The second day started with hunger.
Not the kind you complain about.
Not a skipped meal. Not a grumbling stomach. No.
This was deeper.
This was survival-level hunger—the kind that rewired your thoughts, hollowed your chest, made every step a negotiation between will and collapse.
His legs barely moved as he dragged himself through the underbrush, following no path, no purpose—just forward. Always forward.
The morning light didn't help.
It was pale. Thin. Weak.
Like the sun didn't care if he lived or died.
His ribs showed now. The scratches across his chest from the night before had stopped bleeding, but the skin was raw. Bruises covered his arms. His feet were blistered from walking barefoot across forest stone.
He leaned against a tree, panting.
The air was fresh—too fresh.
There was no scent of smoke. No human life. No echo of civilization.
Just earth. Bark. Wet leaves.
And hunger.
So deep, it felt like part of him.
He knew he needed food.
Water too, but food came first. Water wouldn't mean anything if his body collapsed from starvation before midday.
He lowered himself to his knees, scanning the forest floor. Nothing edible. Nothing familiar. Every berry looked poisoned. Every mushroom looked like a trap.
He needed something that moved.
Something alive.
Something he could kill.
> [Progress Evaluation Engaged]
Vital Status: Malnourished Stamina: Critically Depleted Magic Capacity: Dormant
"Hunt. Eat. Endure."
No direction. No map. Just instinct.
He moved.
Silently.
Every step was effort.
He tried to keep his breath steady. Tried to suppress the shakes in his hands.
He moved through brambles, ducked under twisted tree limbs, avoided fallen logs. Birds cawed in the distance. High-pitched squeals echoed once—then vanished.
That's when he saw it.
A rabbit.
Small. Gray. Fat.
It was gnawing at something at the edge of a clearing.
He froze.
His heart raced.
It hadn't seen him yet.
He had no bow. No blade. Only a stone he'd picked up earlier—sharp, heavy, jagged.
He gripped it in one hand, lowered his breathing, and stepped closer.
The rabbit's ears twitched.
It turned—slowly.
Eyes met.
He didn't hesitate.
He threw the rock.
It missed.
The rabbit bolted.
He lunged after it.
Adrenaline cut through the weakness like lightning.
He ran.
Branches slapped his face. His lungs screamed.
The rabbit dashed under a root.
He dove—caught it by the hind leg.
It screamed.
He didn't think.
He didn't stop.
He smashed its head against the root.
Once. Twice. A third time.
Until it stopped moving.
Until his hands were coated in blood.
Until he was panting, eyes wide, stomach growling so loud it echoed in his skull.
He collapsed backward, the rabbit clenched in both hands.
It was still warm.
He stared at it.
His first kill.
Not in battle. Not in war. Just survival.
And it felt…
Right.
Not glorious.
Not triumphant.
Just necessary.
He didn't wait.
He didn't know how long he had before nightfall, and he needed fire.
He dragged the carcass back to a dry patch under a large tree, set it down, and began collecting sticks, moss, bark.
It took time.
Everything hurt.
But pain didn't matter now.
Starting the fire was hell.
He had no flint. No tools. Just two rocks, patience, and desperation.
He struck them over and over, knuckles scraped, fingers bloody.
No spark.
Then— A flicker. A breath of smoke.
He fed it dry moss, blew slowly.
Fire.
Tiny, weak—but real.
He fed it carefully.
He burned his fingers twice.
Didn't care.
He had fire.
The rabbit wasn't clean.
He didn't know how to clean it properly.
He tried.
Pulled off the fur. Tore it open. Gagged.
But he did it.
He skewered it with a sharpened stick, roasted it over the flames, and waited.
The smell hit him hard.
It wasn't good.
But it was food.
He ate it too fast. Burned his tongue. Bit through bone. Didn't care.
His body cried for more even as his stomach screamed to slow down.
When it was done, he lay back against the tree, licking blood from his fingers, staring into the branches above.
That was the moment he realized:
He could do this.
> [Progress Evaluation Engaged]
Nutritional Recovery: 15% Magic Capacity: Awakened (Faint) Physical Adaptation: Initiated
"You live. You learn. You endure."
He closed his eyes.
Not to sleep.
Just to breathe.
He had no plans. No goals. No revenge to chase.
But he had this.
Fire.
Warmth.
A full belly.
And his own strength.
No shortcuts.
No cheats.
Just the road ahead.
He didn't sleep. Not really.
But the body did what it needed.
When his eyes opened again, the fire had died to embers.
The stars were pale now, nearly drowned by a curtain of gray that hinted at dawn—or maybe just more cloud cover.
He sat beside the ring of sharpened sticks, knees pulled to his chest, staring into the ashes.
Most of the rabbit bones were cracked and hollowed, drained of their marrow. A few he'd broken without thought, chewing out of instinct. One bone—a long, clean one from the hind leg—remained mostly intact, blackened on the end where it touched the flame.
He picked it up, rolled it in his fingers.
It felt heavier than it should have.
Not physically.
Something else.
Maybe it was the memory—of the chase, the desperation, the blood.
Maybe it was the fact that this kill hadn't been righteous or glorious.
It had simply been necessary.
He raised the burned end of the bone and stared at it.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he ran it across his left forearm.
A line of ash streaked his skin.
Then another.
And a third.
Three dark bands, rough and ugly, drawn with fire and bone.
They weren't tribal.
They weren't magic.
They were memory.
One for the hunger that nearly killed him. One for the blood he spilled to live. One for the fire he earned with his own hands.
He didn't smile. He didn't cry.
But something in him settled.
> [Progress Evaluation Updated…]
Symbolic Expression Detected Mental Clarity: Stabilizing Survival Instinct: Matured Tier I
"This is the beginning of your name."
He didn't know what that meant.
But for the first time, the system's words didn't feel foreign.
They felt… earned.
He let his arm fall. The ashes smudged, streaked by sweat and dirt, but he didn't wipe them off.
Let them stay.
Let them fade naturally, like everything else in this world.
He stood, joints aching, and stepped out of the ring of sticks.
The woods were quieter than the night before.
No predators. No prey. Just the endless hum of wind through leafless branches.
He walked.
One foot after the other.
Not because he had somewhere to go.
But because staying meant stillness—and stillness meant death.
He was about to turn away when something caught his eye—just beyond the line of sharpened sticks.
A scar in the earth.
Three parallel slashes, deep. Fresh. Wide.
Something had passed while he slept.
And it didn't kill him.
Because it didn't need to.
He was beneath its notice.
The realization chilled him more than the night ever could.
He turned back to the pile of bones.
Picked up the last long one.
And began scraping it against stone.
Again. Again.
Until the edge turned jagged.
Until the tip turned sharp.
His first weapon.
Not born of pride. Not of honor.
But of necessity.
> [Progress Evaluation Engaged…]
Weaponization Initiated: Primitive Tier Threat Recognition: Advanced Instinct Triggered
"You have seen the shadow. Now walk in it."
He stared at the fire pit one last time.
This place was survival.
But survival was only step one.
He turned and walked into the mist.
Bone dagger in hand.
And this time, he didn't look back.