The jungle pressure mounted as Kajin pressed farther beneath the foliage. Leaves dripped with dew, and vines snagged his sleeves, tugging at his scarred leg. Every movement sent fresh jolts through his spine; his neck felt as if razorwire had been stitched through it. Still, he forced one foot in front of the other.
Heat pooled behind his eyes. He licked cracked lips, the coarse sand still clinging to his mouth's corner. Sweat trickled down his forehead, stinging the old burn on his left cheek. Distant birdcalls echoed among the trees, but they offered no comfort—only reminders of his isolation.
His vision blurred at the edges, tunnelled by pain and panic. The mission floated before him in golden letters: "Establish Your Flame." But first—first he needed water. He bent to catch cool air in his lungs, but it only fanned the thirst that roared in his throat.
A flash of memory stabbed him: Texas A&M's stadium under floodlights, the strain of his muscles as he leapt to tackle an opponent, crowds roaring. And then the lazy haze of his dorm room—post-practice endorphins, anime flickering across the screen, the sweet burn of weed—and that impossible decision: to twist like Sanji.
His leg had sliced through empty air. He'd felt—just before everything went dark—the brutal torque in his neck, the betrayal of his own body. One moment of pride, one moment of bravado; now he was paying the price on a world that had no pity.
Kajin shook his head, as if to dislodge the memory, but it clung to him. He hunched forward, one hand pressed to his neck, the other brushing aside ferns littered with decomposing leaves. Beneath his fingers, the ground was damp and cool. He sank to one knee, breathing shallow and ragged.
"Come on…" he rasped to himself, voice hoarse. "Find water…"
His hand braced against a mossy root, and he pivoted toward where he'd heard the faintest trickle. Branches parted to reveal a narrow path sloping downward. The air grew cooler and more humid; the scent of wet earth filled his nostrils.
Each step down the ridge was agony. He stumbled twice, fingers clawing at roots to keep from toppling forward. The pain in his neck flared bright—like a flare gun going off inside his skull—but he gritted his teeth and kept moving.
At last, the path opened onto a sun-dappled clearing. A clear stream wound through it, water so pristine it caught the morning light in dancing prisms. Kajin's pulse thundered in his ears; he half-fell onto his hands at the bank's edge.
He scooped water in trembling palms and drank greedily, the cold liquid burning with relief as it sloshed across his cracked lips. He swallowed until his throat seized and his lungs threatened to expel the precious gift.
And still he drank.
When the stream finally trickled silent in his hands, he sat back on his heels, sweat matting hair to neck. The jungle seemed to hold its breath, as if watching. Kajin closed his eyes, letting the water's coldness chase away the haze of pain—if only for a moment.
Memories came unbidden again: his coach's voice barking drills on the practice field, the satisfying thud of his shoulder against an opposing player's torso, the camaraderie of teammates cheering. He had been strong then; he had been fearless. Could he still be?
His fingers flexed. He tasted grit on his tongue—sand from that first, brutal landing—and he realized something: in rugby, you learned to carry the pain, to push past the snap of bone or the burn of turf rash. Pain was the proving ground of champions.
His eyelids fluttered open. The sun dripped in golden droplets through the leaves, and the stream murmured at his side. A low hum resonated behind his temple: the silent heartbeat of the Ordeal System. He inhaled, letting the cool air fill his chest.
He would not give in to the fear. He would not deny the gift thrust upon him. He rose on unsteady legs, water droplets cascading down his forearms. Every fiber of his being screamed to collapse—but he straightened his spine and turned back toward the denser jungle beyond the clearing.
There was work to do. He had to spark that flame. He had to prove he belonged—not on any pitch in Texas, but here, on this island, armed with power he barely comprehended.
Steeling himself for the next trial, Kajin took one last drink from the stream, spat the bitter grit from his mouth, and plunged onward into the green gloom—his thirst for water sated, but his thirst for purpose now alight.