Chapter 20 — From Prey to Hunter

  Cycle 22,841 of the Dragon Era — Day 130

  The clothes fit perfectly.

  Not loose. Not tight. Just… right.

  For the first time since arriving in this world, what I wore didn’t feel like improvised survival. It felt intentional. Made. Mine.

  After admiring them for a breath longer than necessary, I washed my older set in the stream and hung it to dry before heading out to gather some fresh fruit for breakfast.

  As I moved through the territory, a familiar aura approached — cool, steady, disciplined.

  Icelan.

  She walked past at first, tail high, posture alert — clearly scouting rather than relaxing. Unlike Lyra or Varya, she rarely lingered near cooking or crafting. She belonged to combat and the hunt. Still… she did always eat what I made, so maybe that counted.

  She paused beside me, acknowledging my presence with a slight tilt of her head.

  Since Kael’s restriction had ended this morning, I decided to try forming a mental link.

  It connected.

  The words left my mind smoothly — not fragmented, not clipped — a full thought.

  Me (through the link):

  Did you spot any intruders?

  The response came casually, as if mind-speech were water and she was a river.

  Icelan:

  No. No one. Surprisingly no one.

  …She sounded almost disappointed.

  Then there was a pause — a delayed realization — followed by a sharp flick of her ear.

  Icelan:

  Hold on.

  You—… did you just—?

  You did.

  You actually managed a whole sentence.

  Without breaking the link.

  Huh.

  Way to go. That’s progress.

  Her tone was flat, but the praise was real.

  Then she tilted her head, studying me like she was measuring something invisible.

  Icelan:

  Your aura changed too.

  I leaned closer.

  “How much?”

  She didn’t hesitate — not even for a second.

  Icelan:

  Before, you were like a worm.

  Now you’re like an insect.

  She nodded proudly — as if she’d just delivered the highest compliment known to civilization.

  I just stared at her.

  “…That’s… your way of saying I improved?”

  She blinked once more.

  Icelan:

  Yes.

  Worms cannot fight.

  But insects can move and bite sometimes.

  She said it with the pure, innocent sincerity of a child explaining a scientific fact — no insult, no teasing, no awareness of how it sounded.

  I exhaled — somewhere between defeated and amused.

  “…I’ll take it.”

  Her tail wagged again — happy I understood — and she returned to her patrol, vanishing back into the trees.

  I stood there one more moment, processing.

  After finishing breakfast, I headed back toward the den — partly to rest, partly because I had something I wanted to try.

  A surprise.

  Kael was near the shade of a tree, watching the others prepare. The pups bounced around Cira’s legs, practically vibrating with excitement.

  I stepped closer and formed the link again — steadying my breath.

  Me (telepathy):

  Will you take me on the hunt today?

  Kael paused.

  Turned.

  Slowly.

  His eyes narrowed, not in anger — but in assessment.

  Then, out loud:

  “You just spoke through the link.”

  There was a subtle shift in the air — approval, quiet and controlled.

  But the answer to my question was still:

  “No.”

  I frowned.

  “Still no?”

  Kael folded his tail neatly around his paws — the picture of calm authority.

  “With your mana channels newly formed, rest is necessary. The body adjusts. If you push recklessly now, the foundation will warp.”

  He spoke like this was law.

  Which, in his world… it probably was.

  He continued:

  “Today, the pups will come as well. They must begin observing organized hunts. All of us will go.”

  Then he stopped mid-sentence — eyes sharpening slightly.

  “And your aura… has changed. Slightly.”

  Even that single word — slightly — felt like praise coming from him.

  “But,” he added, “someone must remain. If all of us leave, creatures may approach — and those who sense weakness may see you as prey.”

  Before I could respond, another voice slid into the link — calm, quiet, matter-of-fact.

  Icelan:

  No creatures remain. I already cleared the area — near and far.

  She walked past us without even looking up — as if announcing she had cleaned a room, not decimated potential threats.

  I blinked.

  Kael blinked.

  Then I added, out loud:

  “…So we’re good.”

  A brief moment of silence — then Kael gave a small nod.

  “Very well. We leave you in the den.”

  The pups heard the word leave and immediately pressed against Cira’s legs more tightly — tiny tails wagging, paws bouncing. Their excitement was impossible to contain.

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  One pup attempted a howl.

  It cracked halfway.

  Umbra cuffed him gently with a paw, as if saying: Not yet.

  The formation gathered — silent discipline layered over youthful chaos.

  Cira gave me one last reassuring glance.

  Kael spoke one final time before turning to lead the hunt:

  “Rest. And observe your own changes. Do not rush.”

  Then — they moved.

  One by one, wolves vanished into the forest.

  Their steps quiet.

  Their presence fading.

  Until the clearing was still and empty.

  For the first time in a long while… it was just me.

  Silence settled around me — not cold, not lonely — simply peaceful.

  I exhaled slowly.

  This time…

  Being alone didn’t feel like before.

  Not isolation.

  Not danger.

  Just space.

  Room to breathe.

  Room to think.

  Room to grow.

  I started with light training — slower than usual, but enough to move my body and wake the channels inside me.

  Push-ups, stretches, breathing control.

  Nothing intense.

  Then berries for energy.

  Sweet, tart, mana-rich.

  Once I felt the familiar hum — that subtle current moving inside me — I sat down and focused.

  Mana flowed through me differently now.

  Before, it had been scattered — drifting through muscle, bone, skin — wild and directionless.

  But now?

  There was structure.

  I could feel it move through thin pathways — threads I could not see, but could sense.

  Mana traveled smoothly through them, dense and controlled, like water through carved channels.

  I tried what Kael had taught me first: healing.

  I gathered mana at a single point — my forearm — directing it the same way I did when treating wounds.

  Warmth spread through my skin… but there was nothing to heal.

  Useless.

  So I changed direction.

  What else could I do?

  I gathered mana again — this time in my hand — and pushed.

  Nothing.

  Not even a flicker.

  I tried again — harder.

  Still nothing.

  Then it clicked.

  Healing works inward… because it stays inside.

  But using mana outside the body meant one thing:

  Exertion.

  I needed to push it out — not just move it around.

  So I gathered mana again, this time slowly — letting it pool in my palm like liquid heat.

  It grew warmer — uncomfortable — then painful.

  Burning.

  I immediately cut the flow.

  “No… that’s wrong,” I muttered to myself.

  Fire wasn’t created by cooking myself alive.

  I breathed — slow, steady — and tried again.

  Step one: Gather mana.

  Step two: Push it outward — not let it build inside.

  Step three: Then shape it.

  Not heat first.

  Control first.

  So I repeated the process with full focus.

  Mana gathered.

  Heat rose.

  But this time — instead of letting it collect — I guided it outward, past my skin.

  For a moment, it felt like pushing against invisible pressure — like forcing air through a blocked pipe.

  Then—

  Pop.

  A faint sensation left my hand — like a thread snapping.

  And in front of my palm —

  A tiny spark appeared.

  Not a flame.

  Not even ember.

  Just a spark — the size of a grain of sand.

  It flickered once.

  Then disappeared.

  But I had felt it.

  I made it.

  I stared at my hand, heart pounding.

  “…I did it.”

  It wasn’t powerful.

  It wasn’t dramatic.

  But it was real.

  I tried again.

  This time, now that I knew what to expect, the process felt smoother.

  Gather.

  Exert.

  Release.

  Another spark flared to life — brighter than the first, lasting a heartbeat longer before fading into the air.

  A grin tugged at my lips—until dizziness hit.

  My mana was thinning.

  Fast.

  Of course.

  I still didn’t have a core.

  These channels weren’t supplying mana — they were just letting me use what existed around me. The moment I exerted mana outside the body, the supply weakened.

  If I kept going, I risked another collapse.

  And after yesterday, I wasn’t eager to repeat that experience.

  So I stopped.

  Not because I failed — but because I succeeded just enough to know my limits.

  I cleared my thoughts.

  No magic.

  No burning myself alive.

  Back to basics.

  Training my body.

  I moved toward the trees and searched for one with the right structure — not too brittle, not too thick. Something that could withstand repeated impact without shattering or injuring me further.

  I found one near the stream — bark rough, trunk solid.

  Perfect.

  I started with simple punches — focusing on form, breathing, rotation of the hips, grounding through the feet.

  Then kicks — front, roundhouse, spinning strikes.

  Once the rhythm set in, I began combining movements: elbows, knees, full-body transitions.

  The strikes grew sharper.

  Faster.

  Stronger.

  And then—the pain started.

  My knuckles burned.

  My shins stung.

  My elbows reddened.

  By the time I began chaining full combinations — jab, cross, elbow, knee — every limb protested.

  But I kept going.

  Until soreness turned to bruising.

  Until skin scraped.

  Until sweat blurred my vision.

  Only then did I stop — panting, soaked, trembling.

  I pressed my palm against the tree one last time — leaving streaks of blood on the bark.

  “…Enough.”

  I drank from the stream — cold water clearing the heat in my lungs.

  Then I leaned against the same tree and closed my eyes.

  Time for the second part.

  Mana flowed through the channels when I drew it from the surroundings—slower this time, but smoother.

  I directed it toward my knuckles first.

  Warmth spread — gentle, pulsing — not burning like before.

  The bleeding stopped.

  The torn skin began to mend — knitting together slowly, visibly.

  And the pain dulled.

  My breath eased.

  My heartbeat steadied.

  This—this was more progress than anything I’d done before.

  Not because I healed quickly.

  But because I controlled it.

  My healing wasn’t instinct from birth.

  It was learned.

  Earned.

  Crafted.

  I opened my eyes and examined my hand.

  The skin wasn’t perfect — faint marks remained — but compared to before, the difference was astonishing.

  “…So that’s why,” I murmured.

  Why Kael told me to master healing first.

  Before exerting mana.

  Before shaping elements.

  Before imitation of wolves or monsters.

  Control before power.

  Foundation before strength.

  Precision before destruction.

  It happened again.

  The moment the healing finished, my knuckles didn’t just return to normal — they felt harder. Denser. Stronger.

  At this point, I was certain:

  Damage → Healing → Strengthening.

  Every cycle increased durability… and with it, ki.

  I healed part of the damage in my legs too — but the moment dizziness crept back in, pressing behind my eyes like a warning, I stopped.

  Overusing mana this soon wasn’t worth collapsing again.

  I stood, caught my breath, and headed back toward the den.

  Before the pack returned from their hunt, I needed to do mine. Even a small one.

  At least a skivet.

  Icelan had intentionally left their population untouched — meaning there were still plenty within the territory.

  Finding one wasn’t hard.

  I used aura sensing — and immediately, a light, skittish pulse flickered to my right. Herbivore. Fast. Alert.

  Perfect.

  This time, I didn’t pick up the spear.

  No knives.

  No traps.

  Just… me.

  Bare-handed.

  The skivet noticed me long before I reached it — its body lowered, ears twitching, muscles tightening.

  Then — it bolted.

  I sprinted after it, cutting it off when it tried to escape back toward the burrows. The chase zig-zagged through underbrush until I managed to corner it against a fallen log.

  It panicked.

  Then it charged.

  I stepped aside — barely — the impact grazing my waist as it barreled past.

  Fast.

  Faster than expected.

  It swung around for a second attempt, horns lowered.

  This time, I didn’t dodge completely.

  When it passed, I struck — a clean hit to its side.

  Not perfect, but enough.

  The skivet stumbled, legs shaking.

  It tried one last desperate dash — but I was already moving.

  A final strike — precise and strong — and the creature went still.

  Silence followed.

  One breath.

  Then another.

  I looked down at my hands — bruised, raw… but steady.

  “I did it.”

  Not with tools.

  Not with help.

  Not because I was lucky.

  But because I was stronger than yesterday.

  The body of the skivet was enough for one meal — maybe two. I lifted it over my shoulder, breathing steady, and began walking back toward the den.

  I felt like a hunter.

  I still had time before they returned.

  So I worked.

  I cleaned the skivet, washed the meat in the stream, cut it into manageable portions, and set it aside. Then I filled a large bark bowl with fresh water and carried it back to the small farm plot.

  I carried the water back to the farm plot and poured it carefully over the soil — over the patches where seeds, stems, and roots were buried. Nothing had sprouted yet, but somehow… tending to it already felt meaningful.

  It felt strangely calming — watching life grow because of something I did.

  By the time I was done, I sensed them.

  The pack was returning.

  The pups arrived first — sprinting full-speed, eyes wide and sparkling with excitement. Their auras were buzzing, chaotic, practically vibrating.

  They had seen their first hunt.

  And judging by how they kept mimicking pouncing movements and growling dramatically at rocks… they couldn’t wait to participate for real.

  Then the adults emerged from the treeline — calm, steady, disciplined.

  And behind them?

  A massive creature.

  Long body. Dark scales. Eyes glowing faintly with blue sparks. Thick claws and two short forward tusks curved slightly upward.

  It looked like a blend between a wild boar and a small dragon.

  Cira spoke through the link:

  “Stormtusk. Low–intelligence predator. Strong meat. Good nutrients.”

  Good to know.

  Cooking took time — a lot of time — especially with how dense the creature’s flesh was. I had to tenderize, cook, rotate, glaze, and let it rest repeatedly.

  But eventually…

  Lunch was ready.

  And as always, the pack surrounded the stone and ate together — silent, satisfied, tails moving in slow, content rhythms.

  After we finished, I shared what I had managed today.

  My mana progress.

  My first spark.

  My first solo hunt.

  They listened carefully.

  Kael didn’t praise or criticize — he simply nodded, which somehow felt heavier than words.

  Then Cira spoke:

  “Good. Then you apply it.”

  Which meant exactly one thing:

  Sparring.

  I faced Lyra again — the same wolf who laughed at the chili berry incident, who quietly watched me weave cloth, who had pinned me earlier without hesitation.

  And to no one’s surprise — least of all mine — she knocked me down again.

  Repeatedly.

  By evening, I was covered in bruises, dirt, bite marks from where she “corrected my stance,” and I'm pretty sure one side of my ribs still remembered the exact shape of her paw.

  Good thing I didn’t wear my new shirt.

  It would’ve been shredded.

  As the sky dimmed into twilight, the pack settled. The pups fell asleep quickly, exhausted from excitement. The adults rested near the den in quiet companionship.

  And me?

  Bruised, exhausted, sore from every direction…

  I lay back and stared at the sky.

  Somehow…

  Even like this…

  I felt more alive than ever.