I woke to the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves. My body was sore, muscles stiff and bruised from yesterday's fight with the Titan, but the system's healing warmth had done its job. No broken ribs. No shattered bones. I could move. I was alive.
The jungle around me was already alive with sound: chirps, rustles, distant growls. Nothing here cared that I had survived. Not even me.
The monkey sat on my shoulder, quiet. Watching. Not laughing. Not mocking. Just alert.
I exhaled and ran a hand through my fur. "…We need food." My voice sounded strange to me—rough, tired, but calm.
---
The day moved slow. Hunger clawed at me, sharper than yesterday's fear, sharper than my pride. Fruit was scarce, and my energy didn't recover fast enough from the system's healing. I had to hunt. I had to survive.
And I had to learn.
I crouched behind a thicket and watched a pair of small, scaly predators hunting nearby. They didn't roar. They didn't flaunt strength. They were precise, patient, efficient. One grabbed its prey and pinned it down while the other finished it off. They survived. That was all that mattered.
I glanced at the monkey. He mirrored the predators' stillness, studying their movements. His small hands clenched. He was learning too.
I picked up a small stone from the ground. Heavy in my paw. I threw it at a passing lizard-like creature. It bounced harmlessly off a branch and ran away, completely unharmed.
"…Fear only works if you're stronger," I muttered. "Hunger doesn't care."
The monkey tapped my shoulder softly, no mockery. Understanding. Sympathy.
---
I sank to the ground, brushing dirt from my fur, scanning the environment. Branches hung low, stones littered the forest floor, vines twisted through the undergrowth. If I couldn't rely on strength or fear, I could rely on… strategy.
I picked up a long, thin branch and leaned it against a narrow path I had noticed earlier. I snapped a smaller branch over the path as a crude trigger. I crouched behind a bush with another stone in my hand, waiting.
A small, scuttling creature moved along the path. My heart raced. The branch swung. The stone flew. The creature squeaked—and then bolted, slowed and tripped by my trap. Not dead. Not clean. But slowed. Injured. Enough to survive.
I breathed unevenly, chest tight. The monkey tapped my shoulder again, this time pressing a small vine into my hand. A silent suggestion: use the tools you have.
It worked. Messy, clumsy, but it worked.
---
I leaned back against a tree and looked at my bloody hands. Not from wounds—just scratches and bruises from yesterday and today's attempts. My fingers shook. Not from fear. Not from pain. But from awareness.
The system flickered briefly:
[Behavioral Shift Detected: Tool-Dependent Thinking (Initial)]
No stats. No auras. No dings. Just acknowledgment.
The monkey nudged my arm gently, cleaning dirt from my fur.
I whispered, more to myself than him:
> "If I want to live… I have to use my hands."
---
The jungle moved on, indifferent. The predators continued their hunt. The leaves rustled. Birds sang. Life went on.
We sat, silent, observing, learning.
And I understood: fear alone wouldn't carry me anymore. Only skill. Patience. And my own two hands.
Tomorrow, I would try again. But today, I learned to watch.
And that was the first real step toward surviving… without depending on poop.