They didn't even know. Those bastards hunting him through this verdant hell, and they didn't even know why.
—'The big man.'
The words echoed, ugly and insistent, in the hollow of his memory. It meant this wasn't some chance encounter, some random act of roadside villainy. This was a plan. A hunt, with him as the quarry, orchestrated by what for now, is a faceless puppet master.
A knot of frustration tightened in his gut, his brow creasing.
Lacerta: ["——If they weren't planning to kill me then..."]
If not death, then what? What in the world did they want with him? To capture him? To use him? For what purpose?
The questions spiraled, each one a thorn twisting deeper into his ignorance.
And yet... this 'big man' this shadow pulling the strings... he had to have answers.
Answers about Lacerta himself.
It was a nauseating thought, that the key to his own existence might be held by the very person who wants him for something unknown.
A single, fragile thread of purpose in an ocean of confusion. But...
His gaze lifted from the dizzying drop below his perch on the branch, tracing the colossal, indifferent trunks of the trees that clawed at the slivers of sky.
A sigh, thin and powerless, escaped his lips.
——And how in the hell was he supposed to do any of that?
Find them. Right. A brilliant plan, if not for the minor detail that he was in a sea of green, a jungle so vast and untamed it seemed to swallow sound and light and hope itself. He doubted he could come back the way he came, let alone find a group of trained thugs through this labyrinth of roots and shadow. The trail was cold. No, the trail had never even existed.
A low groan, a sound somewhere between a curse and a sigh of exhaustion, escaped his lips.
His gaze fell upon his own body—flesh knitted back together, wounds that should have been gaping memorials to his failure now nothing more than a bad memory. He'd done it again.
Don't ask him how. He hadn't a clue.
It wasn't an ability or something like that, not something learned or practiced either—it was an instinct, a primal command hammered into his very being back in that suffocating, endless black.
A reflex, as natural and as simple as breathing.
But even that monstrous gift had its limits. A fact he was learning the hard way, right this very second. There was a price to pay for cheating death—a toll extracted from something deep within him. It wasn't infinite. Nothing was infinite.
Stamina? Some unknown spiritual energy he was burning through? Whatever the fuel source was, it was running dangerously low.
A leaden weight settled in his limbs, a profound exhaustion that felt utterly alien. It was the first time he'd felt this… drained. The first time in his memory, at least—a memory that was a frustratingly blank and useless slate.
Still, a first was a first. It meant something. It meant he wasn't invincible, it was a good reminder, at least.
Lacerta: ["Well... I can't keep lazing around anyway..."]
Lacerta: ["First, food. Then… then I figure out who the 'big man' is. A goal. Yes, I need goals. Otherwise, what's the point?"]
Clinging to that fragile thread of purpose, Lacerta forced himself to his feet, planting his hands on his hips. His body, despite the drain, still felt… strange. Capable. Unnaturally so. A fall from this height? Probably survivable. A pathetically stupid thought, the kind that would get him killed for real someday, but it was just enough bravado for now.
Lacerta: ["Other side of the ravine now, huh… Well, the bandits went that way. Where there are people, there's gotta be more... right? Or at least something to eat."]
Nodding to no one but the uncaring wind, he didn't climb down. He didn't hesitate. He simply—stepped off.
The world rushed up to meet him. An arm shot out instinctively, snagging a lower branch. The wood screamed, bending to an impossible degree under the impact, his momentum bleeding away in a shower of splintered bark and torn leaves. He was light—far too light, as such, the branch held without snapping.
He hit the ground not with a crash, but with a soft thud that barely disturbed the soil, already coiling his legs to—sprint forth.
——————————————————————————————
Lacerta: ["―――"]
Nothing.
Nothing. Nothing? Nothing.
What kind of joke was this? In this suffocating sea of green, this world bursting with life that choked the very air, how could there be nothing? It was an absurd, unreasonable, fundamentally broken reality.
The universe had seen fit to show him two signs of life, and two signs only.
The first, a mountain of flesh, a feast for a hundred lifetimes, now rotting uselessly at the bottom of a ravine so deep it may as well have been the end of the world. The second, the unidentifiable animal that beast had killed, an actual meal resting on the other side of that same impossible chasm.
Hope, dangled just high enough to be seen, just far enough to be unreachable. It was a mockery.
A scowl carved itself deep into Lacerta's features. His foot lashed out, connecting with a loose stone in a burst of anger. It skittered away pathetically, disappearing into the undergrowth without a satisfying sound.
This just sucks! 'Cause at this rate I'm actually gonna be in trouble...
A hollow, gnawing ache coiled in his gut—a vicious beast awakening from its slumber. It wasn't just hunger; it was a countdown timer, ticking away with every agonizing pang.
How long? How many more passing days could he take like this?
His stomach gave another painful lurch, offering its own grim answer.
Not many. Not nearly enough.
Luckily, what smelt like salvation hit his nostrils.
It was a scent, vague yet undeniably right, that pierced the fog of starvation clinging to his nascent senses. He didn't know exactly the scent of food, not truly, but his body screamed it, a primal imperative that drowned out the gnawing ache.
—Go. Now.
And so, with the desperate, unthinking drive of a creature cornered, he did.
———————————————————————————————————
Glenn's jaw ached, not from hunger this time, but from the bitter taste of failure. Failure wasn't a stranger to his company, not by a long shot. But to falter in the pursuit of a mere child? That was a special kind of humiliation, a sting that festered.
His eyes drifted to the stick of meat, spitting and charring over the meager flames. A sigh, heavy with the weight of this forsaken place, escaped him.
Normally, such reckless indulgence—a fire, a beacon deep within the maw of the Buddheim Jungle—was an invitation for oblivion.
The mabeasts here, though seldom encountered, were a terror to behold, their ferocity undiminished by number. And then, of course, there were them.
The Shudrakians. Their presence was a constant, unseen threat, their dominion over these ancient woods were certainly menacing. Glenn didn't know their exact encampments, but he'd wager they were woven into the very fabric of this forest.
The only reason this pathetic fire sputtered to life was the stark, undeniable truth: they had no choice.
Glenn: ["That damn brat… running… running so damn far…"]
Their provisions, meticulously rationed for the journey, had dwindled to nothing. He had underestimated the sheer, unadulterated speed of the kid, and now, they were reduced to the desperate gamble of hunting in territory that offered more peril than sustenance.
Tyrell, a man of a larger build in comparison to his own and possessed of a similar, comforting bluntness, approached, his shadow falling over Glenn.
Tyrell: ["Come on, boss! You know we couldn't exactly keep up. Yeah, we could've probably smashed that stray mabeast that showed its face, but how many good men would've been left to count the fallen? You made the right call, I'm tellin' ya."]
Glenn merely shook his head, finally pulling the scorched meat from the fire.
Glenn: ["It's not about 'making the right call' Tyrell It's about the fact that we might as well have just handed the kid over to the mabeasts. That's what it feels like."]
A grimace tightened his features.
Glenn: ["I don't get it. What does the higher-up want with that brat? He wasn't exactly screaming 'potential', unless his legs have suddenly sprouted wings he'd make nothin' more than a decent pickpocket."]
Tyrell shrugged, a movement like shifting boulders.
Tyrell: ["Arh… well… that man, you know? Hard to figure him out, ain't it? Does stuff that makes no sense all the damn time, right?"]
Glenn took a bite of the tough, smoky meat, chewing slowly.
Glenn: ["You're not wrong. But this… this is different. Those other strange orders, I could at least grasp the logic, however twisted. This time? I'm drawing a blank. A complete, utter blank."]
Tyrell: ["Well…"]
Tyrell scratched his chin, his gaze distant.
Tyrell: ["You can't… uh… win 'em all, can ya?"]
Glenn's eyes, which had been fixed on the dubious meal, snapped towards the treeline.
A sharp snap, the distinct sound of a breaking twig, cut through his keen senses. His body tensed, every muscle coiled.
Without a word, he was on his feet, the half-eaten meat forgotten.
Glenn: ["Men! Arm yourselves! Now!"]
The command, sharp and urgent, echoed through the small clearing. In scant seconds, the dozen or so bandits scattered around the dying fire were on their feet, weapons drawn, faces grim. Their eyes, like Glenn's, were fixed on the impenetrable darkness of the treeline, waiting.