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Chapter 7 – The Duel for Survival
The jungle held its breath.
The boy stood at the center of a circle of warriors, gripping the obsidian dagger in his trembling hands. Across from him, his opponent, Torga, towered like a beast carved from stone—his dark skin painted with streaks of white and red, his chest broad, his grip firm around a long spear.
The Volx warriors watched in silence, their eyes gleaming like those of hunters waiting to see if their prey was worth sparing. At the head of the gathering, the woman with braided hair and bone beads sat on a carved wooden throne, her expression unreadable.
She was their leader. And this was his trial.
"The jungle does not care for the weak," she said. "Prove that you belong among us, or perish."
The warriors around them began chanting, a low and steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
The duel had begun.
The First Strike
Torga moved first.
The air shuddered as he lunged, thrusting his spear forward with terrifying speed. The boy barely dodged in time, rolling to the side. He felt the wind of the spear slicing past his ribs—a breath closer, and he would have been impaled.
Pain flared in his side as he hit the ground, but he pushed through it. He had fought to survive every day since he had been abandoned in this jungle. He would not lose now.
Torga did not give him time to recover. With a growl, the warrior spun his spear around and swung at the boy's head.
The boy ducked.
He felt the rush of air as the spear cut through empty space where his skull had been a moment ago. His instincts screamed at him to run, but there was nowhere to run. The circle of warriors surrounding them was a wall of flesh and steel.
He had only one option.
He had to fight.
Gritting his teeth, he gripped his dagger tighter and darted forward, slashing toward Torga's exposed ribs.
But Torga was too fast.
The warrior pivoted, using the shaft of his spear to block the dagger with ease. The force of the impact sent a painful shock up the boy's arm.
Then came the counterattack.
Torga spun the spear in a blur, bringing the butt of it down toward the boy's shoulder.
The boy barely managed to twist out of the way, but the weapon still grazed his arm, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his body. He staggered back, breathing heavily.
Torga smiled.
"This is not a fight, child," the warrior taunted. "This is slaughter."
The boy clenched his jaw. His body ached, his breath came in ragged gasps, but he refused to fall. He had survived the jungle for days, fought against hunger, against beasts. He had tasted death and spat it back out.
He would not die here.
Not at the hands of a man.
Not when he had come this far.
The Jungle's Lesson
The boy took a deep breath and steadied himself. He could not match Torga in raw strength. That much was clear.
But strength alone did not rule the jungle.
Cunning did.
Speed did.
Patience did.
He thought back to his time alone in the wilderness. He had watched the hunters of the jungle—the panthers, the snakes, the eagles. He had seen how they moved, how they waited for the perfect moment to strike.
That was how he would win.
Torga charged again, aiming a brutal thrust toward the boy's stomach. But this time, instead of dodging, the boy stepped in.
Torga's eyes widened as the boy closed the distance between them, bringing himself too close for the spear to be effective.
With a burst of movement, the boy slammed his forearm into the spear, pushing it aside. Then, with every ounce of strength he had, he drove his dagger toward Torga's chest.
The warrior barely twisted in time, the blade missing his heart by a fraction. But it still cut deep into his shoulder.
Torga let out a roar of pain and staggered back, clutching the wound. Blood dripped onto the jungle floor.
The watching Volx warriors murmured in surprise.
The boy did not wait. He pressed the attack, aiming another slash at Torga's ribs.
But Torga was still faster.
With a snarl, he twisted his spear around and slammed the shaft into the boy's stomach.
The boy felt the air explode from his lungs as he was sent sprawling to the ground.
Pain shot through his body, and for a moment, the world blurred.
He struggled to breathe, his vision swimming.
Then—
Torga was above him, raising his spear for the killing blow.
The boy had only seconds to act.
The Final Blow
With the last of his strength, the boy grabbed a handful of dirt and flung it into Torga's eyes.
The warrior let out a roar of frustration as he staggered back, momentarily blinded.
The boy did not waste the opportunity.
Ignoring the pain in his ribs, he pushed himself up and lunged.
Torga swung blindly, but the boy ducked under the spear and drove his dagger forward—straight into Torga's thigh.
The warrior howled in pain and collapsed to one knee.
The boy wasted no time.
He wrenched the dagger free and, in one swift motion, pressed it against Torga's throat.
Silence.
The jungle itself seemed to pause.
Torga's breathing was ragged. The boy could feel the rapid pulse beneath the blade. He could end it here.
The warriors around them tensed, waiting.
Waiting for him to kill.
The boy stared into Torga's eyes, searching for something—fear, anger, hatred. But he found none.
Only respect.
Slowly, he pulled the dagger away.
He had won.
And he did not need to take a life to prove it.
The Verdict
The Volx warriors watched in silence as the boy stepped back, breathing hard.
Torga wiped the blood from his leg and shoulder before standing, though his movements were slower now. He met the boy's gaze and gave a slight nod.
Then, to the boy's surprise, he pounded his chest once—a warrior's salute.
The boy hesitated, then did the same.
The woman with the bone-beaded braids finally spoke.
"You fight like the jungle itself," she said, rising from her seat. "You are not strong, yet you win. You are not fast, yet you survive. You are not one of us… yet you belong."
She took a step forward, studying him with piercing eyes.
"What is your name, boy?"
The boy opened his mouth to answer—then froze.
A name?
He did not have one. His family had abandoned him. His past was a shadow.
But he could feel something stirring deep within him. A name, waiting to be spoken.
Something powerful. Something his.
At last, he met the woman's gaze and spoke:
"My name is Kael."
A murmur passed through the Volx warriors.
The woman smiled. "Then rise, Kael of the Jungle."
The warriors pounded their chests in unison.
Kael stood, his body battered, his mind exhausted. But his heart—his heart burned with something new.
He had been cast away to die.
Instead, he had been reborn.
Not as a prince.
Not as a forgotten child.
But as a survivor.
As Kael of the Volx.
And his true journey was only beginning.
To be continued…