The morning air in Nouvo Kay no longer smelled only of sweat and smoke—it carried with it the scent of movement, of people with purpose. The first light caught the shimmer of spears, the rise of nets, and the gleam in the eyes of those who had survived… and would now thrive.
Nouvo Kay had over two hundred souls now, plus Zion's inner circle. What had once been a flicker of survival had become the first spark of a settlement. The work of gods and grit.
Zion stood at the high watch platform, arms folded as his people gathered below. The land beyond still breathed with danger—monsters with muscle and claw, storms with teeth—but now they had numbers, strength, and something more: belief.
Kael stood by his side, silent but steady.
"We can do more than survive," Zion finally said. "We can prepare. Hunt. Fish. Build."
He pointed to the black-stone hills beyond the tree line.
"There are trails carved by hornbeasts—six-legged hulks with iron tusks and thick bone-hides. If we track them right, we can bring down one and feed a dozen families."
Eyes widened. The hornbeast was a walking battering ram, but now… it was a goal.
He turned toward the south, where morning mist curled over a lake.
"That lake is full of razorfins—sharp-backed fish the size of a man's arm. Dangerous if caught barehanded, but they're fast, fatty, and perfect for drying."
Mikah stepped forward, unfurling a hand-drawn map.
"We'll build leaf-woven kaykas—our boats. Light, with wide bellies. Nets go deep near the black kelp beds. The razorfins are drawn there in mating season."
Excitement rippled through the group.
Zion gave one last command: "Work in teams. No lone heroes. You hunt, you return. Alive."
By midday, the village was alive with action. Hunters vanished into the canopy, stalking longmaws—scaled predators with thick necks and three rows of teeth. Fisher teams launched the first kaykas into the lake, their nets trailing like shadows beneath the surface.
Laughter echoed, shouts of discovery followed. A razorfish was caught. Then two. Then seven.
But Zion didn't celebrate.
He sat alone on a stone near the cooking pit, chewing the flesh of a grilled longmaw. It was fatty, meaty—bland.
He winced.
There was no spice. No flavor. Just heat and survival.
A woman approached with roasted root-vegetables seasoned in wild herbs. He thanked her with a nod, took a bite—and nearly gagged.
Still bland.
He stood quietly and slipped into the trees, following the river upstream.
He crouched at a bend in the stream, hammering a jagged white rock against a larger stone. It cracked, and a fine, dusty powder coated his fingers.
He licked it.
Nothing.
He cursed under his breath.
Thalia found him there, the third night in a row.
"You're chasing something?" she asked.
Zion didn't look up.
"I remember flavor," he muttered. "Real flavor. My grandmother's broth. Fried plantains. Jerk chicken. Salted mango. I've eaten well here, but… it's not the same."
Thalia sat beside him.
"You miss Earth?"
"No," he said. "I miss taste. I miss what made food feel alive."
She eyed the stone dust in his hand. "You think salt is out here?"
"I know it is. Somewhere. Maybe in stone. Maybe near the dried riverbeds. If we can find it—we can cure meat, preserve fish. Trade. Build culture."
She rose.
"Then we'll find it."
Zion looked at her, surprised.
"You and me," she said. "And anyone who can tell a rock from a gem. Salt is survival—but it's also civilization."
That night, as Nouvo Kay celebrated its first large kill—a juvenile hornbeast brought down with ropes and spears—Zion ate in silence. Not because he was sad… but because a plan had taken root.
Salt was just the beginning.
If they were to shape this new world, it would need more than muscle and faith—it would need memory. Flavor. Culture. Identity.
And he would give it to them.