Six hours of daylight remained, and Shaun sat surrounded by the tools of his survival. Short spears, rough-hewn from the branches he'd painstakingly gathered, lay in a row beside him. He had tried to craft longer spears at first, but they had proven unwieldy, difficult to control, and nearly impossible to throw with any accuracy. Frustrated, he had settled on these shorter weapons, their sharp, jagged points now gleaming in the fading light.
But amid the array of weapons, one particular stick drew his gaze time and again. It was different—stubborn, unyielding wood that defied every attempt to carve it, even when he used Panda's horn, the one tool sharp enough to cut through almost anything. Yet, with this wood, he could barely scratch the surface. The act of trying had clearly irritated the rabbit, whose narrowed eyes and frequent squeaks of annoyance were impossible to miss.
As Shaun ran his fingers along the stick's intricate patterns, they seemed to ripple under his touch, almost hypnotizing in their complexity. The stick wasn't particularly large—standing just at shoulder height—but it felt solid, unbreakable. It was a curious paradox: a seemingly simple object that held an air of indomitable strength.
Panda, however, remained unimpressed. Every time Shaun used its horn to scrape the wood, the rabbit would thump its leg impatiently, as if to say, "Are we really doing this again, human?"
Shaun sighed, casting a sidelong glance at the rabbit, which glared back, its beady eyes brimming with silent judgment. He knew he couldn't keep Panda trapped forever. The Wrap Trap had its limits—too much struggle, too much time, and even a creature as small as Panda could break free. And when that happened, Shaun knew he'd be in for a world of trouble.
Almost on cue, the shimmering blue vines of the Wrap Trap began to flicker and fade, dissolving back into the earth.
"Dear Panda, let's not take this too far…" Shaun began, his tone more pleading than commanding.
But before he could finish, Panda was a blur of white and black, hurtling toward him with all the pent-up fury of a creature wronged. In their previous spars, Panda had held back, its movements carefully controlled to avoid injuring Shaun too severely. But this time, the rabbit's restraint snapped like a taut wire, and it seemed determined to at least leave a mark. There was no hesitation, no mercy—only the fierce speed and precision of an animal intent on teaching a lesson.
Within seconds, Shaun was on the defensive, fresh cuts stinging as Panda darted around him. The rabbit moved with a fluidity and speed that left Shaun breathless, each strike a blur of motion. He swung the stout pole in wide, desperate arcs, but Panda was already gone before the wood cut through the air.
With every passing moment, Shaun's movements grew more sluggish, the pole feeling heavier in his hands. The weight dragged at his muscles, and the lack of experience with the unwieldy weapon showed in every clumsy swing.
Desperate to regain some control, Shaun shifted his grip, holding the pole closer to its midpoint. He began experimenting with the balance, spinning it in fluid circles that allowed him to redirect Panda's attacks, deflecting the blows rather than absorbing them head-on. He discovered that by letting the pole's momentum carry it, he could create a barrier around himself—a spinning shield that, while imperfect, offered some measure of protection.
But Panda was relentless, its strikes faster and more precise with each pass. Shaun struggled to keep up, the pole a blur in his hands as he tried to anticipate the rabbit's next move. His heart pounded, his muscles burned, and sweat poured down his face as he fought to stay on his feet.
After an exhausting hour, Shaun collapsed onto the ground, panting heavily, the pole slipping from his grasp. Panda, on the other hand, looked as fresh as ever, its black eyes glinting with something like amusement. The rabbit had deliberately dragged out the fight, wearing him down until he was too exhausted to continue.
As he lay there, chest heaving, Shaun's mind raced. He replayed the fight in his head, analyzing every mistake, every missed opportunity. His reactions had been too slow, his movements too predictable. With a groan, he pushed himself back to his feet, the pole feeling heavier than ever as he gripped it in the middle and began spinning it left and right, testing its balance, trying to find a rhythm that felt right.
For a brief moment, he thought he might have found a solution, a way to wield the pole more effectively. But when he challenged Panda again, the result was the same. The pole's weight distribution allowed for quicker strikes, but it also left him vulnerable, the reversals too slow and too costly in terms of effort.
Nightfall crept in, and with it came the biting cold. Shaun ran outside to train, his breath visible in the freezing air, his body aching from the exertion. The cold seeped into his bones, but he pushed through it, running until his legs burned and his lungs screamed for relief. Panda watched from the entrance, its eyes following Shaun's every move, perhaps trying to make sense of this strange human who seemed determined to break himself down, only to build himself up again.
Animals didn't train; they survived. They lived in the moment, fighting and fleeing as nature dictated. But Shaun was different—he was challenging the very essence of his own limitations, refusing to accept the weaknesses that made him vulnerable in this new world.
After his run, Shaun returned to his room, wiping himself down with a damp cloth. The cold water stung as it touched his raw skin, but he welcomed the sensation, using it to stay sharp. He spent the rest of the night charging his skills, alternating between focused concentration and physical training. The process was draining, both mentally and physically, but Shaun pushed through, determined to build the strength and resilience he'd need to survive.
By dawn, Shaun decided not to descend the cliff. He only had two days' worth of food left, but he wasn't ready to take the risk just yet. Instead, he spent his daylight hours sparring with Panda, each bout revealing new insights and small but significant improvements in his technique. The rabbit, though small, was a formidable opponent, and with each encounter, Shaun found himself growing a little sharper, a little faster.
At night, the cold gnawed at him, but Shaun refused to let it break his resolve. He trained through the discomfort, each hour spent building his strength, charging his skills, and preparing for the challenges ahead. At the start, he needed the entire night to charge four or five Wrap Traps, but gradually, the process became faster—seconds shaved off here and there, each one a small victory.
Over the next eight days—seven if you didn't count the night he spent recovering—Shaun's hands became a patchwork of scabs, and his feet were raw from the continuous exercise. But he was getting stronger, faster, more resilient.
On the morning of his last day with food, Shaun decided to focus solely on charging his skills and reviewing his spars with Panda. The last climb down had taught him a lot, and by the next morning, he would be ready.
He picked up two short spears he had prepared, along with the stout pole, bundling them together and tying them to the side of his backpack. One of his last few cans of food was stuffed inside, along with a flask of water, all in preparation for an early departure the next day.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Shaun sat in the dim light, his breath steady, his mind clear. Tomorrow, he would descend again, stronger and more prepared than ever before.