"The beast remembers what the man forgets.
The moon does not curse—it reveals."
⸻
The forest breathed with him.
Each inhale drew damp earth and rot into his lungs; each exhale vanished into the mist. Lin Wuji moved barefoot through leaves slick with rain, the echoes of fire and screaming still burned into his mind. The Silver Order was behind him now—ruined, grieving. He didn't dare imagine what Elira had seen before he vanished into the woods.
He hadn't planned to survive. Yet here he was—alive, aching, unrecognizable.
The air was sharp, every sound too vivid. He could hear the flutter of wings half a league away, the pulse of a deer drinking from a stream beyond sight. His senses bloomed like open wounds. He wanted to close them, to stop feeling, but the forest whispered louder with every step.
Something inside him was learning to listen.
⸻
Days blurred into a rhythm of hunger and silence.
He found an abandoned shepherd's hut by the edge of the valley—roof half-collapsed, moss creeping through the cracks. He slept there at first, curling on the wooden floor, waking to claw marks he couldn't remember making. His dreams were a collage of teeth and moonlight. When he woke, his skin felt wrong, his breath hot with the taste of iron.
Food ran out quickly. The man in him starved. The thing in him waited.
On the fourth morning, the waiting ended.
A rabbit darted through the underbrush. His body moved before thought. A snarl, a flash of claws—then blood. Hot, steaming, real.
He stared at what he'd done, trembling. He wanted to vomit, to apologize. Instead, he ate.
When it was over, he sat against a tree, breath shaking. He didn't know whether to cry or scream. The hunger had been unbearable—yet when it passed, a terrible calm remained.
He whispered into the quiet, "What am I becoming?"
The forest did not answer. Only the flies came.
⸻
Nights stretched long and unmerciful. The moon's silver eye seemed to follow him wherever he went, cold and knowing. The transformations did not return, but the feeling did—the hum beneath his skin, the pull of something ancient in his blood. He learned to avoid villages, to hide from travelers, to drink from rivers under cover of darkness.
He told himself he could control it. That he was still human.
But sometimes, in the black silence before dawn, he caught himself on all fours, crawling through the trees, tasting the air for prey.
He would find blood on his palms and no memory of how it got there.
The man tried to forget. The beast did not.
⸻
On the seventh night, thunder rolled over the mountains. The rain came hard, turning the ground to mud. Wuji took shelter beneath an uprooted tree, his heartbeat syncing with the storm. Every drop against the leaves felt like a whisper in another language—something he almost understood.
Then the scent came.
Iron. Smoke. Oil.
Human.
He froze.
Through the rain, faint light flickered between the trunks—torches, low voices. The Silver Order. He could smell the burn of silver on their weapons, the bitterness of old wounds.
Panic flared. He was too close.
He pressed himself flat to the ground, rainwater filling his ears. The voices came clearer.
"Captain says the trail ends near the river."
"He's not human anymore," another muttered. "If he's still alive, he's one of them."
"Then we put him down like one."
Lightning split the sky, revealing silhouettes—three hunters moving in formation. They swept their torches across the trees. The light passed inches from his face.
He didn't breathe.
One of the hunters turned toward him suddenly. "There! Movement!"
A bolt hissed through the dark. It struck the tree beside him, embedding deep with a metallic thud. The air filled with the sting of burning silver.
Wuji ran.
Branches whipped against his arms, mud splashing underfoot. He didn't think—only moved, faster than human legs should carry him. He heard shouts behind him, crossbows reloading, dogs barking.
He broke through the undergrowth, vaulted a fallen log, slid down a slope slick with rain. The forest seemed to tilt with him, every heartbeat echoing like drums.
"Cut him off!"
He didn't look back. The river's roar grew louder—close. He sprinted for it, lungs burning, legs blurring. When he reached the edge, he leapt.
Cold water swallowed him whole.
⸻
He surfaced far downstream, coughing, the world spinning in silver mist. The hunters' torches were distant now—faint sparks swallowed by rain. He crawled onto the bank, gasping. His clothes were shredded, his skin stung from shallow cuts.
He lay there until the thunder faded.
When he rolled onto his back, the moon stared down—full and unblinking.
He felt it again then—the heat crawling through his veins, the subtle stretch of bone, the echo of claws under his skin. Not full transformation, but a promise.
He clenched his fists. "Not tonight."
His reflection wavered in a pool beside him. His eyes glowed faint gold in the water.
He smashed the reflection with his hand.
⸻
By morning, the rain had stopped. Mist coiled through the valley, heavy and white. Wuji followed the river north, guided by hunger and something else—an instinct he didn't understand. Birds fell silent as he passed. Even the air seemed to yield to him.
He found the carcass of a deer tangled in the reeds. Its throat was torn. The blood was still warm.
He touched the wound. No blade. No arrow. Claw marks—deep, precise.
Someone else had killed it.
He wasn't alone.
The realization struck like lightning. The world, which had felt vast and empty, now pulsed with unseen eyes. He scanned the trees but saw nothing—only shadows moving where the light should be still.
His heart pounded. Fear and recognition twisted together in his chest.
He stepped back, slow.
The forest watched.
⸻
By dusk, he found a cave overlooking the valley. He lit no fire. He didn't need warmth anymore. The night hummed with the rhythm of life beyond human hearing—the whispers of creatures older than memory.
He sat with his back to the stone, eyes half-closed, listening to the pulse beneath the earth. It beat in time with his own.
For the first time since his curse began, he felt something like belonging—terrifying and undeniable.
He whispered to the darkness, "If I can't be man, then what am I?"
Somewhere beyond the trees, a low, distant howl answered him.
Not a threat. Not a challenge.
A summons.
He closed his eyes. The forest exhaled, and his heart answered.
The hunt had begun.