Colin didn't move right away.
Like a patient lone wolf, he remained in the shadows, listening.
A few seconds later, the faint sound came again—rustling… followed by a weak, suppressed cough.
A person.
And not just alive—barely holding on.
Colin's heartbeat quickened. Lowering his presence, he moved forward step by step, silent as a stalking cat, using the broken ruins as cover.
The sound led him to a half-collapsed stone house. The fallen walls formed a narrow, triangular pocket—hidden, if one didn't look closely.
The noise was coming from inside.
He circled to a crack in the wall and carefully peered in.
One glance—
His pupils shrank.
Inside the cramped darkness, more than a dozen figures huddled together.
Old men. Women. Children.
Every one of them thin to the bone, their faces sallow, lips cracked, eyes hollow—like ghosts abandoned by the world.
At the front stood an old werewolf, gripping a worn hunting bow with a frayed string. His posture was tense, gaze fixed outward despite the exhaustion carved deep into his face.
Colin recognized him instantly.
Goff.
The tribe's best hunter.
Behind him, a frail little girl clung tightly to his back, her small body trembling. Her face was buried against him, but Colin knew her.
Lena.
His granddaughter.
Twelve, maybe thirteen.
They were alive.
For a moment, Colin's chest tightened.
Relief.
Pain.
And something else—
Something heavier.
Responsibility.
Then—
"Who's there?!"
Goff's voice snapped through the silence, hoarse like grinding stone.
The old hunter's eyes—clouded, but still sharp—locked directly onto Colin's hiding place.
The others reacted instantly. Soft cries broke out as they shrank backward, fear flooding their hollow faces.
He'd been seen.
Colin exhaled slowly.
There was no point hiding now.
He stepped out from behind the rubble, raising both hands to show he meant no harm.
He looked… terrible.
Bloodstains. Dirt. A dagger still clutched in his hand, reflecting a faint, cold gleam.
More like a revenant dragged out of hell than a survivor.
"Don't come any closer!" Goff drew his bow halfway.
His arm trembled.
But the arrow remained steady—aimed straight at Colin's chest.
"Uncle Goff… it's me," Colin said quietly, his voice rough.
Goff squinted, trying to see through the dim light.
"You…" he rasped. "Colin?"
"Colin?" someone in the back echoed in disbelief.
A young man with a broken arm stared wide-eyed. "That half-breed? How could he still be alive?"
The whisper spread.
Suspicion replaced fear.
It was a fair question.
Even the tribe's strongest warriors had died.
So how had he—the weakest, most bullied one—survived?
Colin said nothing.
Words were useless here.
Instead, he slowly lowered his hands.
Then, without haste, he untied the bundle from his back—woven crudely from vines and animal hide—and set it on the ground.
All eyes followed the movement.
He unwrapped it.
The moment the contents were revealed—
A rich, savory scent spread through the air.
Meat.
Smoked wild boar jerky.
The effect was immediate.
Gulp.
Someone swallowed audibly.
Every gaze locked onto the food.
Nothing else mattered.
Not suspicion.
Not fear.
Only hunger.
They had been hiding here for over ten days, surviving on scraps and rainwater.
Lena lifted her head slightly, her wide eyes fixed on the jerky. Her dry lips parted, and she unconsciously licked them.
Colin didn't speak.
He simply pushed the bundle forward.
Goff's gaze shifted—from the meat…
…to Colin.
The boy before him was no longer the same.
The fear was gone.
What remained was something steady. Controlled.
Like a lone wolf that had walked through death and returned.
Dangerous.
But dependable.
Slowly—
The old hunter lowered his bow.
No matter what had happened to this child…
He had come back.
And he had brought food.
And in this moment—
Food meant hope.