The next morning, the group set out.
Armed with carved spears and crude bows, they ventured into the steppe, where the morning mist still clung to the tall grass. Peter moved carefully, doing his best to mimic the gestures of the hunters around him. His body was strong — powerful even — but he didn't have the survival instincts of these Stone Age warriors. Not yet.
The group advanced together, singing a chant that every single one of them knew by heart.
The head hunter raised his spear toward the horizon:
"Sun that shines! Give us our prey!"
The tribe responded, striking their hands and feet against the earth:
"Ha! Ha! Life for the tribe!"
The hunter called out again, louder this time:
"Strength is in our arms! Courage is in our hearts!"
And the group roared back as one:
"Ha! Ha! We will bring back the flesh!"
The chant rose — raw and powerful, carried by the rhythm of their bodies moving together:
"Sun! Earth! Hunt! Life!"
"Sun! Earth! Hunt! Life!"
Then, in one final cry, they struck the ground and surged forward together.
Peter hadn't been able to keep up with their rhythm. But the chant had pulled him in so completely that he had almost forgotten what they were actually out here to do.
The head hunter raised his fist — the signal to stop.
"Did none of you hear that?" he asked.
No one answered. They dropped into position immediately, without a word.
Then — a rustle. A tremor in the shadows at the edge of the nearby forest.
Every man froze. The air grew heavier. Peter felt his heart pick up speed.
"It's there..." one of the hunters whispered.
Then came the sound.
A mammoth.
The enormous beast burst from the tree line, its white tusks catching the morning sun. Hot breath plumed from its nostrils into the cold air. It was larger than anything Peter could have imagined.
"Attack!" the head hunter roared.
Spears flew from every direction, driving into the creature's thick fur. It bellowed in pain — then charged. Peter reacted too late. He hesitated for one second too long, uncertain of what to do. And in that brief window, the beast swept a hunter off his feet with one tusk as it barreled past.
A piercing scream. A body launched through the air and thrown several meters away.
Silence.
The hunters pulled back, stunned. The man was dead.
A sharp pain hit Peter in the chest. He didn't know what to do. Because of his hesitation — his indecision — someone had just lost their life. There was no other word for it.
Every hunter turned to look at him. Their eyes said everything. Fury. Betrayal. He had promised them the night before that everything would go well. So why had this happened? And why hadn't he thrown his spear? One throw — that's all it would have taken to slow the beast down.
The walk back to camp was brutal.
Peter kept apart from the group. Only Oudra stayed by his side. But something else was gnawing at him — something heavier than the death itself. What haunted him was the question of whether his inaction had already changed something in the future.
Of course it has. I may have just erased an entire bloodline.
The only thing he could do was hope — pray, even — that this hunter had always been destined to die today.
Back at camp, the news spread like wildfire.
A warrior who hadn't been part of the hunt, and who had clearly been waiting for this moment, didn't hold back.
"He's finished. I knew it. How many times did I tell you? And none of you wanted to believe me."
"The ancestors abandoned him long ago," another added.
For Peter — still in shock — it landed like a blow. He didn't stop to explain himself. He didn't say a word. He walked straight back to his cave and disappeared inside.