The best way to dismantle a pack is to take the general's head—kill the leader, and the ranks collapse into chaos.
As the Alpha's life vanished between James's jaws, the remaining gray wolves froze. Their coordination evaporated instantly, replaced by a frantic, unorganized panic.
"A-OOO... A-OOO..."
They were caught in a behavioral loop: too terrified to counter-attack, yet too stubborn to abandon a kill they had bled for. They paced in a wide circle, snapping their jaws at the air in a display of hollow bravado.
James released the limp Alpha and looked up, his gaze fixing on the next target. Killing one wasn't enough to send a permanent message.
I'll take them all if I have to.
WHOOSH—
James didn't give them time to regroup. He launched himself like a thunderbolt, targeting the loudest wolf in the circle.
The wolf saw the blur of golden fur and knew it couldn't outrun him. It bared its teeth, preparing to bite and hold. It hoped that if it could sink its teeth into the Sabertooth's hide, the pack would rally.
But James offered no openings. He reared up and delivered a heavy, clinical swipe to the wolf's muzzle.
BAM!
The impact was absolute. The wolf's head snapped back, its jaw slamming shut so violently that it bit through its own tongue before it could even touch James. It collapsed into the dirt, twitching as blood poured from its mangled mouth, unable to even let out a coherent whimper.
"ROAR!!"
James turned his murderous gaze on the others. That was the breaking point. The remaining wolves finally realized they were dealing with a monster, not just a rival. They turned and bolted, abandoning the Shrub-ox and their fallen comrades. James pursued them briefly, downing two more before the last survivors vanished into the deep timber, likely scarred for life.
---
[DING! Host killed a Gray Wolf. Gene Points +30.] x 4
---
120 Gene Points added.
Beyond the points, James had secured a massive prize: a fresh Shrub-ox carcass. The third-party strategy had paid off handsomely.
He had never tasted wild beef before; Dad and Mom usually avoided the heavy-set bovids. After taking the choice cuts, James began the laborious task of dismembering the ox and ferrying it back to his den. Remembering the previous burglary, he buried the meat in separate, hidden caches. With an ox and several wolves, he was set for weeks.
THUD! THUD! THUD!!
As James was hauling a final load, the earth began to vibrate. The rhythmic, heavy footfalls suggested a creature of immense mass. A moment later, a giant emerged from the trees, its sheer presence making the forest feel small.
A Ground Sloth?!
James stood frozen. He remembered the awe he felt seeing these titans before. Even an adult Smilodon looked like a house cat compared to these mountain-sized herbivores.
"YURRR!!"
But this individual was in a state of absolute ruin. Its thick, dark-brown fur was matted with crimson, looking as though it had been draped in a coat of wet blood.
James's pupils dilated when he saw the source of the injury. Embedded in the sloth's hindquarters was the snapped shaft of a spear, the stone point buried deep in the muscle.
A spearhead?!
His breath caught in his throat. This was the second time he had seen evidence of Them. The terrifying Upright Apes were closer and more widespread than he had imagined. From the Rockies to the Mississippi, the Clovis hunters were on the move.
His first instinct was to run. But he stopped himself. He couldn't keep fleeing from a enemy he didn't understand. If he was to survive this era, he needed to know his enemy—their tools, their range, and their lethality.
James scrambled up a massive tree, climbing nearly fifteen meters into the dense canopy. Hidden by the thick foliage, he looked down at the trail.
Moments later, the sound of baying dogs reached his ears. Several wolf-like canines burst into the clearing, tracking the scent of blood. Behind them emerged a group of over a dozen humans—Clovis hunters dressed in rugged, stitched animal hides.
Humans.
For the first time in this life, James saw his own kind. But he felt no kinship—only a sharp, predatory fear.
"WOOF! WOOF!"
The dogs locked onto the blood trail. The Ground Sloth, usually an unstoppable force of nature, was broken by terror. It tried to limb away on its mangled leg, its movements slow and agonized.
The Clovis hunters didn't close in for a melee. They stayed back, reaching for the atlatls at their belts.
WHOOSH—
James watched as a spear was launched. It didn't fly like a thrown stick; it accelerated with the kinetic force of a modern projectile, whistling through the air with an ear-piercing hissing sound.
THWACK!
The stone point found its mark, burying itself deep in the sloth's back. A fresh fountain of blood erupted.
"YURRR... YURRR!!"
The sloth's scream was a haunting, distorted sound of pure agony. But the hunters were relentless. A second wave of spears followed, carving a lethal arc through the air, forming a net of stone and wood that began to bring the giant to its knees.