ground, ready.
The foliage in front of the hole stirred slightly. Instinct: something is watching me. A faint breath, like contained vapor. My tail tensed, undulating silently. It's not the wolf-bear… its scent was musky, heavy. This smells of copper and burnt resin.
I took a step outside. The tree trunk cast long shadows. My eyes scrutinized every crack. The nearest shrub, three meters away, had reddish leaves that trembled though no wind blew. A flash of scale hid under the branches. A triple blink. I saw the moist gleam of an extra eye on its forehead. There you are.
A muffled snort preceded the leap. The creature emerged from the shrub in a low arc, straight for my chest. It was an enormous lizard, the size of a pit bull, with reddish scales that mimicked the color of the leaves—the same leaves of the shrubs where it was hiding. Three glowing eyes, a triangular snout full of serrated teeth, and thick legs ending in curved claws.
My body reacted before my mind. I lunged to the side; the beast grazed past me, its claws scratching the tree bark and tiny sparks flying when its fangs clashed against rock. I spun on my tail, emitting a deep roar. The collar vibrated strangely, like an extra beat of a heart I didn't have. It's fast, but not stronger than me. It's bone and flesh… I am stone and blood. The lizard planted itself, snorting, with saliva dripping from teeth that looked like blades. Its three eyes measured me with hostile coldness. The central one blinked independently. It advanced a step, then another, crouched. I leaned forward, claws ready. When it charged again, I faced it head-on. The impact resonated against the trunk. My scales withstood the strike of its fangs; there was a dry, ineffective snap, like a tooth biting metal. The lizard growled, confused, and tried to bite again. You don't get through, little friend. My scales are too hard for you.
I sank my claw into its side. I felt the resistance of the hide, then the flesh giving way. A sharp shriek cut the air. I twisted my wrist and tore. Dark blood splattered the ground. The lizard kicked, scratching my arms, but its claws only left superficial marks on the scales. I struck its neck with my tail, shattering its balance. It fell sideways, convulsing.
I pounced on it, seized its jaw, and with a sharp pull smashed its skull against an exposed tree root. Its breath cut off instantly. Silence returned, broken only by my panting. The metallic scent of blood spread, mixing with the night's humidity.
I watched it for a moment. Its body trembled and then lay still. Serrated teeth, three dull eyes. This one was no match for me, but the others might be.
The forest confirmed it immediately: heavy footsteps. Three shadows emerged from the distant bushes. They were larger, with reddish scales that reflected the glint of my eyes. Three pairs of triple irises sparkled in the gloom. Their snorts were deep, synchronized, and profoundly threatening. I'm sure if I were human, I'd be pissing myself. They're scary.
They might be a family or just coordinated hunters. The important thing is they're here for me and have marked me as food. I flexed my legs, arched my tail, and controlled my breathing. Every muscle in my body tensed, prepared for combat.
The first charged, zigzagging. The second opened to my right and the third began to circle me. Attempt at encirclement. Good. I roared, and the sound filled the clearing. I leaped to meet the central one. My claw sank into its shoulder before it could close its jaws. A sharp shriek. I used the momentum of the movement, spun it, and smashed it against the ground. The crack of its bone was sharp under my weight.
The one on the right lunged instantly, mouth open; its fangs clicked uselessly against my forearm without leaving a mark. I grabbed it by the throat, feeling the veins pulse under its scales. A sharp pull downwards, and my free claw sank between its ribs. A choked roar and it lay still on the ground, bleeding out and gravely wounded. It'll die in a while.
The third tried to retreat, but I was already upon it. My tail became a whip that impacted against its snout. Dark blood sprayed from its wound. The lizard hesitated, but its courage didn't abandon it. It turned and leaped, its claws aiming for my neck. I dodged, sinking both hands into its back. Its scales opened like damp bark. A warm stream of blood covered my forearms. Its roar broke into a whimper and its body collapsed.
The clearing fell silent. Four bodies lay on the ground, as red as the blood they shed. The cold night air now smelled of iron. The collar vibrated with a faint hum, almost seeming pleased. My breathing slowed. My heart beat with a firm, steady rhythm.
Blood saturated the air, thick, sweet in its rawness. Hunger crept from my stomach. I crouched beside the first that fell. I opened its belly carefully, pushing aside viscera I didn't recognize. The meat, dark red and fibrous, was still warm. I brought it to my mouth. A metallic, earthy, almost sweet taste. My instinct growled, satisfied. Edible. My body accepts it without issue. Another creature added to the list. I tore good-sized chunks and chewed them calmly, without hurry.
I ate as much as I could from the first and second lizards. I opened the third and separated it into pieces, piling them on a flat rock. The fourth, the largest, I left almost whole; its meat would stay fresh tomorrow if the night cold held. I dragged the remains to the shadow of the tree and covered them with leaves and mud to somewhat mask the smell. The wind would still carry the scent, but predators would take longer to find them.
Silence returned, except for the slow drip of blood onto the earth. The non-existent moon barely lit the clearing. My hands, stained crimson, looked dark in the gloom. The lake water was far away; I'd have to wait to clean myself. A little blood smell attracts scavengers. Too much blood smell announces danger and drives them away. I returned to the hole. I dragged two medium pieces with me and left them in a cool corner of earth. The smell filled the shelter, but my hunger appreciated it. My tail moved calmly, marking a slow rhythm. My breathing calmed and my body regained its warmth.
Outside, the insects resumed their song, as if the fight were just another part of the normal cycle. The night breeze blew, carrying the fragrance of leaves and blood towards the black sky. My eyes still saw the clearing, the inert bodies, the extinguished life. I survived another night. For now, that's enough. I settled against the earthen wall, eyelids heavy. The collar ceased its tingle. My heart returned to its slow pace. Sleep lurked, sweet and dangerous, but my hearing remained alert. This planet doesn't forgive those who let their guard down.
Let the dawn come… it will bring more prey, more paths, more blood. For now, I keep silence. But this area is mine. The night, too.
*****
Dawn began to tint the sky with violet and orange tones, and the mist covering the valley slowly retreated, revealing the outlines of the reddish shrubs and the trees with metallic leaves. I woke in the hole under the tree roots, the same shelter that had welcomed me the previous night. A shiver ran down my spine—my scales bristled under the cool breeze—a damp cold that penetrated even the hard black armor of my body. Every fiber of my being remained on maximum alert; the experiences of previous nights had taught me that calm here was a mirage, and survival, a constant game of perception and reaction.
I rose with deliberate movements, testing the ground with my claws while stretching my tail behind me. Every gesture was calculated, measured, but also fluid, as if my muscles remembered ancestral instincts that my human mind was still learning to decipher. I adjusted the collar that vibrated lightly at my nape, sending a familiar tingle running down my spine to the base of the horns on my bone mask. The sensation was both uncomfortable and familiar, a constant reminder that this world always watched, even where my senses couldn't reach.
The first thing was to check the meat from the blood lizards hunted during the night. I dragged several pieces onto flat rocks, letting the incipient sun and wind begin their drying work. While handling the meat, I allowed myself a moment of physical introspection. My gaze drifted to my lower area: a penis about 22 cm long and 16 in girth, with thick, bulging veins and a glans of an intense, imposing red. Pragmatic need overcame any vestige of human modesty; with the skin of one of the lizards, I fashioned a rustic loincloth. I made sure it was firm but not restrictive, allowing complete mobility. Going around naked had been reckless; in a world of predators, protection, however minimal, was crucial.
With the loincloth adjusted and the meat curing, I decided it was time to look for a more permanent shelter. The hole under the tree had been a good refuge, but I needed a place that offered better defense against the elements and nocturnal creatures. I entered the reddish forest, moving with a caution that was already becoming second nature. My claws felt the vibrations of the ground, my nostrils analyzed every scent—damp earth, sour sap, metal—and my ears caught every crackle, every whisper. Every detail was recorded and stored in a mental survival map.
The mist lifted like a curtain, revealing the landscape bathed in beams of violet and golden light filtering through the leaves. I examined rock formations and small cliffs, looking for a high point to watch from, but none offered the protection I longed for. Until, rounding a bend in the terrain, I saw it: a cave. Its mouth was wide and dark, framed between gray rocks, tall enough to enter upright and promising depth inside. The air coming out smelled of dry earth and rock warmed by the morning sun. There were no fresh tracks of large predators; the ground was clean and the walls, free of recent marks. Most importantly: it offered a solid roof and protection on all sides. It could be the shelter.
I approached with a hunter's caution, sniffing the air, scrutinizing every crack at the entrance. My claws lightly marked the ground with each calculated step. Finally, I crossed the threshold. Inside, the cave opened into a spacious chamber, with firm ground and some flat stones that seemed ideal for storing provisions. The dimness was cool, promising.
Inside, I settled in a protected corner, mentally analyzing the distribution of space, possible escape routes, every shadow and every nook. Once secure, I dragged the pieces of meat that were drying outside and arranged them on the flat rocks inside, where they would be safe from opportunistic scavengers but would receive light and air.
With the shelter claimed, I set about marking the territory. With my claws, I carved deep incisions into the bark of surrounding trees; with lizard blood, I traced marks on rocks and ground. Each signal was a clear message, an invisible boundary for any creature venturing near. It wasn't an act of arrogance, but pure strategy: let them know this territory had an owner. As I did it, I felt a deeper fusion between my tactical human mind and the instincts of this reptilian body.
With the territory partially demarcated, I ventured further in search of resources. To my surprise, a new instinct guided my decisions: I could immediately discern edible from poisonous. I collected aromatic herbs—some with preservative properties, others for flavoring—, hard-skinned fruits, and tuberous roots. How do I know this? I wondered, without finding a rational answer. Each find was a treasure; in this world, knowledge was as vital as strength.
On returning to the cave, I meticulously organized my provisions: the meat on the stones, the herbs in a dry corner. I lit a controlled fire with dry branches and bark, watching how the flames licked the meat and stones, and how the smoke rose to mix with the morning mist, creating a natural curtain that helped hide my presence and disperse smells.
The cave allowed for organization. I moved some stones to create elevated drying platforms, making sure the meat didn't touch the ground's moisture. My tail, thick and strong, helped me maintain balance while I worked my claws with precision. I inspected the outer perimeter, studying every tree, every shrub, every shadow. I found tracks of unknown creatures—some with long toes and sharp claws—that betrayed a diverse and dangerous ecosystem. Everything was noted in my mental map of threats and resources.
Afternoon began to fall. I conducted a new inspection of my body. Under the dim light, my black scales reflected metallic flashes, my tail arched with latent power, and every muscle was tense, ready. My gaze passed over my lower area again, not with morbid curiosity, but with the cold recognition of a soldier knowing his arsenal (although it's not like I was a soldier on Earth, as far as I remember). I adjusted the leather loincloth once more, confirming its security and freedom of movement.
I explored the immediate surroundings of the cave in greater detail. I found secondary caves, holes between the rocks, and natural passages that could serve as hiding spots or quick escape routes. Each option was evaluated and cataloged. Even the wind direction and the play of shadows became valuable data.
With everything organized, I prepared a resting area. I placed stones around the fire to smoke the meat, arranged a bed of dry herbs to insulate myself from the cold ground, and kept the fire low but constant. The smoke remained my ally, a curtain that clouded and confused.
Night descended on the valley. My adapted eyes captured every movement, every tiny flash. Nocturnal sounds intensified: the creaking of branches, the hum of insects, the stealthy movement of small creatures, and in the distance, the deep roar of possible larger predators. I lay down inside the cave, not in the old tree hole, with my tail tense and claws ready. I slept on alert, with light dreams and instant awakenings. Each breath and each beat of my heart was an act of conscious and constant vigilance.
When dawn again painted the sky with its violet and golden watercolors, I slowly rose. A deep breath. I readjusted the loincloth, inspected my body once more, and prepared the cave area for the new day. The meat was half-cured, the herbs in place, the fire extinguished so as not to give me away. Everything was in order. Everything was ready.
Leaving the cave, I contemplated the valley bathed in new light. Every shrub, every tree, every rock seemed to contain something good and something bad for me within them. My mind was clear, my senses sharp, and my body a weapon prepared for combat and hunting. This was my territory now. My refuge.
—Today —I whispered to myself, adjusting the collar which vibrated slightly in response— I will learn more. I will survive better. And I will let everything here know that I am ready.
With one last glance at the relative safety of the cave, I advanced into the forest. Each step was measured, each sense a radar, and every fiber of my being a coiled spring ready to rebound. Survival wasn't just brute force; it was knowledge, strategy, and a deeply rooted respect for this strange and merciless world. And I was determined to master every facet of it.
*****
Under the perpetual sky of violet and gold tones, a week had passed since the cave shelter became the center of my existence on this alien world. Seven cycles of sun and mist, seven nights of alertness and hunting, seven days of accelerated learning and forced adaptation. My body, this reptilian form that still felt both foreign and natural, had internalized the rhythms of the valley. Muscles moved with an economy of effort my human mind would never have conceived; my senses, sharpened to the impossible, wove a constant web of information around me. The smell of distant rain in the mist, the crack of a branch a hundred meters away, the flight pattern of six-winged birds betraying the presence of a nearby predator… everything had become a language I read without conscious effort (I've gotten used to this world).
My diet had diversified considerably. The crimson three-eyed lizards remained a reliable source of protein, but now joined by creatures I had learned to hunt and prepare. Mammals with silver fur and eyes black as wells, moving in family groups among the reddish shrubs; ground birds with scaly legs and curved beaks nesting in rock formations; even a species of "giant" amphibian (it's bigger than the biggest toad I saw on planet Earth, so giant fits well) that hunted in the lake's shallow waters at night. Each animal offered different flavors and textures, and my reptilian palate, though less sensitive than the human one, distinguished between them with growing appreciation.
Fire had been my greatest conquest (I felt like a Neanderthal). I kept it burning constantly at the cave entrance, protected by a semicircle of stones preventing sparks from jumping into the surrounding dry vegetation. I had learned to control the flames, to fan them with specific barks that burned with intense heat, to smother them with sand to smoke meat and preserve it. Smoke had become my constant companion, impregnating my skin and scales with its acrid scent, a smell I now associated with safety and home.
My hands, those black claws capable of tearing rock, had shown surprising dexterity for delicate work. With patience and several failed attempts, I had managed to create clay containers. I found a vein of grayish, dense clay near the lake, and after kneading it with water and fine sand, molded it into crude but functional shapes. The fire had hardened them, transforming them into surprisingly resistant cups and bowls. They weren't beautiful to human eyes, with their irregular shapes and surface marked by my fingers and claws, but they served their function perfectly. I used them to mash roots and herbs, to mix ingredients, to store water. That simple advance—the ability to prepare and combine foods—had transformed my daily existence.
And among those advances, three herbs in particular had become cornerstones of my new diet, each with its unique properties, each named by me according to its appearance and character.
Angel Herb was the first I named. I found it growing in isolated patches in clearings where sunlight hit the ground directly. Its leaves were extraordinary: large, feathery, snowy white edged with gold, indeed resembling the wings of a celestial being. Its beauty, however, hid a fierce character. When crushed in one of my clay bowls, they released a thick, aromatic liquid smelling of damp earth and heat. A single drop on the tongue provoked an explosion of fire comparable to the most intense habanero I remembered from my past life. But it was a complex fire, with nuances that incredibly enhanced the taste of smoked meat. I learned to use it with extreme moderation, mixing a minuscule amount of its juice with melted fat to create a spicy sauce that transformed the simplest meal into an exquisite feast.
Butterfly Tongue was its perfect counterpoint. These herbs grew on vines climbing the trunks of metallic-leaved trees, their coiled, vibrant pink flowers irresistibly attractive to native insects, which buzzed around them in golden clouds. The flower itself, with its shape precisely resembling a butterfly's spiral tongue, was incredibly sweet. Not the cloying sweetness of refined sugar, but a fresh, almost fruity one, with a touch of honey and something exotic I couldn't identify. I picked it carefully and chewed it raw as a dessert, or dried it near the fire to later grind and sprinkle over meat, creating a delicious caramelized glaze when roasted.
The most intriguing was Red Horn Herb. I initially found it confused among fungi, growing at the base of dead trees in the shadiest areas of the forest. Its appearance was deceptive: a thick, whitish stem topped by a round, firm head from which emerged two long, straight, intense red protuberances, like the horns of a small vegetable demon. However, upon touching it, its texture was clearly that of a fleshy leaf, not the sponginess of a fungus. My strange innate sense for flora confirmed its nature: it was an herb, albeit in a tremendously peculiar form. Tasting it, I discovered a complex sweet-and-sour flavor, earthy and slightly acidic, vaguely reminiscent of elderberries or perhaps a very mild balsamic vinegar. Cooked, its flavor softened and its texture became honey-like, perfect for stews. Raw, it added an acidic touch to mixtures.
With these herbs, my well-stocked larder of meat (I had hunted several of the slender, crystal-crested deer that grazed in the clearings, and a good supply of crimson lizards) and my mastery of fire, my mind began to wander towards the next level: culinary variety. It wasn't that I tired of the honest taste of roasted meat—far from it—but the spark of my former humanity craved complexity, techniques, the alchemy of transforming raw ingredients into something more than the sum of their parts. I dreamed of stews that would perfume the cave for hours, of rich broths, of cooking methods that would tenderize tougher cuts and extract deep flavors. For that, I needed tools. Real tools. My claws and clay bowls had their limits.
It was this need, combined with a deeper curiosity and a sharp pang of loneliness, that drove me to venture beyond the boundaries of the territory I had claimed and meticulously mapped. The question persisted: was I completely alone? This world had a complex ecology, signs of intelligence in the design of some creatures, in the sometimes too regular patterns of the landscape. If wolf-bears existed, creatures of recognizable intelligence and a form of non-verbal communication, could there be others? Beings who might have developed language, technology, culture? The possibility of finding a tribe, a community, someone to exchange more than warning glances or tacit respect with, became a silent obsession growing with every sunset I contemplated from my cave entrance.
I decided to undertake a prolonged exploration towards the east, a direction I had barely tracked. Equipped with a lizard-skin satchel containing provisions for several days—strips of dried meat, a bowl of water, a handful of Butterfly Tongue for energy—and with my senses on maximum alert, I set out before dawn. The mist was thicker in that direction, enveloping distant mountains I barely glimpsed as gray shadows against the lighter sky.
I walked for hours. The landscape gradually changed. The reddish forests gave way to plains of tall, bluish grass whispering in the wind. I crossed streams of turquoise water gleaming with internal flashes, as if containing suspended particles of crystal. I saw herds of animals I hadn't seen before: creatures with six legs and long necks browsing the tops of trees resembling giant ferns, and flocks of what looked like flying rays gliding between mountain peaks.
But there were no signs of campfires, cleared paths, built structures, or any other indication of intelligent presence. Only nature, vast, indifferent, and magnificently wild. A pang of disappointment began to grow in my chest, mixed with the unsettling possibility that I was, indeed, the only being conscious of my own existence in this entire world.
It was then that the wind shifted.
It brought a smell that didn't fit. It wasn't earth, nor vegetation, nor animal. It was… metal. Rusty. Old plastic. And something else, a faint scent of oil and static electricity, almost completely erased by time. My heart, that organ still beating with a familiar rhythm inside my reptilian chest, accelerated. I followed the trail, my renewed hope colliding with a premonition of danger.
The smell led me to a rocky canyon, hidden between two hills. And there, half-hidden by vines of intense purple and accumulations of wind-blown sand, it was.
It wasn't a city, nor a spaceport. It was a camp. Small, compact, and clearly abandoned a long, long time ago.
The main structure was a low, rectangular building, constructed of panels of a gray metallic alloy now stained with rust and grime. Around it, several tents made of an incredibly resistant white material—still intact though dusty—were lined up in an orderly formation. My gaze fixed on the vehicles. Three of them, parked near what seemed the main entrance. They weren't like any off-road vehicle I'd seen on Earth. They had an angular design, with six-wheel drive, heavy armor, and armored windows. They resembled, in an unsettling and familiar way, the Warthog vehicles from the Halo series, but these were more compact, more utilitarian, lacking the heavy machine gun turret. They were transports, not combat vehicles. Still, their mere presence spoke of advanced technology.
A deep silence, more absolute than that of the valley, enveloped the place. There was no insect song, no grass whispers. Only the wind softly whistling through gaps in the vehicles and structures. My initial excitement, that burst of euphoria at finding something man-made, instantly cooled, replaced by a cold despair. The stillness was sepulchral. Obviously, there was a reason the humans had left. Mission failure? Evacuation? Something… had eliminated them?
I walked cautiously, my claws echoing on the gravel ground. I passed by the greenhouse, a structure of now opaque and dirty glass. Inside, I could make out the silhouette of plants that had grown wildly and uncontrollably, strangling each other in their struggle for light. There were clumps of white, brown, dark green, and purple leaves, a chaos of color that had usurped any attempt at orderly agriculture. The sight was the final confirmation: no one remained. No one had tended this in decades, perhaps centuries.
Any residual hope of finding company, of hearing a human voice, vanished, leaving a cold, heavy void in its place. I was alone. More alone than ever, because now I had tangible proof that others like me had been here and had left, or had been erased.
But survival instinct, that drive that had kept me alive so far, quickly overcame self-pity. They were gone. But what they left behind… could be my salvation.
I headed for the main building, the rectangular structure that seemed to be a warehouse or a small headquarters. The door, solid metal, was sealed. Not with a normal lock (one from my era, that is), but with an electronic keypad mechanism, now dark and dead, and a physical locking bar that, though rusty, seemed solid. My disappointment was brief. I raised a claw, assessed the weakest point near the electronic lock, and with a concentrated movement and all the strength of my reptilian arm, sank the tips into the gap between the door and the frame. The metal gave way with an agonizing screech. I forced the claw down, twisting, and with a metallic crack that echoed in the silent canyon, the internal locking mechanism shattered. The door swung inward with a pitiful groan.
The darkness inside was absolute, and smelled of dust, stale air, and the stillness of things untouched for too long. My eyes adapted instantly, bathing the interior in a spectral clarity of gray tones. The warehouse was larger than it looked from outside. It was full of metal shelving, some empty, others loaded with boxes and equipment. But what caught my attention most were the containers stacked against the back wall. Large trunks, the size of treasure chests, made of incredibly hard military-green plastic. Each had its own metal locks, but compared to the main door, they were toys.
With minimal effort, my claws cut through the padlocks like butter. Anxiety pulsed in my temples. I opened the heavy lid of the first trunk.
The world of my past hit me in the form of smells.
The scent of clean metal, of paper, of vacuum-sealed products, of antiseptic medicines… smells I hadn't experienced in what felt like an eternity. And there, neatly packed, was the loot. Food. Canned goods with labels showing images of fruits, vegetables, and meats. Aluminumized bags of dehydrated rations—stews, soups, purees—sealed to last decades. Bright white first aid kits, with red crosses, full of bandages, antiseptics, painkillers, and medicines whose purpose I could only guess.
And then, in a separate compartment, I found the kitchen. Stainless steel utensils: knives with real edges, pans, pots of different sizes with lids, plates, bowls, and cutlery sets. Mundane objects that at that moment seemed more valuable than any jewel. I touched them, lifted a knife, feeling its perfect, balanced weight in my hand, so different from the sharpened stones I'd been using.
But the real treasure was in small, airtight packets: spices. Coarse salt. Black peppercorns. Garlic powder. A red seasoning that smelled of paprika and chili. Even… I buried my snout in a small bag and breathed deeply… coffee. Ground coffee. The aroma, rich and deep, unleashed a torrent of memories so violent and nostalgic that for a moment it left me breathless.
My eyes scanned the labels. Some words felt familiar, recognizable: "Salt," "Pepper," "Rice," "Coffee." Others were completely foreign, in a language I couldn't decipher, though the general structure felt vaguely familiar, like a dialect derived from languages I knew. My sense of smell, however, needed no translation. It identified each element with absolute precision, confirming its nature and potential.
Closing the trunk with a mix of reverence and excitement, I knew I couldn't leave anything behind. This abandoned camp was a time capsule, a supermarket and hardware store sent directly from my human past to secure my future. It would not only provide me with variety and tools, but also a tangible connection to what I once was.
With renewed determination, I left the warehouse and got to work. I wouldn't take just one trunk. I would take everything. Every green trunk, every sealed box that seemed useful, every detachable shelf. I even found several smaller black trunks, even more resistant, which I also decided to take without opening, trusting their contents would be valuable.
Transport was the most arduous part. Although my reptilian body possessed superhuman strength, the distance to my cave was considerable and the load immense. I had to make multiple trips, dragging the heaviest trunks on sheets of metal I found to create makeshift sleds, carrying the lighter ones on my shoulders. It was exhausting work that occupied the rest of the day and a good part of the night, but each trip back to the cave, each new treasure deposited in the inner chamber I had designated as a storeroom, fueled a growing sense of triumph and security.
Finally, when the last box was dragged inside and the cave entrance secured with a large rock I rolled in front of it (a new precaution, inspired by fear that whatever had emptied the camp might still be lurking), I collapsed on the floor of my home, exhausted but euphoric.
In the flickering light of my fire, surrounded by the green and black trunks containing the remnants of a lost civilization, I felt for the first time not merely like a survivor, but like a settler. An architect of my own destiny in this world. I had tools for cooking, spices for seasoning, medicines for healing, and the promise of more discoveries in those unopened trunks. Weapons? The possibility made me smile—a strange expression on my reptilian face—. Yes, the idea of finding a rifle, a pistol, anything that would further equalize my struggle against the predators of this world, was deeply exciting. What man, even one turned into a beast, doesn't like weapons?
But more than weapons, I craved books. Magazines. Maps. Any fragment of information that would tell me where I was, what this place was, why those humans had come and why they had disappeared. That night, with my stomach full of a venison stew incredibly seasoned with garlic powder and pepper (cooked in a real pot), I fell asleep not with the alertness of a hunted animal, but with the anticipation of an explorer who, at last, had the tools to unravel the mysteries of his world.
The loneliness was still there, a cold echo in the vast silence of the planet. But now it was muffled by the tangible, metallic, promising bounty of hope. Tomorrow the inventory would begin. Tomorrow I would unravel all the secrets those trunks held. For the first time since my arrival, the future didn't look like a mere endless struggle, but like a blank page, ready to be filled with the recipes, maps, and stories I would discover or create myself. This world was no longer just my prison; it was slowly beginning to become, my home.
*****
Night had fallen over the valley with its usual mantle of expectant stillness, broken only by the sounds of nocturnal life and the constant crackling of my fire at the cave entrance. But tonight was different. The air not only smelled of smoke and smoked meat; it was now impregnated with aromas I thought forgotten, awakening a deep and almost painful nostalgia. Tonight, I would not cook with hot stones and leaves. Tonight, I would use earthly tools.
One of the green trunks, the one I had opened first, lay near the fire, its contents spread with reverent care. My attention focused on two objects in particular: a stainless steel pot, wider than deep, with a lid that fit perfectly, and a large, sturdy spoon of the same material. Next to them, two cans: one with a faded label showing white rice grains, and another, smaller one, which in an almost familiar language announced "Precooked Beef."
My claws, designed for tearing, proved surprisingly dexterous with the can-opening mechanism. A small hook on one of the utensils helped me lift the metal ring. The hiss that escaped upon opening the meat can was a miraculous sound, a whisper of preservation that had spanned decades (perhaps centuries). The contents were compact, a dark brown color, but the aroma it released was unmistakable: pure protein, preserved in its own fat, with a slight touch of salt. It didn't smell rancid, it didn't smell rotten. It smelled of… food. Of real food.
The rice was even more wonderful. The grains, white and dry, crackled slightly as they fell into the pot which already contained water from my well, water that was now boiling vigorously over the flames. The sound of water boiling in a metal container, the steam trapped by the lid releasing a thin stream… they were symphonies of normality that moved me to the very core of my being.
I added the shredded meat with the spoon, stirring the mixture with slow, deliberate movements. The chunks of meat slowly dissolved, tinting the water and then the rice a golden brown, releasing their fat and aroma. I didn't need to add anything else; the salt from the meat and the starch from the rice created a rudimentary but incredibly comforting sauce. My hyper-developed senses analyzed every nuance: the exact temperature of the boil, the precise point at which the rice absorbed the broth without overcooking, the scent of cooked starch bringing back memories of crowded dining halls and small kitchens in a life that was no longer mine.
While waiting, stirring occasionally, my gaze fell back on the open trunk. Among the ration packets and utensils, I had found three small cloth pouches, tied with string. With utmost care, I had untied them. They contained no processed food.
They contained seeds.
Hard, golden grains of wheat, small, compact ears of corn with intensely orange kernels, and more little bags of rice similar to what I was cooking. I held them in my palm, feeling their dry weight and latent potential. Who knows? I thought, the idea germinating in my mind more strongly than the seeds themselves. I might be here long enough to have to sow and eat from the harvest. It wasn't just about immediate survival anymore. It was about permanence. About legacy. The idea of cultivating my own food, of marking the land in a way other than with claws and blood, was profoundly human and profoundly attractive.
And then, the true personal treasure: a spiral notebook, with a worn blue cardboard cover, and a black plastic pen, whose blue ink appeared nearly full through the translucent body. I opened it. The pages were blank, virgin, waiting. A wave of urgency ran through me. I could write. Take notes. Document the flora, fauna, dangers, seasons, my own observations about this body and this world. I could draw maps, make lists of resources, even… even try to write down what I remembered. Before it faded forever. It was a tool as vital as the knife or the pot. It was the tool to preserve my humanity in the stillness of the page.
The aroma of the rice with meat reached its peak, a rich and comforting smell that cut through my musings. I moved the pot away from the direct fire and let it rest for a few minutes, the lid on, so the flavors could meld. Finally, with an almost ceremonial movement, I removed the lid.
The rising steam was intoxicating. I served a generous portion onto one of the steel plates I had found. The texture was perfect: the rice, fluffy and loose, each grain absorbing the essence of the sauce. The meat, though processed, melted in the mouth, adding a salty, meaty flavor that my reptilian palate, accustomed to smoky and raw, found exquisitely complex. It wasn't just nutrition; it was a feast. A tangible reminder that the world I had left behind could still provide comfort.
The canned food, hermetically sealed, had withstood the passage of time. It was in perfect condition. If this was, most of the other cans and rations would be too. My larder had just expanded exponentially. Years, perhaps decades of safe and varied food now lay stacked in my cave. The feeling of security that washed over me was almost overwhelming.
But beyond the taste, there was the confirmation from my senses. I could identify every component with astonishing clarity. Not just the rice and meat. I could detect the exact type of grain, the bovine breed the meat probably came from (or its genetic equivalent), the salt used, the minerals in the water… My sense of smell and taste had evolved into sophisticated analytical laboratories. It was an incredible gift, a top-tier survival tool that would allow me to detect toxins, identify edible plants with precision, and enjoy the nuances of food in a way most humans would never experience.
The satisfaction of the meal filled me with a calm energy. The night was young, and curiosity about the other trunks, especially the more resistant black ones, was an itch I needed to scratch. I dragged one of them, the smallest black one, near the fire. Its lock was more complex, but my claws found the weakness in the side latching mechanism. With a dry metallic *clack*, more solid than that of the green trunks, the lid came loose.
Opening it, the interior was lined with custom-molded black foam. And fitted into those recesses, gleaming with a faint glow in the firelight, were steel and polymer.
My breath caught. They were weapons. But not like the ones I remembered from my time. These seemed straight out of a high-end science fiction movie.
The largest was a rifle. Not of wood and rough metal, but of clean, angular lines, constructed of a dark gray composite material that barely reflected light. The barrel was thick, with a complex cooling system. It had a long integrated optical sight, with a lens that looked like a dead black insect's eye. It had no conventional visible magazine; it seemed to be powered by an energy source or an internal charging system. It was a high-power, high-tech weapon. Designed to kill with brutal efficiency.
Beside it rested a pistol. It was equally impressive, large, almost a support weapon. Its design was robust, with a massive barrel suggesting an enormous caliber. A small red laser sight was mounted on top. I felt it in my hand; the weight was significant, balanced. It fit surprisingly well in my larger palm.
And then, on the inside of the lid, secured with elastic straps, there was a bow. But not a bow of wood and string. This was made of a black, shiny material like obsidian, with a recurve shape that seemed computer-generated. The limbs were rigid, and the grip was ergonomically molded. There were no visible strings; it seemed to use an energy tension system or ultra-resistant polymer cables. It was beautiful and deadly. A paradox of primitive and futuristic technology. But, to my frustration, there were no arrows. Not in the foam mold nor in any other compartment of the trunk. The bow was useless without its projectiles.
The presence of these weapons was both exciting and deeply unsettling. Why would an exploration camp, or whatever this had been, need such advanced and lethal armament? What were they facing? The answer, obviously, wasn't good. But for me, at that moment, they represented power. A definitive equalizer against the creatures of this world. The wolf-bear was big, but could it withstand a shot from that rifle? The three-eyed lizards were fast, but what could they do against the precision of that pistol? For the first time, I didn't feel just like an animal fighting to survive. I felt like an armed guardian of my own territory.
The excitement of discovery kept me awake until late into the night. But with the light of the new day, a new obsession took hold of me: I needed answers. What had happened at that camp?
I decided to spend the next day there, conducting a meticulous search. I returned at dawn, with my senses on maximum alert, but the place remained as silent and dead as the day before.
I checked every tent. They were empty, except for foldable cots and remnants of decayed personal equipment: scraps of fabric that were once clothes, plastic boots crumbling to the touch, a brittle plastic toothbrush. There were no bodies. No bones. No signs of struggle or violence.
The main building, the warehouse I had looted, offered no more clues. The empty shelves had no forgotten papers. The walls had no marks.
I inspected the vehicles. The modified Warthogs. Their doors opened with a screech. The interiors were clean, dusty, but empty. The dashboards were dark, their screens cracked and dead. I checked storage compartments. Nothing.
The greenhouse was equally disappointing. Apart from the jungle of wild plants, there were no records, botany journals, nothing.
It was as if all the occupants had evaporated into thin air, taking all their secrets with them and leaving behind only the shell of their presence and the tools they couldn't, or wouldn't, take.
Frustration grew within me with each passing hour. An emergency evacuation? But then, why leave such valuable weapons? Why leave so many provisions? An attack so fast and devastating there was no time for anything? But again, no signs of struggle. No bullet impacts, no claw marks on the walls, no dried bloodstains.
The only clue, faint and constant, was the absence itself. The cleanliness. It was as if the place had been deliberately, orderly abandoned, yet hastily, leaving behind what wasn't essential for… for what? For a journey from which they never returned.
As evening fell, mentally and physically exhausted, I gave up. The answers weren't here. Either they had taken them with them, or time and the elements had erased them. The mystery would persist, an unsettling echo in the background of my new life.
I loaded some more things I had overlooked: sturdy cables, a roll of a material similar to Kevlar, some hand tools that seemed useful. But the main takeaway from the day was disappointment.
The return to the cave at dusk was somber. The excitement of the previous day had dimmed, replaced by a sense of unease. The camp was a reminder that this world harbored dangers that even well-equipped humans hadn't been able to face.
But once inside my refuge, with the heavy rock sealing the entrance, the feeling of safety returned. Surrounded by my new possessions—the food, the tools, the weapons—the despair dissipated. They had failed. I hadn't. I had survived where they had disappeared. And now I had their tools.
I decided I wouldn't waste more energy on an unsolvable mystery. Instead, I would focus on the present. On using the notebook to document everything I knew. On testing the seeds in a small patch of earth near the lake. On familiarizing myself with the weight and feel of the weapons in my hands, just in case.
After a cold dinner of leftover rice with meat, I sat near the fire, the blue notebook in my lap, the pen in my hand. The first blank page stared back at me. With a calm I hadn't felt in weeks, I pressed the pen tip against the paper and began to write, tracing clumsy letters at first, which then gained fluency. "Day 10 (approx.). I found an abandoned camp. Supplies: rice, canned meat, spices. Tools: pots, knives. Seeds: wheat, corn. Weapons: rifle, pistol, bow (no arrows). No signs of what happened to them. Tomorrow I'll try planting near the lake."
The pen tip scratched the silence, a minuscule but monumental sound. I wasn't alone. I had a witness to my existence. I had a voice. And for that night, it was enough.