The cub walked behind his mother, but his mind was far from the jungle.
The scent of blood had faded, yet its presence lingered in his thoughts, curling like mist around his memories. His mother's words echoed within him—there was no other way.
But why?
In his past life, he had believed in power. He had fought for it, seized it with both hands, and crushed those who stood in his way. He had told himself it was necessary. That the world did not reward the weak.
Yet he had still fallen.
And now, in this life, the rules were the same. Strength was law. Mercy was death.
He had seen the proof lying in the clearing, lifeless and still.
His mother had spoken of it with certainty, as if the jungle had never known anything else. But the cub remembered—he remembered kindness, he remembered trust, he remembered the hope that power was not the only path.
And yet, he had also seen where kindness had led him.
Betrayal.
The boardroom flickered in his mind again—the smooth voices, the empty promises. He had trusted them once, believed in alliances. And in the end, they had turned on him.
He had fallen because he had trusted.
And now, as he padded through the undergrowth, he wondered—was my mother right?
Would it always be this way?
Would it always end in betrayal?
His paws pressed into the dirt, heavier than before. He wanted to believe he could be different. That he could change.
But the jungle did not care for what he wanted.
A rustle in the leaves made him pause. His ears flicked back. Something moved in the shadows—small, hesitant. A hare.
It froze as it saw him, its body trembling, its eyes wide with terror.
The cub stared at it.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then, before the cub could react, the hare bolted.
His body moved on instinct.
Chase.
Paws against the earth, heart pounding, the wind rushing past him. His muscles coiled, his body low to the ground, slipping through the jungle like a ghost.
The hare darted left. So did he.
His claws unsheathed, hunger—no, something else—roaring inside him.
Power.
The rush of the hunt.
The moment of control.
Then—
The hare vanished.
A hollow log, just large enough for it to slip through, stood in his path. The cub skidded to a stop, his breath coming fast.
Gone.
He had lost.
His claws dug into the earth, frustration swelling in his chest.
Not at the hare.
At himself.
Because in those few heartbeats, he had felt it—the pull of instinct, the thrill of the chase, the hunger for victory.
And in those moments, he had not been a man remembering his past life.
He had been a tiger.
He stood there, staring at the log, the jungle pressing in around him.
He wanted to believe he was different.
But with every day, with every lesson, with every instinct that surfaced—
He wondered if the jungle was changing him.
Or if he had always been this way.
And maybe, just maybe—this was who he was meant to be.