Ethan's breath came in sharp bursts as the shouts closed in from every direction. The primitive voices echoed through the forest, wild and guttural, surrounding him like a tightening net. He felt like a headless fly, darting this way and that, but with no real escape.
What unsettled him more than the pursuit itself was the sound of their cries—it didn't sound like war cries or hunting signals. To his ears, it sounded absurdly like someone calling pigs to feed.
Before he could dwell on it, several long-haired figures suddenly leapt down from the trees ahead. Each held crude weapons—clubs, spears—and moved with frightening agility. The moment they landed, they pounced like predators, forcing Ethan to whirl around and sprint the other way.
His mad dash led him out of the undergrowth—only to be halted by a rushing river. The waters were violent, churning against jagged rocks. His stomach dropped. He couldn't swim.
As he froze at the edge, several dark heads slowly rose from the current, black hair plastered across their faces. At first glance, they looked like something dragged from a nightmare, waterlogged specters with hollow eyes.
"No way…" Ethan's skin crawled. There were men in the water too—primitive figures holding spears and bows, creeping toward him with patient menace.
Trapped, he scrambled back into the brush, branches clawing at his arms, and chose yet another direction. His lungs burned, his legs screamed, but panic kept him moving.
He burst into a clearing—only to find it already filled with figures. Primitive men and women crowded the open ground, their feral eyes locked onto him. The reek of sweat, smoke, and something more metallic—blood—hit his nose all at once.
Above him, the body of the massive tiger dangled lifeless in the vine net, bristling with spears. Its blood rained in heavy drops onto the earth below.
"No… don't tell me…" Ethan's chest tightened. In fleeing, he'd looped straight back to where it had all started.
The tribespeople shifted, encircling him. Their brow ridges jutted forward, their bodies were thick and hairy, their expressions savage. Some wore rough leaves tied together as skirts, others draped themselves in animal hides, while a few wore nothing at all.
"Lah! Lah! Lah!" they shouted, brandishing weapons, their voices thick with excitement.
Ethan's mind raced. To him, it was nonsense. He could only pick out meaning through their tone and gestures—and that meaning was clear: they wanted him alive.
Or worse.
His stomach knotted. He remembered a card in the system's arsenal. "Translation Card." His only chance. With no time to lose, he activated it.
The world shifted. Their guttural shouts suddenly had meaning.
One young tribesman with a shaved forehead and no clothing pointed at him, eyes gleaming with hunger. "Father! Look at his legs! So soft, so tender! I want his thighs raw—no cooking, just fresh!"
Another grunted suspiciously. "Strange… I hit him with a spear. Why is he not bleeding?"
"Quiet!" The elder of the group, a hunched man with a crooked spine and a brutal gaze, silenced them. "We take him alive. He is a rare catch. Your mother will enjoy him first. After that, you can feast."
Excitement rippled through the group.
Ethan's stomach turned to ice. Enjoy him first? His mind threatened to collapse under the weight of their words.
"Wait! Stop! I'm not your enemy—I'm human, just like you!" he shouted, desperate.
The crowd roared with surprise. The shaved-headed youth's voice cracked with alarm: "Father, he speaks our tongue! He must be from the river tribe—Bapu!"
Instantly, the clearing tensed. Weapons angled toward him.
"Bapu scum!" snarled the elder. "You dare cross into our lands?"
"No, no—you misunderstand!" Ethan raised his hands, backing up, but the words of another youth cut him off.
"Father, if there's a new tribe in these woods, then war is coming! We must fight, fight, fight!"
The clearing erupted in howls. Ethan felt his throat dry out. Reasoning with them was useless.
His heart hammered in his chest. If he didn't do something now, they'd tear him apart. He forced himself to stand tall, raised his arms, and shouted: "Stop! I am no tribesman—I am sent by the heavens to save you! I am a messenger of the gods!"
The uproar quieted. The primitives blinked at him in confusion.
Seeing the hesitation, Ethan pressed on. "I will show you a miracle of the gods!"
His hand fumbled in his pockets. His flashlight—gone. Panic seized him until his fingers brushed cold metal. A lighter.
He flicked it to life. A flame bloomed in the air. "Behold—the sacred fire! A gift entrusted to me from above!"
The clearing froze. Every eye locked onto the tiny flame. For a long, breathless moment, Ethan thought he'd won them over.
Then the elder gave a grunt. One of the tribesmen pulled out a piece of wood, spun it against a board of dry tinder, and within moments, smoke curled upward. Flames caught, snapping brightly in the open air.
Ethan's jaw went slack. They already knew how to make fire.
Before he could regroup, he ripped open a package of food from his backpack—biscuits, a can of soda. He made a show of eating, then tossed the rest toward the tribe.
Instead of awe, he heard the youth shout furiously: "Father! He mocks us! He treats us like animals!"
The elder snarled, nostrils flaring. He stomped the soda can, but the crushed aluminum sliced into his foot. Blood dripped. He roared in pain.
The tribe exploded with rage.
"Kill him!" the youth shrieked. "Kill him now!"
Weapons raised. The mob surged.
Ethan's heart slammed in his chest. There was no more room for tricks. Only survival.
(End of chapter 14)