They do not argue at first,at least not verbally.
The disagreement begins as a pause that stretches too long between them. They both felt it.
The forest has thinned. Not in number of trees, but in presence. Sound feels muted at the edges. Movement feels watched. The place no longer pretends to be neutral.
Pluto breaks the silence.
"We can't stay at this level." He avoided eye contact.
Mira kept walking. She knew what he meant.
The opposition is scaling.
The teleporting entrant—Saul. The massive predator. The owl's measured voice. The shifts. None of it suggests patience will be rewarded.
"We kill beasts," Mira says. "They give less. But they're easier. Less literate equals less risk... at least from the onset."
"They give less," Pluto repeats.
"Alive is better than ambitious."
He doesn't answer immediately. He studies the bark of a nearby trunk, the faint tremor in the leaves that means the forest is never truly still.
"We need instantaneous growth, booms in power spikes" he says finally. "People give more."
Mira stops walking. Her stance flashed through myriads of emotions.
"And to find them," she says carefully, "we go back to the owl."
He doesn't deny it.
Her jaw tightens.
"That thing changes us."
"It gives information." Pluto replied.
"It gives influence...it forces it." Said Mira, she paused, but continued with the same disapproving tone.
"It eats seeds and grows."
"That's speculation."
"Is it?"
They both remember the sharpening. The log becoming blade in her grip. The sensation not originating inside her—but sliding in from elsewhere. Or at least Pluto remembered.
They both remember the second meeting, and how unnatural it felt.
Pluto exhales. "We can't outrun stronger entrants by farming animals forever."
"And we can't outrun the owl by feeding it people."
The forest rustles, as if amused.
The partial split forms there.
They do not separate physically.
They separate in philosophy.
Mira chooses beasts—efficient, low-risk gains. Controlled growth.
Pluto chooses impact—high-risk encounters.
Direct escalation.
They agree on one rule: proximity.
They stay within reachable distance. If something happens, they move.
But they hunt alone.
***
Pluto moves first.
He angles away, not dramatically, but intentionally. Leaves shift beneath his steps.
The forest seems to track him more attentively now—as if aware of intent. It paid attention.
He is not looking for prey.
He is looking for presence.
Entrants move differently than beasts.
There's hesitation in their footprints.
Awareness. Calculation. Hesitation.
It takes less than an hour.
He feels the absence before he sees the man.
No insects hum.
No wind breathes.
Even his own footstep lands strangely, like stepping on cloth instead of leaves.
Pluto stops.
Across a clearing stands another entrant.
He looks ordinary. No visible weapon. No unnatural posture. No mastery radiating.
But the air between them feels suppressed.
Pluto speaks.
Nothing comes out.
The realization lands slowly.
The sound is gone.
Not dampened.
Removed. Like the mute button on reality had been turned on.
The man tilts his head slightly.
He doesn't need to speak to communicate intent.
He steps forward.
And everything remains silent.
The first strike is awkward.
The man lunges. Not skilled. Not refined. A blunt dash meant to close distance.
Pluto pivots. Their shoulders collide. The impact should echo. It doesn't.
It's disorienting.
Pain without noise feels unreal. His brain becomes confused on how to register it.
Pluto counters with a short hook toward the ribs. It lands. The man exhales—silently—and retaliates with a knee to Pluto's thigh.
They separate.
No taunts.
No breathing.
No friction of cloth.
Even leaves falling around them make no sound.
Pluto adjusts.
If the power strips sound from an area, it's localized.
Centered on him.
A field.
The man advances again—another straightforward attack. No teleportation. No projection. Just physical combat inside enforced silence.
Pluto blocks high.
Takes a punch to the side.
Returns one to the jaw.
It's messy. Neither of them are trained fighters. They react, they guess, they misjudge spacing.
But the absence of sound breaks rhythm.
Pluto cannot hear his own breath to regulate it.
Cannot hear shifting weight to anticipate movement.
The man, however, seems used to it.
He fights comfortably in the void.
Second exchange.
Pluto feints left.
The man doesn't bite.
Instead, he steps in and drives forward with a shoulder, tackling Pluto backward into a tree.
The bark splinters—silently.
The impact rattles Pluto's teeth.
He shoves off, creating space.
They circle.
Time stretches.
Without sound, duration feels infinite. Seconds blur into minutes or into nothing at all.
Third exchange.
The man sweeps low.
Pluto jumps—but mistimes it. The sweep catches his ankle. He stumbles. A fist connects with his cheekbone.
Stars burst behind his vision.
He responds instinctively—an upward elbow that grazes the man's chin.
Not decisive.
Never decisive.
The fight drags.
Punch.
Block.
Clinch.
Separation.
Their breathing grows harsher—but still silent.
The silence is more exhausting than the blows.
Pluto feels frustration building.
The man's power doesn't make him stronger.
It removes advantage.
It removes rhythm.
It removes communication.
It disorients coordination.
Even the forest feels distant.
Pluto swings wider.
The man ducks and counters.
Another blow to the ribs.
Pluto absorbs it poorly.
He adjusts his stance. Slows down.
He can't win by reacting to clues that no longer exist.
He needs something else.
Something internal.
The eel shifts beneath his skin.
It has been there since the seed. Since the last day.
Coiled.
Waiting.
Not speaking.
But present.
He focuses—not outward—but inward.
The sensation is faint.
A pull across his forearm.
A pressure near his shoulder.
It isn't force.
It's direction.
The man charges again.
Pluto lets the pressure guide him.
His foot shifts slightly left—just enough for the punch to graze instead of connect cleanly.
He doesn't understand how he knew.
Another nudge along his ribs.
He rotates before a kick can land fully.
The guidance is minimal.
Barely perceptible.
But consistent.
Push.
Pull.
Tighten.
Release.
It doesn't increase his strength.
It doesn't increase speed.
It sharpens movement by fractions.
The man frowns for the first time.
He strikes again—harder.
Pluto slips—not perfectly—but enough.
Counters with a straight punch guided by a tightening along his tricep.
It lands cleaner than any before.
The man staggers.
Silently.
They reset.
Fourth major exchange... maybe fifth, he had lost count.
The man lunges with commitment.
Pluto feels the eel coil tightly around his torso.
Not physically.
Sensation only.
He steps inside the attack instead of away.
A risk.
A guided risk.
Their bodies collide.
Pluto hooks behind the man's knee—just as a sharp sensation tugs him lower.
The man loses balance.
Falls.
Pluto follows down, driving a final strike downward.
The contact is dull and silent.
The field flickers.
Sound rushes back in fragments.
Leaves.
Wind.
His own ragged breath.
The man doesn't rise.
The silence collapses fully.
Pluto stumbles back.
He waits.
Nothing.
The forest resumes.
The kill is done.
He feels it then.
The shift.
A slight strengthening in his limbs.
Not dramatic.
Not explosive.
A marginal increase.
Enough to notice.
Not enough to dominate.
The eel relaxes.
Its influence recedes again to background presence.
He tests his grip.
Slightly firmer.
His stance.
Slightly more stable.
This is what killing gives.
Incremental advantage.
He exhales.
The victory feels earned—but not empowering.
He realizes something uncomfortable.
The fight lasted long because neither of them were exceptional.
Raw growth is slow.
Even killing people does not guarantee overwhelming increase.
The owl's path—feeding it seeds for information—might accelerate understanding more than random combat accelerates power.
The thought lingers.
***
In the distance, he feels movement.
Not hostile.
Measured.
Mira.
She stayed within range.
Close enough.
Alone—but not gone.
He wipes sweat from his brow.
When he meets her, she says nothing about the fight.
Only studies him.
"You chose," she says eventually.
"Yes."
"Was it worth it?"
He flexes his fingers.
A beat.
"Barely."
She nods once.
Her path may be slower.
But it is steadier.
The forest shifts subtly around them.
Not violently.
Not yet.
But something deeper is changing.
And now they are truly diverging.
Still near.
Still allied.
But walking separate trajectories.
Above them, somewhere unseen, something watches.
And waits.