I glanced around the gathering, my eyes sweeping over the faces I recognized—Kina, her dark hair catching the firelight as she laughed with the other girls.
Vera, her blonde hair wild and tangled, her bronze skin gleaming as she leaned against a stone, her hide wrap clinging to her curves.
Ada, her white hair braided tightly, her strong arms working as she helped butcher the meat, her body moving with the confidence of a woman who knew her worth.
One by one, I named them.
Kina.
Vera.
Ada.
Ruth.
Hina.
Mitt.
Patt.
Tusk.
Eric.
Noah.
Adam.
Liam.
Each name appeared above their dots, glowing like beacons in the darkness. I even named the kids—the teenagers who sat together, laughing, eating, their faces alight with youthful excitement. I named everyone whose name I remembered. I watched as their dots pulsed on the map, tracking their movements, their locations, their every step.
This changed everything.
Now, I could keep tabs on everyone—know exactly where they were, exactly when the coast was clear. I could slip away unnoticed, disappear into the forest or the mountains, summon food and drinks from the System, and return before anyone even knew I was gone.
I leaned back against the rough bark of a nearby tree, a slow, satisfied smirk spreading across my lips.
The hunt had just gotten easier.
And sooner or later?
I'd have them all.
The moon hung low and full in the sky, its silver light spilling across the tribe like a ghostly veil. I hadn't realized moonlight could be this bright—this intense—but then again, out here, there were no streetlights, no neon signs, no glow of modern civilization to drown it out.
The darkness was absolute, pure, and the moon burned like a cold flame, casting sharp shadows and turning the world into a monochrome dream. It was enough—more than enough—to see by, to move by, to watch the tribe as they slowly dispersed, their figures melting into the huts like ghosts retreating into the night.
The fire in the center of the clearing still roared, defiant against the darkness. A few of the older men—Patt, Eric, Mitt—tossed fresh logs onto the flames, their muscles ripping beneath their skin as they worked.
The crackle of the wood snapped through the silence, the embers spitting sparks into the air. I realized then—this fire wouldn't die. Not tonight. Not ever, if I had to guess. It was a beacon, a ward against the dark, against the cold, against the things that lurked beyond the light. It was safety. It was life.
Kerry approached me, her hide skirt rustling softly as she moved. The moonlight caught the curves of her body, the swell of her hips, the shadow of her breasts beneath the loose fabric. Her face was soft in the silver glow, her dark eyes warm but tired.
"Dexter..."
Her voice wrapped around my name like a worn blanket—gentle, motherly—but beneath it, something prickled.
A thread of unease, a remnant of whatever had passed between us earlier, still humming in the air like the last vibration of a plucked string. "Let's all go back inside... It's time to sleep."
Mitt fell into step beside me, his broad frame moving with quiet purpose, while Kina trailed just behind, her presence as light as the rustle of reeds in the wind.
Tusk lumbered along, his massive silhouette blocking out the faint glow of the dying fire. Together, we made our way back to the huts, the earth cool and uneven beneath our feet. Kina's hut stood next to Kerry's, the two structures leaning into each other like old friends sharing secrets in the dark.
Then Mitt's voice cut through the quiet, low but carrying the weight of something unsaid. "Dexter... you are amazing." His words caught me off guard, and I turned to look at him, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face.
"You have skills as a hunter—everyone knows that. But it's more than that. I've heard from Kerry, from others... they talk about you being a healer." He paused, his gaze steady. "And don't belittle yourself just because you think you only know about women's diseases."
"You know how it is," Mitt continued, his voice rough with something like frustration. "When a woman is pregnant, we have to send someone out, beg another village for help. We trade what little we have just to make sure she survives, that the child survives. But now..." His eyes flickered toward me, "Now, we don't have to."
A bitter laugh almost escaped me. Women's diseases. As if the pain of childbirth, the terror of complications, the desperate bargains made with other villages for a healer—trading food, supplies, sometimes even favors—were trivial.
The weight of Mitt's words settled over me like a cloak, heavy with unspoken expectations. It all made sense now—why the healer was treated with reverence, why the tribe's eyes lingered on me differently, as if I carried something precious in my hands.
"I'm happy to help Uncle Mitt, Aunt Kerry, and the whole tribe," I replied modestly.
I may not be the kind of healer who can assist with childbirth, but I believe I can still make a difference—especially with the Supermarket Store. I need to earn more pervert points to make it happen.
Kina, who had been walking beside us, suddenly skipped a step ahead, turning to face me with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She tilted her head, her braid swinging lightly over her shoulder.
"Brother," she said, her voice playful but laced with something sincere, "you've been holding out on us, haven't you?"
She nudged my arm lightly, her laughter bubbling up like a spring. "First, you're the hunter. Now, you're the healer who can keep our women safe? What else are you hiding?"
I opened my mouth to respond, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand, her grin widening. "No, no, don't tell me. Let me guess—maybe you can talk to the spirits too? Or perhaps you're secretly a storyteller who's been keeping all the best tales to yourself?"
Her teasing hit something in me, and I felt my cheeks warm. Before I could answer, she sobered slightly, her expression softening. "But really, Dexter... you have to help your sister when the time comes." Her voice dropped to something quieter, almost vulnerable.
"I don't want to be one of those women who has to beg another village for help. I don't want to trade our food, our supplies, just so my child can be born safely."
Kina reached out, her fingers brushing my sleeve. "I want to know that when the time comes, you'll be there. That we won't have to be afraid."
A jolt ran through me—unexpected, sharp. My body reacted before my mind could catch up, heat flaring where it shouldn't. No, no—this isn't right.
My thoughts scrambled. It felt like she was asking for something else, something forbidden, but I knew she wasn't. This was about survival, about trust, about the fragile line between life and death that every woman in this tribe had to walk alone—until now.
I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Don't worry, sister. I'll make sure you and your child are safe."
Kina's laughter rang out again, bright and unburdened, as if she'd been holding her breath and could finally exhale. "Yeah, I know you will," she said, nudging me again.
"You're the best, Dexter. Even if you are a terrible liar when it comes to hiding your skills." She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Just promise me one thing—when I'm screaming at you during the birth, you won't hold it against me later."
I couldn't help but laugh, the tension in my chest melting away. "I'll try not to take it personally," I said, shaking my head.
Kerry and Mitt chuckled beside us, their laughter warm and understanding. Mitt gave my back a firm, friendly clap and said to Kina, "Then you've got to take good care of Dexter, Kina—it's your duty as his sister."
Kina grinned, falling into step beside me again, her shoulder brushing lightly against mine. "Obviously. I'm his sister. It's literally my job."
Around us, the tribe settled into the quiet of the night. Shadows shifted as people slipped into their huts, their voices fading from murmurs to whispers, then to silence.
The clearing emptied, leaving only the soft hum of the night—crickets weaving their endless song, leaves rustling in the dark, and the occasional crackle of a dying ember in the firepit.
I noticed one more thing that no one drank after eating. No one rinsed their hands or mouths.
They simply ate, then slept, as if the act of eating was enough to sustain them until the next meal. It was primitive, but it made sense in a way. Out here, every drop of water was precious, every resource carefully conserved.
And then there were the utensils—or rather, the lack of them. No plates, no cups, no bowls. Just hands, teeth, and the raw, unfiltered act of eating. It was efficient, but it also meant no barriers, no safety nets. Just survival in its purest form.
The absence of oil for cooking, of lanterns to push back the crushing dark inside the huts—it wasn't just a lack of comfort. It was a silent, ever-present threat. Even if they had them, I thought it would be dangerous.
The huts were fragile things, stitched together from dried grass and straw, their walls nothing more than brittle reeds lashed with animal hides. A single flame, a stray spark from a careless hand, and the whole structure would ignite like tinder.
There would be no time to run, no way to stop it. The fire would spread faster than a scream, swallowing everything—mats, tools, the few precious belongings tucked into the corners—leaving behind only ash and the ghost of heat.
One spark, one ember rolling free, and the entire hut would go up in flames. They weren't foolish. They knew the risks. The fire stayed outside—always. The huts stayed dark—safe, but blind.
I glanced at Kerry, then at the huts—small, cramped, thick with the scent of damp earth and sweat. No light. No comfort. Just survival.
The moment Kina and Tusk disappeared into their huts, the night seemed to press in closer, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and smoldering embers.
Kerry, Mitt, and I were left standing in front of ours, the flickering glow from the firepit casting long, wavering shadows across the ground.
My pulse thrummed in my throat, my mind still replaying the way Kerry's body had moved earlier—how her breath had hitched when I'd touched her, how her lips had parted when I'd spilled myself into her mouth.
I shouldn't have been thinking about it. Not now. Not with Mitt right beside us.
But the hunger was still there, gnawing at me.
We stepped inside, and the darkness swallowed us whole. For a heartbeat, I was blind, my fingers twitching at my sides as my eyes struggled to adjust.
Then, slowly, the faint silver glow of moonlight seeped through the gaps in the door flap, painting the interior in ghostly hues. The air was warm, thick with the musk of bodies and the earthy scent of the stone bed carved into the ground.
I stole a glance at Kerry. Even in the dim light, I could make out the curve of her hips, the way her leaf skirt clung to her thighs. My cock twitched, already hard just from the memory of her—her leaking pussy, her swollen nipples, the way she'd moaned when I'd—
"Aunt Kerry," I murmured, my voice rough, "Let me check if I can heal your hard nipples... and your pussy."
The words hung in the air, heavy and deliberate.
Mitt's head whipped toward us, his voice sharp with concern—and something darker. "Kerry? Are you sick? Is your pussy leaking? Did it get rubbed against something?"
His suspicion was clear, though not for the reasons I might have expected. He didn't seem to suspect me of taking advantage of his wife—just worried. I chuckled to myself, imagining how much more interesting things could get.
Kerry didn't flinch. She didn't mention how I'd grabbed her tits earlier, how I'd forced her to her knees and filled her mouth with my seed. Instead, she exhaled, slow and controlled, as if she'd been expecting this. "Well... they must have accidentally gotten rubbed."
Mitt turned to me, his expression unreadable in the dark. "Dexter. Can you heal her?"
I nodded, my throat dry. "Yeah, Uncle Mitt. But I'll need to take a closer look at Aunt's pussy... and her nipples."
A beat of silence.
Kerry shifted, her bare feet rustling against the stone. "Dexter, it's dark now. Let's wait until morning so you can see clearly in daylight."
Mitt grunted in agreement. "Yeah. No point straining your eyes."