The world swayed as they carried him.
Branches brushed past his face. Leaves scraped his arms. The forest path twisted beneath his feet, though his feet no longer moved by his own will. Two hunters supported him, one on each side, their hands gripping his arms tightly. His sister walked close behind, murmuring words he could not fully hear. The healer ran ahead, pushing brush aside, trying to clear a faster route.
Pain throbbed through his side. Each breath burned. Warm blood dripped down his ribs. His vision blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. The forest moved in strange shapes, bending and shifting like water.
He felt heavy.
He felt weak.
He hated it.
His brother appeared at his side, panting, sweat dripping from his brow. "You stay awake," he said, voice firm but cracked. "You stay. Do not sleep."
The chief nodded, though his head felt light. He could feel cold creeping up his arms. His fingers trembled. His throat felt dry.
Behind them, the hunters walked fast, glancing over their shoulders every few steps, expecting the black wolf to appear at any moment.
It did not follow.
But its presence clung to them like smoke.
The rival cursed under his breath as they crossed a fallen log. His knuckles were white around the broken remains of his spear stick. "This beast is wrong," he muttered. "Too big. Too fast. It thinks like a man."
His sister lifted her head. "Do not say such things."
The rival shook his head. "You saw how it watched him. That was no normal beast."
The chief wanted to speak, but his breath caught. Pain flared again. His vision dimmed.
His sister touched his arm gently. "Hold on. Please."
He tried to steady his breathing. Slow. Deep. But every breath sent fire through his ribs. His skin felt cold and clammy.
The healer returned, holding a handful of crushed leaves. "We stop. We help him now."
The hunters eased him down against a tree. The bark felt rough against his back. The healer knelt beside him, pressing the herbs against the wound. The taste of metal filled his mouth. His muscles tightened from the shock.
"Breathe," the healer said. "This help slow blood."
The rival crouched in front of him. "Chief. Say something."
The chief swallowed. His voice came out low, barely more than a whisper. "I live."
His brother snorted with relief. "Good. You better."
His sister wiped sweat from his brow. Her eyes were bright with fear. "Do not scare us again."
He let out a weak breath. "Not plan."
Some of the hunters chuckled nervously, but the sound carried no joy. Fear still hung around them like a shadow.
The healer pressed more leaves into the wound. The pain sharpened. The chief clenched his jaw. His hands curled into fists.
The healer sat back after a moment. "We move. Slowly. Must get him home."
The chief forced himself up again, though every part of him protested. His breath came in ragged pulls. His legs felt heavy, but he pushed forward. The hunters supported him once more, and they began the long walk back to the village.
The forest did not feel the same.
Every sound echoed louder. Every shadow looked deeper. The chief scanned the trees constantly, expecting the wolf to appear again. His instincts told him it watched from somewhere beyond sight.
Hunting had always been dangerous.
But this was different.
This was a predator that hunted him.
Not the tribe.
Not the prey.
Him.
As they walked, the rival spoke in a low voice. "We need new weapons. Stronger wood. Sharper tips."
The blacksmith woman, who had followed the hunt for materials, nodded hard. "Yes. New spear. New edge. That beast break sticks like dry twigs."
His brother growled. "Next time I kill it."
The chief heard the words, but they felt distant. He walked as if through fog. The pain in his side pulsed with each heartbeat. Sweat mixed with dirt on his skin. His breathing came shallow. His thoughts drifted.
The wolf's eyes burned in his mind.
Yellow. Bright. Full of something old. Something hungry.
He blinked, struggling to keep his feet. His vision swam again.
His sister steadied him. "Almost home."
He nodded weakly.
When the forest thinned, opening to the grassy plains beyond, he felt a small relief. The sunlight touched his skin again. Warm. Soft. It eased some of the cold that clung to his body.
The village stood ahead. Simple huts. Curling smoke. The sound of children playing stopped when they saw the group approaching. Their eyes widened as they spotted the blood on his side. They ran to fetch elders and caretakers.
The tribe gathered quickly.
The old women gasped. The men stared in silence. The children clung to their mothers. Fear spread through the camp like a whisper carried by the wind.
He was the chief.
If the chief could be hurt, then what could they rely on?
The hunters laid him down near the central fire. The healer barked orders to bring water, hides, and stronger herbs. Women rushed to gather what he needed. The fire crackled softly, throwing faint warmth into the air.
The chief lay still, sweat on his brow, skin pale. He felt the healer's hands working, pressing new herbs, cleaning the wound, binding it with strips of hide. Pain pulsed through him.
His sister stayed by his head, holding his hand. His brother paced anxiously. The rival stood back, arms crossed, jaw tight. The elders whispered among themselves, casting wary glances toward the forest.
After a long while, the pain dulled from fire to a deep ache. His breath grew steadier. His vision cleared.
The healer sat back. "He live. Wound deep, but not kill him."
The tribe released a collective breath.
His sister squeezed his hand. "Good."
He looked up at her. "You safe?"
She nodded. "Yes. You scared us."
He closed his eyes briefly. "Scared myself."
His brother snorted. "Good. Maybe now you know you not made of stone."
The chief managed a faint smile, though it faded quickly. He pushed himself up to sit, ignoring the healer's protest.
"You rest," the healer insisted. "Body need time."
The chief shook his head. "No. Need speak."
The healer sighed but did not fight him.
The tribe gathered around. Faces full of worry, curiosity, and fear.
He spoke slowly, his voice low but steady. "Beast in forest. Large. Strong. Different from others."
Some hunters muttered. Others nodded grimly.
One elderly woman spoke. "What make it so strong? Spirit beast? Mountain spirit?"
His sister looked at her. "No spirit. Just beast. But large and fast."
The chief took a breath. "It hunted me."
Silence fell.
His brother frowned. "What you mean?"
"It watched me," the chief said. "It waited. It followed. It chose me."
The crowd stirred uneasily. A few people looked toward the forest as if expecting the beast to walk out at any moment.
The rival stepped forward. "We cannot hunt that thing. Not with sticks. Not with what we have."
The blacksmith woman crossed her arms. "Then we make better."
Her father nodded behind her. "Yes. New shape. New spear. Strong wood. Longer point."
The elders exchanged looks.
One of them spoke. "The beast. Will it return?"
The chief hesitated.
He felt the memory of its eyes again. The hunger. The cold intelligence. The sense that it had not finished what it started.
He met the elder's gaze. "Yes. It will."
Fear rippled through the crowd.
The healer leaned close. "You must rest now, Chief."
The chief nodded, unable to argue. His body felt drained. Heavy. The shock of the hunt still lingered. He allowed them to move him into his hut, where furs were arranged to support him.
His sister sat beside him, refusing to leave. His brother lingered near the door. The healer went to mix more herbs.
Inside the dim hut, the world felt smaller. The fire outside flickered, casting shadows across the walls.
His sister looked at him with soft eyes. "You almost died."
He stared at the ceiling. "Yes."
"How do you feel?" she asked quietly.
He thought for a long moment.
"Cold," he said. "Like something still watching."
His brother leaned against the doorway. "Then next time we kill it."
He shook his head slowly. "Not with what we have."
His brother frowned. "You say we weak?"
The chief met his gaze. "Yes. We weak. All of us."
His sister touched his arm. "We always survived."
He looked down at her hands. "Survived. Not lived."
She fell silent.
His brother stepped closer. "Then what we do?"
The chief closed his eyes. He could still feel the weight of the wolf's gaze. It had not been the look of an animal. It had been a challenge. A warning. A claim.
Humans were at the bottom of the world.
If the beast had wanted to kill them all, he believed it could have. Easily.
The thought filled him with a fear deeper than any he had felt before.
He swallowed. "We change."
His sister tilted her head. "How?"
He hesitated before answering. He did not know the path. Not yet. But something within him had stirred during the fight. A sense that there was more the body could do. More the world could teach. Something hidden beneath the flesh and bone, waiting to be found.
"I do not know," he said. "But we must grow stronger."
His brother grinned. "I like strong."
The rival's voice came from outside the hut. "We all want strength. But how?"
The chief breathed slowly. "I learn."
His brother raised a brow. "Learn what?"
The chief stared at his own hands. They felt different today. As if they carried a truth he could not grasp. As if something inside him had shifted.
"How to grow," he whispered.
His sister squeezed his arm again. "Rest. Think later."
He nodded, though his mind continued to churn.
They left him alone to rest. The healer placed new herbs near his wound. The pain eased slightly. But he could not sleep.
He replayed the wolf's movements. The speed. The power. The way it chose him as its focus. The way it tore through wood and flesh as if they were nothing.
He thought of the tribe. Their weak weapons. Their fragile bodies. Their dependence on luck and simple skill.
He thought of the world. The beasts that moved through the forests. The mountains filled with dangers no one had ever seen. The oceans containing monsters older than the trees.
Humans were too weak to survive in such a place.
Yet something inside him refused to accept that.
He forced himself to sit up despite the pain. His hand closed around the broken half of his spear stick that lay beside his bedding.
He studied it.
It had broken too easily.
He ran his thumb over the jagged end. He felt the weakness in the wood. In himself. In everything the tribe used to survive.
He clenched his jaw.
This was not enough.
Not for the beast.
Not for the tribe.
Not for the world that would rise after this.
Not for the future.
He closed his eyes, breathing slow, letting the pain settle within him rather than fight it. Pain was a teacher. Pain carved lessons into the body. Pain reminded him he was alive.
His wound throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
He listened to that rhythm.
He felt his breath.
He felt the ache in his muscles.
He felt the weight of his bones.
He felt the cold in his blood.
He felt something else.
A faint spark.
A warmth he had never noticed before.
Deep inside him.
Small. Quiet. Waiting.
He opened his eyes.
A memory came to him.
Not of words.
Not of lessons.
Just instinct.
Push the body.
Break the limits.
Forge strength.
That was the path.
He lay back down slowly, allowing his body to rest. He would need strength for what came next.
Outside, the sun began to fall. The trees cast long shadows across the village. Smoke drifted from the fire pits. Children whispered about the beast that had wounded the chief. Adults spoke in low voices about new dangers.
Night settled around the tribe.
The chief stared at the roof of his hut, feeling the pulse of his wound, the ache of his muscles, and the spark inside him growing just a little brighter.
He felt fear again.
But this time, fear carried a new weight.
Fear became purpose.
He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.
Tomorrow, he would begin to change.
And soon, the world would change with him.