Aster stretched the fingers on his right hand, pain shooting through his gored elbow. He bit his tongue, the taste of iron lingering.
Feeling returned to his arm, and he was thankful for that—despite the throbbing pain that made its return alongside it. Adrenaline was wearing thin; he had to act now.
The beast continued to feast, the scattered provisions growing smaller and smaller.
I have to do it. I have to do it now. I have to do it.
He felt like a sprinter waiting for a gun that would never fire.
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Aster launched himself off his injured arm.
SHIT. Pain shot through him, dimming his vision, but he pressed on. It was too late to stop. Using the momentum, he leaned forward, digging a foot into the dirt to launch himself onto the beast.
He aimed to land beside it, grab the knife, and slice the beast open before it could react. Instead, he stumbled, landing directly on its back.
The beast yelped in surprise, bucking like a bull, trying to throw Aster off. He dug his hands into its matted fur, clawing for purchase as he hung on for dear life.
His arm cried out in pain. The beast kicked its back legs, trying to dislodge him, but Aster found a weak point, gripping tightly to its neck.
But now what? The knife was just a foot away—he had to reach it.
Aster yanked upwards under the beast's chin, extending his gored arm toward the knife. His fingers trembled as the beast rubbed more poison into his wound.
He grazed the handle, just a little more—just...
His hand closed around the knife, weak and unsteady.
He pulled back, lifting the knife over his head and plunging it down into the beast. It cut through flesh with ease.
Relief surged through him, but he couldn't loosen his grip; this was his last chance.
He yanked the knife from the beast, stabbing it again. Once. Twice. Blood sprayed onto him, but he didn't care. He kept stabbing—he had to.
His ears rang, and his arms throbbed, but he fought like a monster possessed.
The beast's pained howls faded until the only sound left was flesh meeting metal.
Aster's heart thundered in his chest, and the world shrank to just him and the beast, each strike echoing in the night.
With every stab, he felt a mix of primal fear and exhilaration. He was alive, and he would fight until his last breath.
But exhaustion crept in, sapping his strength. With one final stab, he drove the blade deep into the beast's heart. Its body went limp beneath him, the light fading from its eyes.
Aster collapsed beside it, panting heavily, the knife slipping from his grip and falling with a dull thud. The world around him dimmed, the weight of fatigue crashing down. Blood soaked his clothes, the cold air biting at his skin as he gasped for breath, adrenaline finally dissipating.
In the aftermath, silence enveloped him. He lay there, a broken warrior, staring into the vast, dark expanse of the night sky.
He fought to stay awake, but his body wasn't cooperating any longer. Darkness encroached on his vision.
> Ping! Ping!
He heard the sounds of the system as he drifted to sleep.
----
By the time Aster awoke, the sun was already high in the sky. This time, the pain wasn't limited to his arm—his entire body ached, and a pounding headache added to the misery.
He looked down at himself, drenched in the beast's blood, his body covered in cuts and bruises. His reflection was grotesque, like a demon risen from hell. His right arm throbbed with pain, clearly the worst of his injuries. He quickly tore up what was left of his quilt, fashioning a makeshift sling.
His gaze drifted to the remains of his opponent. The upper back of the creature was unrecognizable, reduced to a pile of gore and blood. His stomach twisted at the sight.
Despite his narrow victory, dread was all he felt.
Three... Four... This will last, what? Two days, maybe?
He scoured through what remained of his provisions. The beast had left him almost nothing. It had torn through his supplies during the fight, and what little he had left wouldn't last long.
I'm in for some rough nights.
He faced a critical choice: push ahead, hoping to reach the storehouse before his food ran out, or turn back and pray his remaining provisions could see him through the return journey.
But that wasn't the worst of it.
If there was one, there'll be more.
The fight last night had been anything but quiet, and the stench of blood clung to him. Any monsters nearby would be headed his way. Backtracking meant risking another encounter, and he knew he wouldn't survive a second one.
The world was making his decision for him. All he could do was hope Shevron had been right about all of this.
His eyes fell back to the beast's corpse, bile rising in his throat.
Do I really have to do... that?
He did.
---
> [NEW ABILITY ACQUIRED: FIELD DRESSING]
The notification appeared before Aster, but it did nothing to lift his spirits. He had spent the last two hours hacking away at the beast's remains.
---
The first hour had been spent attempting to skin the creature. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring his vision as his muscles screamed in protest. He hacked away with his left arm, pulling at the flesh with frustration.
By the time he finished, the result was laughable—a misshapen, uneven pelt. But it would have to do. His only saving grace, the poison-matted fur had dried overnight, making it safer to handle.
Probably.
Collapsing onto the ground, Aster wiped the sweat from his brow, staring blankly at the skinned carcass. His mind was spiraling. Was he really considering this?
Is this thing... edible?
The mere thought churned his stomach.
The beast was mostly skin and bones, but any food at all would be more than welcome. He swallowed the rising nausea.
Will I be alright? he wondered. He'd survived poverty meals and factory rations back on Earth. He had a stomach of steel.
He thought back to the night before, to the hesitation that had nearly cost him his life. It wasn't the first time hesitation had nearly killed him, and if he wanted to survive, he needed to change.
Aster sighed, picking up the knife once more.
The next hour was spent carving up the remains, wrapping any usable meat in scraps of his ruined quilt. Luck seemed to be on his side—Shevron had packed him a small bag of salt.
He wiped at his brow again, but his hand came away grimier than before. His body was caked in layers of filth from days of travel. Now, drenched in blood and sweat, he had reached new levels of disgusting.
What I wouldn't give for a hot shower... He paused, a thought crossing his mind. Does this world even have indoor plumbing?
The thought was more unsettling than he cared to admit.
---
The sun hung directly overhead now. There was still more of the beast to carve up, but scavengers circled overhead. He had no time left to linger—he needed to move, and fast.
Before setting off, he glanced back at the remains of the creature. He half-expected to feel something—some remorse, some connection to the life he had taken. On Earth, even the sight of roadkill had stirred pity in him.
Now, all he felt was exhaustion.