With the outpost secured—barely—and a fragile defense in place, Colin began to change.
Survival was no longer enough.
He needed more.
More food.
More strength.
More control over this forest that seemed determined to swallow them whole.
So he pushed deeper.
—
That day, he had been tracking a wild boar.
Not just any boar—
A full-grown male.
Massive. Muscular. Dangerous.
From the depth of its tracks and the way the earth sank beneath its weight, Colin estimated it at no less than four hundred pounds.
Perfect.
Enough meat to sustain them for days.
Maybe longer.
He moved like a shadow through the undergrowth, silent, efficient. His body no longer resisted the strain—his stamina and agility carried him forward with unnatural ease.
Three hours.
He was close.
Close enough to finish it.
Then—
He stopped.
The wind shifted.
And with it—
A scent.
Faint.
Almost imperceptible.
But wrong.
Not beast.
Not decay.
Something else.
Smoke.
Sweat.
And something… sickly.
Colin's eyes sharpened instantly.
Human.
Without hesitation, he abandoned the boar.
Turned.
Vanished.
—
His approach was even more careful now.
No wasted movement.
No sound.
He became part of the forest itself.
The scent led him to a cliff, half-hidden beneath layers of vines and wild growth. At its base—barely visible—a narrow crack.
A cave.
Concealed.
Used.
Colin didn't rush in.
He climbed a nearby tree instead, settling into the branches like a patient predator, watching.
Waiting.
Time passed.
Then—
Movement.
A figure emerged.
Thin.
Unsteady.
A woman.
She carried a broken clay jar, her steps fragile, as though the wind itself might knock her down.
Colin's gaze tightened.
He recognized her.
Sarah.
A memory surfaced—him, bleeding in the dirt, and her quietly pressing a wild fruit into his hand when no one was looking.
She had survived.
—
Colin moved.
Circling.
Approaching from another angle.
Silent.
When he reached the cave and parted the vines—
He froze.
Even now—
Even after everything—
The sight struck him.
Inside lay six figures.
Scattered.
Broken.
An old man. Three women. Two children.
Barely alive.
Their bodies were hollowed out by hunger. Eyes sunken. Lips cracked. Skin stretched thin over bone.
A dead fire smoldered faintly in the corner.
The air itself felt heavy—
Thick with despair.
One of the children coughed weakly.
Each sound felt like it might be the last.
They were already at the edge.
—
Colin stood at the entrance.
Silent.
Thinking.
Calculating.
Bringing them back would be a mistake.
A burden.
The food they had would last—
Seven days.
With these six added—
Not even three.
Most of them couldn't fight.
Couldn't hunt.
Could barely stand.
The answer was obvious.
The correct choice.
The optimal path.
—
He looked at the coughing child.
And remembered.
Cold wind.
Hunger.
Being alone.
He looked at the old man.
And saw Elder Kuta, lying in blood.
These—
Were what remained.
The last fragments of the Broken Fang Tribe.
His people.
If he turned away now—
What was the difference between him…
And the ones who slaughtered them?
What kind of "stronghold" would he be building?
A shelter—
Or a grave?
—
Colin closed his eyes.
Took a slow breath.
Then—
Made his choice.
"To hell with the optimal solution."
—
He stepped inside.
The reaction was immediate.
Fear.
They shrank back, trembling, eyes wide with terror.
To them, he was just another stranger.
Another threat.
Colin said nothing.
He simply untied the bundle on his back.
Took out a strip of smoked wolf meat—golden, carefully preserved.
His reserve.
His safety.
Without a word, he placed it beside the dying embers.
Then he turned.
And walked away.
—
"W-Wait…"
A voice.
Weak.
Shaking.
Colin stopped.
Turned slightly.
Sarah stood at the entrance, staring at him—at the meat—like she couldn't believe either was real.
"…Colin?"
He nodded once.
"Follow me," he said. "If you want to live."
No more.
No less.
Then he left.
Certain—
They would come.
—
Half an hour later, they did.
The path back to the outpost was slow.
Painfully slow.
Colin adjusted his pace without complaint.
He carried the weakest child on his back.
Step by step.
He led them home.
—
When they arrived—
The others froze.
"...Aunt Sarah?" Lena's voice trembled, then broke with sudden joy—before fading as she saw their condition.
Goff stepped forward, his face tightening.
"Colin…" he said quietly. "I understand. But the food—"
"I know."
Colin cut him off.
Calm.
Certain.
"I'll handle it."
No hesitation.
No doubt.
Goff looked at him—
And said nothing more.
—
That night, the fire burned again.
But things had changed.
Seven became fourteen.
The space grew tight.
Crowded.
But alive.
The newcomers held bowls of hot soup with shaking hands. Tears streamed down their faces as they ate—their first real meal in over half a month.
Laughter—soft, fragile—returned.
For a moment—
It felt like something had been restored.
—
But Colin did not join them.
He stood on the rampart.
Alone.
Watching.
Fourteen people.
Fourteen lives.
Depending on him.
Below, the smoked wolf meat dwindled.
Visibly.
Quickly.
Two days.
At most.
Then—
Nothing.
The weight settled onto his shoulders.
Heavy.
Unyielding.
No retreat.
No excuses.
If he failed—
They all died.
His gaze lifted.
Toward the depths of the Blackwood Forest.
Dark.
Dangerous.
Full of death.
Full of opportunity.
This time—
There was no turning back.
Only forward.
And whatever waited in the dark—
He would hunt it.