On a faraway planet, where sentient races lived and fed off war... a disaster struck.

  These races—soaked in hatred, chained by pride—never knew unity.They had never fought under one banner, never followed another's command.Hope? It was too distant. Out of reach.

  So when forces not of their world descended in thunder...They realized their downfall was near.

  For days, they fought. But deep down, they knew.They could never win.

  But fate had not given up on them.

  As disaster struck from the West... hope materialized in the East.

  A thousand-man army appeared, claiming to come from beyond the great eastern waters.

  They marched forward, indifferent to the land's hatred and broken alliances.Whether the people fought or not—it didn't matter.They fought.

  Their commander didn't speak to the world. He commanded his own.But when he gave the order to march... the world followed.Not because he asked.But because they wanted to.

  They craved to stand beside him. To fight under him.But not all were qualified.

  And they won.

  Only then did the people realize...These warriors never belonged to this world.

  When their bodies dissolved into wisps of mana and vanished with the wind...The truth was clear.

  That... was years ago.

  A gentle gust of wind passed through the thick canopy of a forest, humming rhythmically, producing an occasional rustle of leaves—hidden, unseen.

  Distant hoots of an ule echoed somewhere far above, beyond the eyes, like a whisper of solace.

  Below, there was a boy, nine years of age, barefoot, nimbly walking around the damp, mist-soaked soil. His messy, long hair was white with a faint reddish tint. His ears were pointy, albeit slightly—very slightly.

  His innocent eyes were black—darker than the night itself.

  He looked around for food. He had recently crafted an early hunting tool of the ancient humans. He attached his little stone knife to a branch he had been evenly trimming. He split the end of the stick where he fixed his knife and secured it with a piece of his worn-out clothes—what was left of it. He now had his own spear, a cheap copy of what his father had given him years ago.

  He nearly forgot how to speak. For two years, he had never had anyone to speak to. He wanted to find a way out of the forest where he lost his family, but he had come to like his new life as it was.

  The forest had its rhythm; whenever an abnormality occurred, he knew there was danger.

  He didn't mind. He always found his way around. He had even made a friend—two, actually—by pure coincidence.

  Now, the world beyond these trees meant nothing to him.

  But he never let himself get too comfortable, always scouting around, checking for danger, since unnoticed danger always meant death.

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  Memories of the past occasionally crossed his mind, but what could he do about anything?

  He unwillingly recognized his own significance in this world.

  He cried, for too long, until he didn't anymore.

  For now, he'd meet his big friend, the boss around here, for a round of fishing.

  It was still early in the morning. He ran with his new spear, satisfied and happy for the first time in a very long time.

  Occasionally, he'd snatch a bigger tree leaf for a few drops of dew. He had already learned the way of survival the hard way, and now the forest was his home.

  Thinking back, he had also met his friend while drinking the early morning dew.

  At that time, the boy was seeking water to moisturize his dry throat, moving around the misty forest carefully, only to find a towering shadow, nearly bigger than the trees. It was a terrakin moving in the mist like a living mountain—or so it seemed to the small child. Its massive frame seemed damp with drops of dew. Its dark brown fur glistened.

  The boy froze back then. He wasn't sure if he should run. He didn't even think he could run; his legs probably wouldn't move.

  The terrakin looked at him curiously, sniffing him while staring with huge amber eyes. The boy couldn't even breathe, but the terrakin didn't attack. It didn't growl or lash out—there was only curiosity.

  Not the slightest hint of aggression could be seen in its huge eyes. The terrakin, to the boy's surprise, went on its way.

  They started meeting occasionally, and later started exchanging food. The terrakin seemed like an experienced fisherman, while the boy could, at best, gather mushrooms—the types he'd seen back at home only. He remembered his mother warning him never to eat things he didn't know.

  There were also some berries growing here and there, but today, he was going fishing too.

  They met at the small river stream running across the forest. The boy was surprisingly good with his spear. He was familiar with it and caught his food for the day with ease.

  Every strike of his spear was accurate, precise... His judgment was also superb.

  As he hunted, he struck with precision, ensuring the fish were caught on his spear while being careful not to break it. The wood was exceptionally tough, and he had spent a long time trimming it.

  The terrakin spent his fishing time staring at the boy. Once the boy was done, he gave the terrakin the fish he caught and kept one for himself. It was the most he could eat.

  As for his second friend, that one was a reluctant friend: a lone ule, as white as snow.

  Their eyes met a few times, but unlike the terrakin, the ule didn't interact directly with him. Though sometimes, he could see those eyes shining under the faint moonlight at night.

  The boy ate the fish raw, like everything else he caught.

  He had already accepted his identity as a random forest beast. He no longer ate to enjoy the food—he ate for survival, to make sure he doesn't die of hunger.

  His friend also ate his food raw, so why wouldn't he?

  Not that he even had a way to make fire. He was never taught how to do that. He didn't even know how to use magic, or if is capable of using it.

  He has yet to awaken as well.

  During his short time with his family, he only learned a few things, but his life had been that of a happy child.

  He found another sharp stone to use as a knife, started cutting the fish, and slowly eating. This peace was very precious to him.

  But it suddenly... shattered.

  Rustle

  Rustle

  The rhythm of the forest froze. The sounds of rustling leaves, birds passing, everything felt disharmonious.

  He focused on the foreign sound. It was speech, the method of communication he had forgotten and discarded.

  Soon, carriages became visible, passing through the forest. These carriages weren't carrying goods, but caged people—many of them.

  Every member of the convoy looked armed—and unsettling.

  The boy started moving, trying to hide without leaving a trace, like he always did.

  He hid between the roots of a big tree. The forest was full of their scouts, so he hid under their noses every time they passed through the forest.

  Their speech, though similar, was so much different than that of his parents. It was rough, ugly. Even though he yearned to speak to people again, he didn't want to speak to these people.

  He held his breath as they came closer, stiffened his body, and let nature hide him.

  But it wasn't long before they spotted him—hostile eyes locking onto him from the relatively distant convoy.

  His body froze, his heart started beating crazily.

  "This... looks like fine merchandise," said the man who spotted him. An ugly smile crept on his face, twisting his eyes into an eerie shape.

  That man looked different. His face was cleaner than the other members of the convoy. He also wore formal armor and a proper sword, looking like a decent, yet corrupt knight.

  The boy grabbed his spear and ran. Ignoring his fears, he ran.

  Deep in his heart, he knew this wouldn't be the last time he ran. He hated running, but he'd run if he must. Because he could only survive if he ran.