"Roar~~"
Mom and Dad let out a low, vibrating huff of relief the second they saw all three of us safely on the grass. To avoid getting turned into pancakes by the rest of the charging Bison herd, they didn't let us linger. We scrambled away from the muddy death-trap of the riverbank and found a relatively clear patch of prairie to finally collapse.
I hit the dirt like a bag of stones. My chest was heaving, my breath coming in ragged, heavy rasps that kicked up little dust clouds around my nose. Every inch of me throbbed with a dull, sickening ache.
"Mrough~~"
Mom leaned over me, her golden-brown eyes wide with worry. She didn't know what else to do, so she just started licking the top of my head with that sandpaper tongue, trying to wash away the grit and the pain. Zack and Zoe crowded around too, pacing in tight circles and making anxious little chuffs.
Dad didn't stick around to cuddle. After a few minutes of catching his breath, he got up and vanished into the tall grass. We hadn't eaten a real meal in days, and as the head of the house, the pressure to bring home the literal bacon was on him.
I didn't have the energy to tell Mom I was fine, so I just closed my eyes and pulled up the one thing that made sense in this chaotic world.
"System, show me the stats."
---
> [Host]: James
> [Species]: Smilodon Fatalis (Male)
> [Age]: 10 Months
> [Strength]: 53 (+)
> [Agility]: 45 (+)
> [Constitution]: 50 (+)
> [Gene Points]: 20
> [Fused Genes]: Flat-headed Peccary, Clouded Leopard
> [Reinforcements]: Skin hardening (Lv1), Tail (Lv1)
---
"Convert all 20 Gene Points to Healing Points. Do it now."
The internal damage from that Bison collision was way worse than the scrap I had with the cougar. I could feel something off in my ribs—maybe a hairline fracture. 20 points weren't going to make me Superman, but the cooling sensation of the system's "med-kit" started to dull the fire in my chest.
"Whew... okay. At least I can still walk."
I forced myself up and gave my limbs a test stretch. It was a bit shaky, but I wasn't a total invalid. Seeing me stand, Mom and the siblings let out a chorus of hyped-up chirps.
Mom stayed with us for a bit longer before heading out to join Dad. She knew hunting a two-ton Giant Bison was a suicide mission for a solo tiger; they needed to double-team if we were going to eat tonight.
Two hours later, they came back. Empty-handed.
It is what it is. Bison are the hardest targets on a Sabertooth's menu—you're lucky if one out of ten hunts actually lands a kill. They looked guiltier than a dog that ate the Thanksgiving turkey, knowing their kids were going to bed on empty stomachs. I didn't hold it against them. We'd been hungry before; we could survive one more night of our stomachs eating themselves.
The next morning, my stomach was the only alarm clock I needed.
I woke up and moved around, feeling much better. The pain was mostly gone, which unfortunately meant the hunger had no competition for my attention. It was screaming.
I looked around, but the party was over. The Bison herd was already gone, pushing deeper into the Mississippi plains to find better grazing. We had to keep moving.
By evening, the world finally changed.
The brown, dead landscape began to give way to a deep, vibrant green. Rivers wound through the grass like silver veins, and the air... it felt alive. This wasn't the frozen hell we'd left behind.
The Mississippi Plains.
After two weeks of trekking through, we had finally made it to the southern heartland.
"Roar~~"
As we stepped onto the moist, lush grass, I took a massive lungful of air. It actually smelled like growth instead of dust and decay. And the buffet? It was endless.
I saw massive herds of Columbian Mammoths and Imperial Mammoths moving like gray mountains. There were Giant Ground Sloths, Camels, and hundreds of Bison. Wild horses—Western and Forest breeds—raced across the horizon. Elk, Moose, and Saiga Antelope dotted the hills.
There were peccaries, beavers, and giant llamas everywhere you looked. It was a literal zoo of "Pick Your Own Adventure."
The risk was still there—everything here had horns or tusks—but the food was fixed. We wouldn't have to follow a migrating herd for weeks just to find a snack. We could stay here until spring.
But I wasn't naive. This wasn't a vacation spot; it was a prehistoric Colosseum. This wasn't one predator's territory—it was a meeting ground for every heavy hitter on the continent. To survive here, we'd have to fight for every inch of grass.
Step one: find water.
Water is the lifeblood of any territory. It keeps you alive and brings the prey to your front door. But the premium watering holes are usually guarded by things you don't want to meet in a dark alley.
We played it smart. Thirty minutes in, Dad found a secluded little spring. No scent marks, no scratchings on the trees. A no-man's land.
"ROAR~~~"
Dad climbed a small ridge and let out a roar that probably shattered windows in the future. It was deep, terrifying, and carried for miles.
It wasn't just him being a show-off. It was a legal notice to every other predator in the area: This spot is taken. If you want it, come and try to take it.