Senses seeped into Harten's consciousness before he even opened his eyes: the rhythmic tapping of water droplets on stone, the savory scent of meat meeting fire, the distant hum of flies, and the crackle of wood turning to ash. He opened his eyes to find a cold stone ceiling sheltering him.
"Joe? Joe! Where are you?" he shouted, his voice echoing through the cavern.
The reply came from outside, carried by a sharp yet endearing tone of sarcasm: "I'm here, you sleepy sluggard! Do you intend to spend your entire journey in dreams?"
A wave of joy surged through Harten's chest—a strange exhilaration he had never known. He ran toward the cave's mouth with a wide grin; in record time, this stranger with the thick glasses had become his only harbor of safety in a raging world.
At the exit, Joe was crouching before the fire. Beside him lay a massive deer, freshly slaughtered, its crimson blood still tracing viscous lines on the ground. Joe gave him a brief glance: "Are you hungry?"
Harten froze. The old dread of the sight of blood—the same fear that had turned the holiday feasts of his childhood into true nightmares—returned to haunt him. But this time, something was different. His inner voice roared with authority: "Damn it! Will I remain a trembling child? The one who shivered at a drop of blood was 'Ahmed'... but I am 'Harten,' the one who spat in the face of death!"
He swallowed his hesitation and said with an enthusiasm that surprised even Joe: "Yes! I'm starving!"
The two sat devouring the roasted meat, watching the movement of colorful birds in the jungle sky. Harten broke the silence with a question that had been lingering in his mind: "Why did we leave the tree?"
Joe stopped chewing and set his plate aside. His eyes clouded over with a bleak, sorrowful look, as if he were seeing ghosts invisible to Harten. He fixed his gaze on the ground and said in a low voice: "I will tell you everything... but not now. First, you must learn how to survive in this wilderness."
Harten looked at the glowing embers: "Do we start by learning how to build a fire?"
Joe erupted into laughter—a laugh that shook the cave—then pointed his index finger at Harten's chest, right over his heart: "No... we start here. With Fear!"
Harten was puzzled, but Joe's tone suddenly shifted to a stern gravity: "You must domesticate your fear; make it the fuel that drives the gears of your body. Fear is not a shame; it is the most powerful defensive and offensive tool a creature possesses. A lion doesn't attack you because it's brave—it attacks because it sees you as a threat it fears! Fear is the early warning system, and it has levels:
• Level One (Disorientation): The adrenaline prison. This is where the body trembles and loses control. Here, you must place yourself face-to-face with death to force your instincts to break the shackles.
• Level Two (Flight): The stage of channeling power—either for a sudden, crushing blow or a legendary escape. He who flees out of pure fear experiences a speed and lightness no human can imagine.
• Level Three (Ultra-Instinct): Here, the mind stops thinking, and the body takes command. The world slows down around you, and you see movements before they happen. It is a state that turns you into someone else—a combat machine operating subconsciously to keep you alive."
Joe paused for a moment, then raised a playful eyebrow: "Haha, look at your face! You look like you've peed yourself in terror."
Harten's face wasn't just pale from dread; it was burning with a passion he hadn't experienced in all of his eleven years. Joe stood up suddenly and said in a booming voice: "Let's go... the journey of forging the real Harten has begun!"