Malakai moved deeper into the cave, past the blood-stained ritual chamber, past the stone he'd drawn on, past the scattered bones and rotting cloth piles. The air got colder, thicker. Each step echoed in a narrow throat of stone.
Then he heard it.
A sound like snoring but wrong. Wet. Guttural. Heavy, like air pushing through something that shouldn't be breathing.
He followed the sound.
The passage opened into a wider hollow, darker than the rest. His torchlight caught the glint of metal.
A cage.
In it, curled awkwardly on its side, was a black bear.
Bigger than he initially expected. Starved. But alive.
Its sides rose and fell with slow, uneven breaths. Dried blood caked its fur. One eye was half-open, unfocused. It didn't react to the light.
Malakai stood there a long moment. Then pulled a small vial from his belt.
The glass was dirty, sealed with a twist of cloth and wax. The liquid inside was thick. Dark red. It clung to the glass like syrup. what it was made out of, even he didn't know anymore.
He uncorked the vial.
Steam rose in the cold air.
He set the torch down. Shrugged off his ragged robe, revealing bare skin, scarred and pale in the flickering light. He poured the blood into his palm. Thick cold.
Then he began smearing it across his chest, arms, neck—drawing the same strange runes that covered the cave walls. Spirals. Angles. Glyphs that meant nothing to most but had come to mean everything to him.
He painted his face last. A stripe from forehead to jaw. A mark down the bridge of his nose. Then a full circle on his chest.
When it was done, he picked up the curved blade.
Walked to the cage.
The bear still didn't move.
He reached down, unlatched the lock, and pulled the door open.
The metal creaked.
The bear twitched, sniffed the air, but didn't rise.
Malakai didn't back away. He stood in front of the open cage, sword loose at his side.
He waited.
The bear's breathing changed. Sharper now. A growl building low in its throat.
It pushed itself up.
Saw him.
then It roared and charged.
Malakai moved fast. Three steps left, pivoted on his heel, the curved blade slicing low across the bear's front leg. The steel opened a gash along the muscle. The bear grunted, staggered, and turned sharply, throwing its full weight back at him.
He dropped low. The bear's shoulder passed inches above him. As it moved past, he drove the blade into its side. It hit rib. He pulled out before the bear could crush him with its rear legs.
It spun, back paw slamming the floor where he'd just been. He retreated two steps, kept his eyes up. The bear's chest rose and fell faster now.
Malakai reset his stance.
The bear came again, teeth bared.
He waited until the last second. Slipped outside the charge, stepped around its flank, and struck behind the knee joint. The bear growled, jerked its weight away, but Malakai was already circling.
It turned—fast for its size—and swiped with one paw.
This time it hit.
The impact clipped Malakai's shoulder and knocked him off balance. He hit the cave wall hard, rolled, and got to one knee. His blade hadn't left his hand. He pushed up, adjusted his grip.
The bear charged again, dragging chain behind it like thunder.
Malakai side-stepped. Brought the blade up in a rising arc—cutting across the bear's lower jaw. Bone. Blood. Roar.
The bear stumbled.
Malakai stepped in and slashed again, across its exposed chest.
The blade bit deep.
The bear slammed its paw down.
He jumped back just in time. The claw grazed his leg—tore into cloth but didn't break flesh. He repositioned quickly, shifted his weight, and moved back to center.
The bear turned slower now. Blood poured from its mouth. It shook its head and roared again.
Malakai moved in fast. Closed the gap. One slash across the eyes—deep, clean. The bear howled, swung wildly. He ducked, pivoted, stabbed into its neck.
Steel met resistance. He pressed harder. The blade slid between bone.
The bear reared, claws scraping ceiling stone. Chains yanked taut. It staggered, wheezing.
Malakai didn't give it a second chance.
He stepped in again. Drove his shoulder forward to anchor, then forced the blade downward, dragging it across the neck with his full body weight behind the motion.
The bear fell.
Not instantly. It collapsed forward, front legs giving out, breath leaving in sharp, wet bursts.
Malakai stepped back. Blood dripped off the curve of the blade. His chest rose and fell with each breath. His stance never broke.
The bear twitched.
He approached, circled to the side, then brought the blade down again—straight into the base of the skull.
The body stopped moving.
Malakai stood over it, watching for one final breath.
Nothing.
He stayed like that for several seconds. Just silence and the sound of dripping blood hitting stone.
Then, slowly, he lowered the blade. Turned. Walked back to the torch.
He was covered in blood, scratched and bruised, but steady on his feet.
The bear was dead.
as he preceded to spend the rest of his time skinning the beast and ripping into it to delicately remove its heart as he stored in somewhere. surprisingly in the outside world this would be seen as strange but Malakai had been hunting his whole life.