The humans were lost.
They looked at me with a mix of desperation and fear, expecting words, guidance—mercy, maybe.
I gave them nothing.
Just a long, cold stare. Then I turned and left.
I didn't care.
I had no interest in helping anyone. Not anymore. My purpose was singular: grow stronger. Strong enough to never feel that helpless again. Strong enough to erase that cursed wolf from this world.
Days passed. Then weeks. Months.
I forgot what sleep felt like.
I killed and devoured until my body grew numb. The taste of blood no longer stirred anything in me. I hunted because I had to. Because the wild whispered to me now, calling me deeper, demanding more.
And I obeyed.
My bag… I'd long since buried it beneath a twisted tree near a cliff, but I still kept the two rings with me, wrapped tightly and pressed against my chest. I didn't know why. Maybe they were all that was left of the person I used to be. Maybe I just didn't want to let go.
But I didn't stop.
I didn't rest.
I plundered cores from anything that moved. Snakes. Boars. Insects the size of wolves. The stronger they were, the more violent I became. I stopped eating them. I didn't care about energy or evolution anymore.
I just wanted to kill.
Especially the wolves.
I hated their eyes. Their fangs. Their snarls. I hunted them obsessively. No matter their size or type—ice wolves, shadow wolves, those with red eyes or silver fur—I tore them apart. I ripped their hearts out and crushed their cores in my palm.
The days bled together.
Somewhere in that madness, I realized I had become the very thing the world feared. The forest went quiet when I passed. Even the wind seemed to flee from me.
Far away from the wild chaos, in the remnants of the Southern Shelter, a group of survivors had scraped together something barely resembling a base.
A circle of makeshift walls. Repaired weapons. Foraged supplies.
It wasn't much—but it was all they had.
Inside a torn-down bunker, three men sat around a dim fire. Their faces were drawn tight with hunger and fear.
One had a scarred face, fresh cuts stitched by hand. Another was old, gray-haired, his arm bandaged and stiff. The third, middle-aged, sat quietly with arms crossed.
"I'm telling you," the scarred one growled, voice rough. "How much ammunition do we have left?"
The old man exhaled slowly. "Forget about the wolf. That thing's not a beast—it's a natural disaster. Nothing we have will touch it."
The scarred one cursed and slammed a hand against the crate beside him. "And what? Sit here and wait to die?"
The middle-aged man spoke up, low but clear. "There've been rumors… outposts talking about something. About a beast… no, a man… who walks like a monster. Kills everything in sight. Beasts. Mutants. Doesn't matter. They say it looks human, but acts like a devil."
The room fell silent.
The fire crackled between them.
"I've heard that," the scarred one said, eyes narrowing.
The old man frowned, rubbing his beard. "You think it's him?"
"…Could be."
"He fought that wolf, didn't he?" the old man muttered. "I heard he died. Crushed. Burned alive. No one saw him again after the attack."
The scarred one leaned forward, face half-shadowed. "But no one saw a body, either."
They stared at each other.
The old man sighed. "It doesn't matter if it's him. That thing—whatever it is now—if it comes here… we won't survive either way."
"Still," the middle-aged man said, "if there's even a chance… we should find it. Or avoid it. But we can't ignore it."
The room was quiet again.
Outside, night began to fall. Howls echoed faintly through the trees—distant, but growing bolder.
The old man finally stood. "We're low on everything. Ammunition's almost out. Food's scarce. Weapons? Useless against half the things roaming the woods now."
"What do we do, then?" asked the scarred one.
The old man looked toward the dark horizon, where lightning occasionally cracked far away, splitting the clouds like angry veins.
"We survive," he said. "No matter what it takes."