The First Steps
The towering trees of the jungle loomed overhead, their branches interwoven to form a green ceiling that filtered the sunlight into fractured beams. The jungle was alive with sound—birds calling, insects buzzing, and the occasional distant rustle that hinted at something larger moving through the underbrush. Dahen tread carefully, each step sinking slightly into the soft earth as he ventured further away from the safety of the village.
His senses were heightened, his ears straining to catch even the faintest sound, his eyes scanning every shadow. The jungle was beautiful but unforgiving, and he had been taught from an early age that even the smallest mistake could be deadly.
"Stay alert, Dahen," he muttered to himself, gripping the hilt of the parang strapped to his waist. The blade was a gift from his father, who had used it during his own beast-taming journey many years ago. It was well-worn, its handle smooth from years of use, but the blade was sharp enough to cut through thick vines or defend against a sudden attack.
He paused near a tree with a trunk as wide as a house, its roots twisting like the coils of a great serpent. The markings on its bark told a story—symbols carved by the hands of his ancestors, left to guide those who dared to follow in their footsteps. Dahen placed his hand on the bark, tracing the lines with his fingers.
"May you guide me as you guided them," he whispered, a quiet prayer to the spirits of the jungle. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the jungle wash over him, before continuing on.
The path ahead was marked by faint trails—trampled grass and broken branches left by those who had passed before him. He knew the direction he needed to go, but the journey was not simply about reaching a destination. It was about proving himself, about finding a beast that would accept him as its rider.
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A Test of Courage
By midday, the sun hung high in the sky, its rays piercing through the canopy in places and casting long shadows in others. The air was thick with humidity, and sweat clung to Dahen's skin as he pushed deeper into the jungle. His parang had already seen use, cutting through dense undergrowth and hanging vines that blocked his path.
As he reached a small clearing, he stopped to take a drink from the bamboo flask slung over his shoulder. The water was cool and refreshing, but it did little to calm the unease that had settled in his stomach. The clearing was too quiet. The usual hum of the jungle seemed muted here, as if the very air was holding its breath.
Dahen crouched low, his hand instinctively going to his parang. His eyes darted around the clearing, searching for any sign of movement. Then, from the shadows of the trees on the far side, a pair of glowing eyes appeared—yellow and unblinking, watching him with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.
The creature stepped into the light, revealing itself to be a massive boar, its tusks curved and sharp like blades. Its hide was a patchwork of scars, and its muscles rippled beneath its skin as it moved. This was no ordinary boar—it was a beast, one of the creatures that the tribes sought to tame.
Dahen's heart pounded in his chest as he rose slowly to his feet, careful not to make any sudden movements. He knew what he had to do. The bond could only be formed through eye contact, a silent agreement between rider and beast. But first, he had to show the beast that he was worthy.
The boar snorted, its breath steaming in the humid air. It pawed the ground with one massive hoof, its eyes never leaving Dahen. The tension in the clearing was palpable, the air thick with the unspoken challenge between them.
"I mean no harm," Dahen said softly, his voice steady despite the fear coursing through him. "I only seek your guidance, your strength."
The boar lowered its head slightly, as if considering his words, but then it charged. Dahen barely had time to react, leaping to the side as the beast barreled past him, its tusks slicing through the air where he had stood moments before. He rolled to his feet, his parang in hand, ready to defend himself if necessary.
"Wait!" he shouted, holding out his free hand in a gesture of peace. "I don't want to fight you!"
The boar turned sharply, its hooves digging into the earth, and charged again. This time, Dahen stood his ground. As the beast closed the distance between them, he locked eyes with it, refusing to look away. The world seemed to slow as their gazes met, the intensity of the connection overwhelming.
At the last moment, the boar stopped, its tusks mere inches from Dahen's chest. It huffed, its hot breath washing over him, but it didn't attack. Instead, it tilted its head slightly, as if trying to understand him.
Dahen lowered his parang, his hands trembling as he reached out slowly. "I am not your enemy," he said softly. "I only wish to honor you."
The boar snorted again, but it didn't move away. Dahen took a deep breath and extended his hand further, his fingers brushing against the beast's rough hide. The connection was brief, but in that moment, he felt something—an understanding, a flicker of acceptance.
But just as quickly as it had begun, the moment was gone. The boar pulled away, its eyes losing the glow that had entranced Dahen. Without a sound, it turned and disappeared back into the jungle, leaving him alone in the clearing.
Dahen sank to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He had failed to form the bond, but he had survived. That, at least, was something.
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Shadows of the Unknown
The sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the dense jungle in shades of orange and gold. Dahen trudged forward, his steps slower now as exhaustion crept into his limbs. The encounter with the boar played on a loop in his mind—its gleaming eyes, the raw power in its charge, and the fleeting moment when it seemed to accept him. That brief connection had left him shaken, but not defeated. It was a taste of what could be, a promise of what might come if he persevered.
The jungle was quiet in the early evening, the usual cacophony of birds and insects subdued as the day gave way to dusk. The air felt heavier, as if the jungle itself was holding its breath. Dahen scanned his surroundings, noting the thick underbrush, the gnarled roots that snaked across the ground, and the faint shimmer of a stream up ahead.
Reaching the stream, he crouched beside it, cupping his hands to scoop up the cool water. He splashed his face and drank deeply, the liquid washing away some of the day's heat and weariness. For a moment, he let himself rest, sitting back on his heels and watching the water flow over the rocks.
"This isn't going to be easy," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the gentle rush of the stream. His fingers brushed the parang at his side, its worn handle a reminder of his father's strength and resilience. He wondered how his father had felt during his own taming journey. Had he been as uncertain, as unprepared? Or had he faced the jungle with confidence, knowing he would emerge victorious?
Night fell quickly in the jungle, the daylight vanishing as if swallowed by an unseen force. Dahen worked swiftly to prepare a small camp, gathering dry wood and stacking it carefully before striking a spark to ignite the fire. The flames flickered to life, casting dancing shadows across the trees and illuminating the immediate area in a warm glow.
The fire provided more than light—it was a barrier against the unknown, a circle of safety in the midst of a vast and untamed wilderness. As he sat cross-legged beside the flames, Dahen pulled a strip of dried meat from his pouch and chewed slowly, his thoughts returning to the Neofelis.
The Neofelis was a legend among the tribes, whispered about in stories passed down through generations. It was said to be a creature of unmatched grace and power, its coat marked with patterns that mimicked the dappled light of the jungle. Few had ever seen one, and even fewer had dared to approach it. To bond with a Neofelis was to claim a destiny greater than oneself—a destiny that would change not only the rider but the tribe as a whole.
Dahen frowned, his hand tightening around the strip of meat. "If I couldn't connect with a boar," he muttered, "what chance do I have with something as rare as the Neofelis?"
The words hung in the air, unanswered. He poked at the fire with a stick, sending a shower of sparks into the night. Doubt gnawed at him like a persistent ache, its weight settling heavily on his shoulders. But alongside the doubt was a flicker of determination, a stubborn refusal to give up.
As the hours passed, the jungle came alive with the sounds of the night. Frogs croaked from the stream, their calls echoing through the trees, and the occasional rustle of leaves hinted at unseen creatures moving through the undergrowth. The firelight carved out a small bubble of comfort, but beyond its reach, the darkness was absolute.
Dahen's gaze wandered to the edge of the firelight, where the shadows seemed to shift and move. He told himself it was just his imagination, a trick of the flickering flames, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him.
"Spirits of the jungle," he whispered, bowing his head slightly, "if you are near, I mean no harm. Guide me, if you will, or leave me to find my own way."
The words were a ritual, one that had been drilled into him since childhood. The tribes believed that the jungle was alive with spirits—some benevolent, others less so. To travel through it without acknowledging them was to invite misfortune.
A sudden rustling to his left made him sit up straight, his hand flying to the hilt of his parang. He scanned the darkness, his heart pounding in his chest. The fire crackled, its light casting long, shifting shadows, but he saw nothing.
"Calm down," he told himself, his voice shaky. "It's probably just an animal."
Even as he said the words, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The sensation was almost tangible, a prickling at the back of his neck that made the hair on his arms stand on end.
Despite the unease, fatigue eventually caught up with him. He lay down on the soft earth, using his pack as a makeshift pillow, and pulled his cloak tightly around him. The fire burned steadily, its warmth lulling him into a restless sleep.
In his dreams, the jungle was alive in ways he couldn't fully comprehend. Trees whispered secrets in a language he didn't understand, their branches reaching out as if to touch him. The stream glittered with an otherworldly light, and in its reflection, he saw the Neofelis—a ghostly figure with glowing eyes, watching him from the shadows.
"Dahen," a voice called, low and melodic, yet commanding. He turned, but there was no one there. The jungle seemed to shift around him, its paths twisting and changing, leading him deeper into its heart.
When he awoke, the fire had burned low, its embers glowing faintly in the predawn light. The jungle was quiet, the sounds of the night fading as the first rays of sunlight pierced the canopy. Dahen sat up, rubbing his eyes and shaking off the remnants of the dream.
The feeling of being watched was gone, replaced by a sense of calm. He took it as a sign, a quiet reassurance from the jungle that his path, though difficult, was the right one. Gathering his things, he doused the fire and prepared to move on, his resolve stronger than it had been the night before.