The world shrank to the vise-like pressure of the goblin girl's arms. The smell of her—musky, earthy, and wild—filled his nostrils, overwhelming the scent of the forest. Her excited giggle, the word "Mine!" hissed directly into his ear, sent a jolt of pure, primal terror through Arin's small frame. This wasn't just fear; it was the deep-seated instinct of prey caught in a predator's grasp.
He couldn't think. There was no plan. His mind, still reeling from the shock of his new existence, went blank. All that was left was a raw, screaming need to be free.
And something answered.
It was the energy he'd felt in the air, the warmth he'd breathed in—the mana. It had been swirling inside him, a calm, untapped pool. Now, galvanized by his blind panic, it reacted. It wasn't a spell. He knew no spells. It was a reflex. A scream given physical form.
The mana gathered in his core, a sudden, searing heat that had nothing to do with the sun. It burned, not with pain, but with a desperate, explosive need for release. It shot down his arms, a wave of golden light that flickered under his skin for a split second before erupting outwards.
There was no beam, no fireball. It was a pulse.
A concussive wave of pure force and light slammed out from his entire body.
THUMP!
The air itself seemed to shudder. The sound was a deep, resonant thrum, like a giant plucking a single, powerful chord on the strings of the world.
The effect on Griba was immediate and violent. The pulse hit her square in the chest. It didn't cut or burn; it was like being struck by an invisible wall moving at incredible speed. The air was driven from her lungs in a pained oof! Her grip on him shattered. She was flung backward, a look of comical shock replacing her possessive glee. She landed hard on her back in a patch of soft ferns, skidding a few feet, stunned and winded.
Arin dropped to the ground, stumbling but staying on his feet. He stared at his own hands. They were tingling, and a faint, golden aura was fading from his skin like the afterimage of a bright light.
What… what was that? Did I… do that?
There was no time to process it.
A roar of pure, unadulterated frustration shattered the silence. It wasn't a roar of pain, but of furious, thwarted desire.
"NO! MINE!"
Griba was already scrambling to her feet. Her honey-colored eyes were no longer just excited; they were blazing with a deep, obsessive fire. She'd been denied her prize, and it had only made her want him more. She charged again, not with a giggle, but with a fierce, determined snarl.
Terror lent wings to Arin's tiny legs. He spun and ran, ducking under low-hanging branches, his heart hammering against his ribs like a frantic drum. He could hear her crashing through the undergrowth behind him, her footsteps heavy and fast. She was bigger, stronger, and knew this terrain. He was a city boy—a dead city boy—in a child's body. He couldn't outrun her.
Panic sharpened his mind. Straight line… bad! He remembered something, a fragment from a nature documentary Satoshi had once seen. Prey zigzags.
As Griba lunged for his back, Arin threw himself to the right, diving behind a thick, gnarled tree root. She overshot, her claws scraping harmlessly against bark. Without looking back, he changed direction, plunging off the faint path and deeper into the thick, untamed heart of the jungle.
The foliage grew denser, the light dimmer. Vines snagged at his tunic, thorns scratched his arms, but he didn't slow down. The sounds of Griba's pursuit were still close, but he was smaller, able to slip through gaps she had to batter through.
Then, a new sound cut through the forest.
A low, rumbling growl, dripping with menace. It came from a thicket just to Griba's left.
She skidded to a halt, her pursuit forgotten for a crucial second. Her head snapped toward the sound, her instincts as a hunter overriding her obsession. From the thicket a wolf-like creature emerged—its fur dark, eyes glowing faintly red, muscles coiled for a strike.
A Shadowclaw. Big, fast, and hungry.
It lunged at Griba. She twisted, claws slashing, and the sounds of the clash—growls, snapping branches, her furious cries—echoed through the jungle. Arin didn't look back. He ran, pushing his tiny body to its limit, weaving through the trees, the fight behind him fading into the shadows.
The beast crouched, its tail lashing, and then it moved with impossible speed.
Griba shrieked, claws slashing, tusks bared. The Shadowclaw's jaws snapped where she had just been, tearing through the brush like a living blade. Leaves and twigs flew into the air. Its eyes never left her, unblinking, predatory.
Arin didn't stop. He couldn't. His lungs burned, his legs felt like lead, but terror drove him onward. Behind him, the sounds of the battle—the beast's furious roars, Griba 's shrill screams, the cracking of branches—echoed like a nightmare soundtrack.
Somewhere, the Shadowclaw struck Griba hard, throwing her back against a tree. The impact rang through the forest. She rolled, sprang up, snarling, but for a single heartbeat, her obsession faltered. Survival—the raw, unthinking instinct—had claimed her attention.
Arin stumbled into a small clearing, collapsing against a mossy stone. His chest heaved, arms trembling. His golden aura had faded. The forest swallowed him, shadows stretching like long fingers.
He was alone again. Terrified, exhausted, and alive.
For now.