The smoked boar meat had hardened into dry, fibrous strips. Tough, nearly impossible to chew—but it kept him alive.
That was enough.
With the steady trickle of Kill Points and the resilience of his werewolf bloodline, the wound in his leg had improved faster than expected. He still couldn't run at full speed, but walking—moving—was no longer a problem.
For now, his life was stable.
But stability only revealed new needs.
He looked down at what he had.
A dagger.
A broken tusk pried from the boar's skull.
A few coils of vine.
That was all.
Not enough.
He needed a pot to boil water. Salt to preserve food. Better tools—stronger, more reliable.
And more than anything—
He needed answers.
Was he the only one left?
The moment that thought surfaced, it refused to leave. It spread through his mind, taking root, growing wild and uncontrollable.
Fear warred with something deeper.
In the end—
Concern, and necessity, won.
He would go back.
—
It took him half a day to approach the ruins.
But this time, he did not stumble blindly toward danger.
He moved like a hunter.
Using terrain. Using shadow. Circling, observing, adjusting. Every step deliberate.
The ground told its own story.
Hoofprints.
Boot marks.
Human patrols had passed through here.
But the edges were dry. Faded.
At least three days old.
No recent movement.
Only then did he cross the boundary.
The smell hit him first.
Charred wood.
Rotting flesh.
Dried blood.
It clung to the air, thick and suffocating, forcing his stomach to twist.
The tribe—
Was gone.
The blackened frames of tents leaned crookedly, like skeletal remains reaching toward the sky. The open grounds where laughter once echoed were now littered with broken pottery, scattered debris… and things better left unnamed.
The totem pole lay shattered.
The carved wolf head, once proud, now smeared with dark, dried blood.
Everything here whispered the same truth.
This was not defeat.
It was annihilation.
Colin walked slowly.
Each step heavier than the last.
He passed a broken wall.
Memory surfaced.
Elder Kuta.
A frail old werewolf with a crooked back and a sharper tongue. The one who had struck him for sneaking into training grounds… and later slipped him roasted meat when no one was looking.
Gone.
All gone.
The defenses hadn't fallen.
They had been erased.
There had never been a chance.
Colin knelt.
Not in grief—
But to search.
Like a scavenger among ruins, he pushed aside burned beams, overturned debris, dug through ash with bare hands.
Survival did not wait for mourning.
Luck favored him.
In a collapsed storage cellar, he found a small sack of scorched grain. Bitter, half-ruined—but edible.
Nearby, an iron pot.
Chipped.
But usable.
A few pieces of rough cloth.
Supplies.
Things he needed.
But every gain—
Came with a cost.
Beside the pot lay a small arm bone.
A child's.
Under a layer of blackened hide, a curled body remained—shrunken, silent.
Colin didn't stop.
Couldn't.
He packed what he could carry.
And moved on.
—
The Sacrificial Square.
The heart of the tribe.
Now—
The heart of death.
Bodies lay piled together, discarded like refuse. Time and decay had done their work; flesh had begun to rot, the air thick with stench. Flies swarmed, their droning constant, suffocating.
Colin's gaze moved across the dead.
Faces were gone.
But not all were unrecognizable.
Gru.
Still there.
Chest pierced clean through.
Even in death, his posture remained that of a charge.
Cass.
Curled into himself.
As if trying to disappear.
Every face—
A memory.
Every memory—
A wound.
Colin said nothing.
Did nothing.
He only looked.
And remembered.
Carefully.
Coldly.
Each image carved into his mind.
A debt.
A blood debt.
—
He stood in the center of it all.
The weight pressed down on him, thick and suffocating.
Grief.
Rage.
Helplessness.
They surged together, threatening to drown him.
Then—
Clack.
A sound.
Faint.
So faint it could have been mistaken for nothing.
Stone, lightly striking stone.
From a half-collapsed house nearby.
Colin froze.
His senses sharpened instantly, every nerve pulling taut.
The emotions vanished.
Crushed.
Replaced by something colder.
Clearer.
He dropped low without hesitation, slipping behind a broken wall. His hand moved silently to the dagger at his waist, fingers tightening around the hilt.
His heartbeat quickened.
Controlled.
Measured.
Listening.
Watching.
Waiting.
Someone—or something—
Was there.
A survivor?
A scavenging beast?
Or worse—
Had the hunters returned?