The new world never stopped testing Caspian.Each day bled into the next—grueling, silent, and full of sharp choices.
At first light—when the sun cracked the misty treetops—he moved.
His training told him to stay active during the brightest hours, when predators were easier to spot and shadows gave up their secrets. He scanned the dense underbrush for signs of water, hunted small, quick-footed creatures with his sharpened spear, and checked the snares he'd set with twisted vines and forked sticks.
Each meal was a small victory.
He searched the forest for stone outcroppings and fallen branches, testing their edges for use as tools. His engineer's instincts turned every discovery into an opportunity—carving, shaping, adapting.
Water was precious. He learned to gather dew from leaves at dawn and cupped it carefully into carved wooden scoops. Stream water, though rare, was always rationed with discipline.
When the sun reached its peak, he found shade beneath broad-leafed trees and thick brush, resting just enough to recover, never enough to let his guard down.
The forest spoke in creaks, rustles, and sudden silences. Caspian learned to listen—really listen—to the rhythm of his surroundings. The snap of a twig. The hush before movement.
At nightfall, the darkness pressed in—dense and heavy. He reinforced his shelter with woven branches and mud, sharpened his tools, and reset his traps with quiet precision.
Sleep came in fragments, always shallow, always with one ear tuned to the forest's voice.
His thoughts never stopped calculating: where to move, what to risk, how to survive with less and stay one step ahead of whatever was watching.
Seven days. Seven nights.
Each one sharpening his instincts. Toughening his resolve.
This world wasn't giving him time to catch up.
If he wanted to live, he had to stay ahead.