Love slept with the profound peace of a newborn, a tranquility that seemed impossible given her surroundings. Even within a handmade camp of jagged stakes and cold stone, she never truly felt secure. She realized that in this harsh new world, safety wasn't found in fortifications, but in companionship.
When hunting with Willow, Love knew she was shielded; if her own strength failed, Willow's would not. Willow possessed an instinct for the unseen, spotting concealed dangers long before they struck. Now, even her newest 'ally'—a trapped bear that had recently tried to kill her—offered a strange sense of protection. While she didn't fully trust the beast, she knew it would alert her to any threat with a deafening roar or a localized tremor as it thrashed against the walls of its earthen pit. These were living warnings that inanimate wood and stone could never provide. As she drifted off, she reflected on her journey and her bond with Willow, finding more peace in the presence of a captive predator than she ever had in solitude.
As she drifted into the deeper reaches of sleep, a dream began to take shape. It started with a warmth she hadn't felt in an eternity: she was back on Earth, and her mother was alive. They spent the afternoon shopping together, a mundane joy that felt like a miracle. Amidst the racks and registers, Love spotted Willow. She introduced her friend to her mother, and after a brief, pleasant exchange, Willow vanished back to her own world while Love remained in the safety of home.
But the peace was fragile. A sudden, sharp intuition told Love that Willow was in trouble, and she felt herself pulled back to the alien planet. She found Willow unharmed and preparing for a hunt. Eager to recapture their rhythm, Love joined her. They tore through relentless beasts with an ease that felt triumphant—until they encountered a foe lurking within a veil of dark green fog.
Instinct held Love back; the mist looked unnatural, sentient. She shouted a warning, begging Willow to stay away, but her friend stepped into the vapor without looking back. Willow never re-emerged. Fear gripped Love's chest as she called out into the silence, her voice escalating into a desperate scream: 'WILLOW!'
The sound of her own voice jerked her awake. Love sat up, disoriented and breathless, the haunting imagery of the green fog clinging to her as she tried to decipher if the dream was a memory, a warning, or a manifestation of her deepest fears.
Love forced her racing thoughts to still, and as the adrenaline ebbed, the significance of the green fog finally clicked. She looked back to her recent conquest of the North—a path she had chosen specifically to avoid a confrontation with a single, nightmare-inducing foe: the "Saber-Toothed Snake".
Known as the King of the South of the wilderness she found herself, this elemental terror was more harrowing than the three grizzlies and as lethal as a pack of Night Wolves.
But fate had a cruel sense of irony. Even though she had tried to bypass the serpent, it had been the catalyst for her current predicament, dragging her down with it when it finally tripped off the trap she had set. Now, the dream suggested their destinies were truly entwined; the monster she had tried so hard to evade was now hunting the person she cared for most. Whether the vision was a true prophecy or just a lingering fear, Love's resolve was set. She would face the snake, conquer her fate, and ensure that Willow would never have to step into that poisonous mist.
With cold conviction, Love began her preparations, but a grim inventory of her arsenal offered little comfort. Her only true weapon was a crude, stone-tipped wooden spear—a primitive tool against a king. Only yesterday, she had been celebrating her victory over the North, a triumph earned through patience, creativity, and a proactive mastery of the terrain. Yet, she knew that sheer intellect wouldn't be enough to bridge the gap this time.
She agonized over the memory of their last encounter, recalling how the serpent had countered her every move with effortless precision. Despite the crushing reality of her disadvantage, her desire to protect Willow fueled a burning resolve. She began to forge a plan, desperate to find a strategy that could turn her meager spear into a king-slayer, determined that this time, her conviction would outweigh the snake's power.
She considered a creative approach, but creativity required planting a trap at the heart of the fog—an environment where breathing the air for even five minutes was fatal. After scratching her head in frustration, she dismissed the idea. She tried to be proactive, but rushing in blind was the fastest way to die, and she had no way to pinpoint the snake's location or lure it out. Lastly, she considered patience, but patience would only get Willow killed.
A faint idea emerged: using a Nightmare Beast like the Shadowmane to flush the snake out of its venomous habitat. It was a high-stakes gamble; if she summoned a Night Wolf, the snake would kill it instantly with its breath. If she summoned something more powerful than a Shadowmane- a horror that might kill the snake only to become a greater plague upon the land. Furthermore, using fire to attract them was risky; the fog might mask the scent of an explosion, or worse, the scent might cling to her, turning her into a homing beacon for the nightmare beasts instead of the snake.
Exhausted, Love slumped to the floor. Her best idea—firing a compressed flame projectile into the mist and hoping for a lucky headshot—felt pathetic. Luck couldn't break fate. To win, she had to personally draw the snake's ire, lure it into the open, and fight while holding her breath to avoid the venom dome, all while knowing her crude spear was likely to fail.
The math was grim: a 1000% failure rate and certain death. "If only I had a companion," she whispered, thinking of Willow. Then, she gasped. She did have a companion. He wasn't Willow, but he could get the job done. She glanced at the hole in the floor, catching the silhouette of the pot-bellied bear. Her panic vanished, replaced by a sharp smile.