I kept moving, my eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of shelter. The landscape around me didn't exactly scream "welcome." More like "get lost or die trying." Every direction looked the same—scorched, cracked earth, jagged rocks, and the occasional flash of lightning in the sickly orange sky. It felt like I was walking through the set of a bad post-apocalyptic movie. And, as much as I tried to ignore it, the nagging feeling that something was watching me hadn't gone away.
After what felt like hours of aimless wandering, I spotted a rocky outcrop up ahead. It wasn't much, but it looked like it might provide some cover from the wind and whatever else this place decided to throw at me. I made my way toward it, keeping my movements slow and deliberate. No sense in rushing when I didn't know what I was rushing into.
As I got closer, I heard voices—low, gruff, and definitely not friendly. I crouched behind a boulder, peeking around the edge to get a better look. About twenty feet away, a group of five scraggly-looking individuals were huddled together, picking through the remains of what looked like a destroyed caravan. They were armed with crude weapons—makeshift spears, rusty knives, and one guy even had a crossbow that looked like it had seen better days. They looked like the kind of people you'd cross the street to avoid back in… wherever I was from.
"Scavengers," I thought. The word popped into my mind like it had been there all along, waiting for the right moment to make its entrance. They were picking through the wreckage, arguing over what little loot they could find. One of them, a tall guy with a patchy beard, was holding up a small metal box, yelling at the others about something. I couldn't make out the words, but his tone made it clear he wasn't happy.
I stayed low, trying to make myself as small as possible behind the rock. Maybe if I waited them out, they'd move on, and I could slip by unnoticed. But then, because the universe apparently hated me, one of them looked up and spotted me.
"Hey!" he shouted, pointing in my direction. "We got company!"
Crap. I could feel my heart rate spike as all five heads turned toward me, their expressions shifting from surprise to something much worse. I didn't need a Danger Sense to tell me this wasn't going to end well.
"Hey, look at this," one of them sneered, a woman with a wild mane of hair and a knife strapped to her thigh. "Looks like we got ourselves a little lost lamb."
"Lamb, nothing," Patchy Beard growled, dropping the box and reaching for his crossbow. "More like fresh meat."
I stood up slowly, keeping my hands where they could see them. "Whoa, whoa, easy there," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "I'm not looking for trouble."
"Too bad," Patchy Beard said, grinning as he leveled the crossbow at my chest. "'Cause you just found it."
I didn't even have time to think. One second, the crossbow was pointed right at me, and the next, I felt that same tingle at the back of my neck—a sharp, insistent pulse that seemed to scream, Move! Without even thinking, I threw myself to the side just as the crossbow bolt whizzed past where I'd been standing, embedding itself in the rock with a loud thunk.
"Damn it!" Patchy Beard snarled, fumbling to reload. "Get him!"
They rushed me, weapons raised, and for a split second, I panicked. I didn't have a weapon, didn't have magic, didn't even have a plan. But then that weird, instinctive pull kicked in again, guiding me, pushing me forward. I ducked under a wild swing from the woman with the knife, my body moving almost on its own, reacting faster than I could think.
One of the scavengers—a wiry guy with a makeshift spear—jabbed at me, but I sidestepped, grabbing his arm and twisting. He yelped in pain as I wrenched the spear from his grasp and turned it on him, sweeping his legs out from under him in one fluid motion. He hit the ground hard, and I felt a strange rush of satisfaction.
"Where the hell did that come from?" I wondered. But I didn't have time to dwell on it. I spun around just in time to parry another strike, my body moving with a fluidity that felt almost… familiar. Like I'd done this a thousand times before.
Another scavenger—a stocky woman with a jagged scar running down her face—charged at me with a rusted machete. I ducked, the blade passing harmlessly over my head, and then thrust the spear's blunt end into her gut. She doubled over with a grunt, and I kicked her legs out from under her, sending her sprawling to the ground.
"Come on, we've got him!" Patchy Beard shouted, finally managing to reload his crossbow. He took aim again, and I felt that tingle, that Danger Sense, flare up again. Without thinking, I twisted to the side just as the bolt flew past me, missing me by inches.
"Too slow," I muttered, more to myself than him.
I was moving on autopilot now, every muscle and instinct honed into one single goal: survive. I ducked and weaved, dodging attacks, disarming scavengers, and using their own momentum against them. It was like a dance—a violent, chaotic dance that I somehow knew all the steps to.
But then, just as I was starting to think I might actually have this under control, I felt a sharp pain in my side. I looked down and saw a small, rusty knife sticking out of me, just below my ribs. I hadn't even seen the guy who threw it. My knees buckled, and I hit the ground hard, my vision swimming.
"Got you now, you bastard," Patchy Beard snarled, moving in for the kill.
I gritted my teeth, feeling the pain radiate through my body, but then, something strange happened. The pain started to fade, replaced by a cool, soothing sensation. I looked down and watched, wide-eyed, as the skin around the knife wound began to knit itself back together. Within seconds, the pain was gone, and the wound had closed completely, leaving only a faint scar.
"What the hell?" I muttered.
Patchy Beard hesitated, his eyes widening as he saw what just happened. "What… what are you?" he stammered, his bravado suddenly gone.
I didn't answer. I didn't have an answer. Instead, I surged to my feet, pulling the knife out and tossing it aside. I grabbed the spear from the ground and advanced on him, my steps steady, my movements fluid. For the first time since I woke up in this hellscape, I felt… in control.
"Let's find out," I said, my voice low and steady.
Patchy Beard panicked. He dropped the crossbow and turned to run, but I was faster. I closed the distance in a heartbeat, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the ground. The other scavengers, seeing their leader down, turned tail and ran.
"Yeah, you better run," I muttered, tossing the spear aside.
I turned back to Patchy Beard, who was lying on the ground, dazed and breathing heavily. "Please," he gasped. "Don't… don't kill me."
I hesitated. The old me—whoever that was—might have killed him without a second thought. But something held me back. Some instinct, some flicker of something… different. I didn't want to kill him. Not like this.
"Get out of here," I said, stepping back. "And don't come back."
He scrambled to his feet, stumbling over himself as he ran off into the distance. I watched him go, feeling a strange mix of relief and confusion. What the hell was I doing? Who was I? What was I?
I looked down at my hands, still trembling from the adrenaline. They weren't just hands. They were weapons. Tools. A means to an end. I didn't know what my end was yet, but I was starting to get an idea.
I took a deep breath and turned back toward the wasteland. The scavengers were gone, but I knew they weren't the last danger I'd face. Not by a long shot.
"Okay," I said to myself, my voice steady. "Let's see what else this place has to throw at me."
With that, I started walking again, deeper into the unknown. Deeper into whatever this place had in store for me. Whatever it was, I was ready.