After two days of hiding within the hollow of an ancient tree, the wound on his arm finally scabbed over. The angry redness had faded; no rot, no fever followed.
The knowledge pack he had exchanged for those precious 10 Kill Points had, quite literally, saved his life.
But survival was never still.
New dangers came, one after another.
The black bread and fresh water he had relied on were long gone. In their place came hunger—sharp, persistent, gnawing like countless tiny teeth chewing at his insides.
He needed food.
Colin gripped his dagger and moved through the forest like a restless shadow. He tried to recall how the tribe's hunters tracked prey—how they could read the forest like a book. A broken blade of grass, a tuft of fur, a faint footprint in the soil… each was a clue.
But to him—
They were nothing.
His bloodline was too thin.
Though sharper than a human's, his senses fell far short of a pureblood werewolf's. He sniffed the air, but all he caught was the damp rot of leaves. He listened, but the forest only answered with a chaotic chorus of insects and wind.
He tried anyway.
For half an hour, he trailed a gray squirrel—only to watch it leap effortlessly up a towering tree, vanishing into the canopy while leaving him behind with nothing but frustration.
"Damn it…"
His grip tightened around the dagger.
"This isn't my strength."
The realization came clearly.
"To abandon what I do have… just to compete on instinct?"
"That's stupidity."
In his previous life, even an ordinary person could hunt—if they had the right knowledge.
So he stopped chasing.
And started thinking.
Colin slowed his steps, scanning the terrain with deliberate care. Soon, he found it—a narrow trail, faint but clear. The earth was disturbed, leaves pressed down. Fresh tracks.
Animals passed here often.
That was enough.
He got to work.
Using his dagger, he cut down a flexible sapling and bent it into a tight arc. With rough vines, he fashioned a crude noose, positioning it carefully above the trail. A thin blade of grass hid the trigger—a simple tripwire connected to the bent branch.
His hands were clumsy. Bark scraped his skin, thorns bit into his fingers, drawing blood more than once.
But his mind—
Was steady.
Clear.
A trap took shape.
Then another.
And another.
Within half an hour, more than a dozen snares lay hidden along the path.
Then came the hardest part.
Waiting.
Colin concealed himself behind a cluster of bushes some distance away. Hunger clawed at his stomach, making his vision swim—but he didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Time stretched.
Dragged.
Just as his patience began to fray—
A sound.
Soft.
Rustling.
A gray rabbit emerged onto the trail.
It moved cautiously, nose twitching, ears flicking—alert, wary.
Colin's heart pounded so hard it felt like it might give him away. He forced himself to breathe slower. Lighter.
The rabbit crept forward.
Paused.
Sniffed.
Then—
Stepped.
Snap!
The sapling sprang upright.
The noose tightened instantly, yanking the rabbit into the air. Its body jerked wildly, limbs kicking at nothing, a silent panic suspended in midair.
Success.
A flash of fierce joy ignited in Colin's eyes.
He burst from cover, crossing the distance in a single stride. His dagger flashed—
Quick.
Clean.
The struggling stopped.
Warm blood splattered across the back of his hand.
A voice echoed in his mind.
[Wild Rabbit killed. Kill Points +1]
"…Only one?"
He blinked.
Then exhaled.
It made sense.
It was just a rabbit.
Getting anything at all was already a gain.
Piece by piece—
It would add up.
He lifted the small body, a quiet sense of accomplishment settling deep within him.
This wasn't just food.
It was proof.
Proof that he could survive here—not by brute strength, but by his own mind.
That success changed everything.
In the days that followed, Colin shed what remained of his old helplessness.
He became a hunter.
Not one who chased—
But one who prepared.
He crafted more traps, refining each design. Snares, tripwires, crude leg-holds. Each one better placed, better hidden.
His efficiency grew.
Each day, one or two unlucky creatures fell into his grasp.
[Woodland Grouse killed. Kill Points +1][Spotted-tailed Squirrel killed. Kill Points +1]
The numbers rose slowly.
But steadily.
And while he hunted—
He trained.
He practiced moving without sound, controlling each breath, each step. He learned to move with the wind, not against it—letting it carry scents away instead of betraying him.
The stamina he had gained proved invaluable. He could run farther, stay hidden longer, endure more.
Little by little, he adapted.
The forest began to make sense.
Scents separated into layers.
Sounds formed patterns.
His body responded faster.
Smoother.
The awkward boy who stumbled through the trees was gone.
In his place—
Something sharper was emerging.
But he never forgot.
One day, while dressing a fresh kill, a distant sound reached him—
A horn.
Low.
Cold.
Human.
Colin froze.
In the next instant, he abandoned everything—prey, tools, all of it—and vanished into the forest like a startled beast. Only when silence returned did he dare reappear.
They were still here.
Still searching.
At night, he climbed high into the trees, staring toward what remained of his tribe.
The fires were gone.
But movement remained.
Lines of torches drifted through the darkness like serpents of flame.
Hunting.
Always hunting.
Colin's grip tightened around his dagger.
In his eyes, something cold flickered to life.
He glanced at the system.
[Kill Points: 15]
Not enough.
Not even close.
He had learned how to live.
But survival alone meant nothing.
If he wanted more—
If he wanted justice—
If he wanted to stand, not as prey, but as something feared—
Then he would need strength.
Real strength.
Enough…
To hunt those who once hunted him.