Barefoot, he moved through the undergrowth, each step silent as the wind. The jungle was alive with movement, but his senses cut through the noise, searching for something deeper—the shift in the air, the change in rhythm that signaled a predator.
He gripped his weapon—a spear, carved from elderwood, its tip coated in a venom extracted from jungle thorns. It was a weapon meant to wound, not kill. The elders had given him no easy victory; the final blow had to be his alone, done with his own strength.
A low growl rumbled through the air.
The boy froze.
To his left, a massive shadow shifted between the trees. Leaves rustled, and the scent of raw earth and blood filled his nostrils. His heart pounded, but he steadied his breath. Fear was useless now.
The Rakasul emerged.
It was larger than he had imagined, its muscled frame covered in dark, jagged fur. Its eyes glowed with an eerie yellow light, reflecting the hunger of a true jungle king. Clawed paws crushed the undergrowth as it prowled forward, its tail whipping behind it. The beast's fangs gleamed in the moonlight, dripping with saliva.
It had found him.
The First Clash
The Rakasul lunged.
The boy dove aside, rolling over damp soil as claws tore through the space where he had stood. He sprang to his feet, gripping his spear tighter. He couldn't outrun it. He had to face it.
The beast snarled and charged again. This time, he met it head-on, thrusting his spear toward its chest. The Rakasul twisted mid-leap, the tip grazing its side instead of striking deep. A sharp howl rang through the trees, but the wound was too shallow to stop it.
The boy barely had time to react before a massive paw swung at him. He raised his spear to block, but the force sent him sprawling backward. His back hit a tree, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs.
Pain flared through his body, but he forced himself up. The Rakasul was already circling him, its movements slower now, its wounded side heaving. The venom was taking effect.
But it wasn't enough.
A Warrior's Resolve
Blood trickled from his lip as he wiped his mouth, his muscles aching from the blow. The beast was watching him closely now, cautious. It had underestimated him once; it wouldn't do so again.
He adjusted his stance.
He had only one spear. No second chances.
The Rakasul roared and leapt again, faster this time, sensing his hesitation. He didn't dodge. Instead, he planted his feet and drove his spear forward, aiming for the throat.
The beast twisted—but he had anticipated it.
With all his strength, he shifted his grip at the last moment and thrust upward, jamming the spear beneath its ribcage. The Rakasul's eyes widened as the weapon sank deep. A final, desperate snarl escaped its throat before it staggered back, legs giving out.
For a moment, silence filled the jungle.
Then, with a final breath, the beast collapsed.
A New Path
The boy stood over the fallen creature, chest rising and falling with exhaustion. Blood soaked his hands—his, the beast's, the jungle's.
He had done it.
The Volx warriors emerged from the shadows, their expressions unreadable. They had been watching. Judging.
One of the elders, his face marked with the scars of many battles, stepped forward and studied the fallen Rakasul. Then, he looked at the boy.
"You have proven yourself."
The warriors thumped their fists against their chests in quiet approval. He had passed the trial.
But as he looked down at the lifeless beast, something stirred within him. This wasn't just about survival or proving his worth. It was a glimpse into something deeper—his own strength, his own path.
The path of Uran.