Shaun had finally found rhythm in a world where chaos reigned. Every three days, like clockwork, he descended from his jungle-shrouded hilltop with spear, smoke-cured meat, and Wrap Traps carefully tucked into his gear. And every time he returned, he did so dragging four or five mid-sized creatures behind him—bruised, bloodied, and just alive enough to count as trophies.
It was a respectable pace. Efficient. But Shaun never let that fool him into thinking he was anything close to the apex predator.
Out here being the top of the food chain was a lot different from what you read in textbooks. It was a title carved into your bones by creatures with claws that snapped trees and eyes that didn't blink.
He had survived only because he was compatible with the middleweight contenders of the jungle—the kind that hit hard but didn't crack the earth when they landed. They had speed, yes. Power, definitely. But there were patterns in their movements, rhythms Shaun had studied and learned to anticipate.
But the larger beasts? They were a different story.
Colossal monsters roamed deeper into the forest—things whose hides shrugged off his spear like it was a thrown chopstick. He'd gotten one good hit on a rhino-sized brute with tree-bark skin. The point had gone in maybe half a centimeter. The thing didn't even react. Its muscle tensed once, and the spear shattered like a twig underfoot.
Even if he managed to land a critical shot, what then? His weapons weren't blessed by gods or infused with magic. They were bone, wood, sinew—clever, yes, but not invincible. These giant beasts had armor, bulk, endurance. And Shaun? Shaun had a sharp stick and a rabbit with anger issues.
He knew if he stayed to fight one head-on, he wouldn't last three seconds.
Then there were the small beasts.
You'd think something the size of a fox wouldn't be terrifying. And you'd be wrong. Small beasts were devils. Fast, nimble, hard to hit—and worse, when they did hit you, they usually carried venom, or claws that shredded through clothes and skin like tissue paper.
If they got caught in a trap, fine—game over. But if they dodged? Good luck. They'd be gone before he even registered they were there.
Worse yet were the extremes—the eldritch horrors of this twisted forest ecosystem.
There was the creature he now referred to as The Mountain.
He remembered the first time he saw it. Half-delirious, starving, freshly dumped into this world. He'd looked out from a high point and seen what he thought was a distant cliff face, maybe a stone ridge in the distance.
And then it moved.
Its hill sized "legs" had locked together beneath its massive body, fusing into a mountain sized body. Whole ecosystems grew from its back, trees like fine hairs on a man. Same ones turning the whole forest floor dark. Whole flocks of birds wheeled in the updrafts of its breaths. And it didn't move like something that walked. It moved like something that shifted tectonic plates.
Shaun never got close enough to smell it, but he imagined it would be like standing downwind from an ancient tomb.
He hoped it never moved again.
Then there were the ants.
No, not the metaphorical kind. Actual ants.
Except these were the size of his palm. Their jaws clicked open with a sound like pruning shears, and their needle legs had a habit of clamping into flesh and not letting go.
They didn't fight you. They consumed you.
When they swarmed, everything died. It didn't matter how big or fast. They came in silence, a black tide of mandibles and legs, and when they passed, nothing remained. Not even bones. It was like watching nature press the delete key.
Luckily, they only appeared once a month, within a limited range. Shaun had taken to mapping their territory and cycle like a paranoid lunatic. Because even with all his traps, tricks, and training, if he got caught in that swarm, there was no outplaying it. Just dissolving into bug food.
As terrifying as it all was, there was one more layer of chaos—the stat system.
After every hunt, his body absorbed traces of his kill, converting their strength, speed, or other qualities into raw attributes. The catch? It was random.
Sometimes, he'd kill a high-speed predator and gain its point in durability.
Durability.
It was like winning the lottery but ina different currency.
In North Korea.
He had to accept that he couldn't control the rewards—only prepare for the struggle.
So, he trained harder. Every day, without fail, he sparred with Panda. His limbs were always weighted now—ankles, wrists, chest. Whether he was cooking, climbing, or sleeping, the strain was always there.
And still, even after a full month of this relentless regimen, he had not beaten Panda once.
Until today.
They were mid-spar, surrounded by a halo of kicked-up dust and broken twigs. Panda darted in—a blur of horn and fur—and Shaun lashed out with a jab from his staff. Panda leapt right, exactly as expected, and he converted the thrust into a sweeping arc.
The rabbit hopped over it easily.
But then came something new.
Panda turned mid-air and planted its paws in the dirt, back toward Shaun. Its stance was strange—coiled, centered, controlled.
Shaun blinked. "What're you—?"
Thwump.
A donkey kick. Right out of a kung fu flick.
He dodged, barely, the air from the strike ruffling his hair. Reacting fast, he grabbed Panda's leg and swung her upward. With a flick of the wrist, he had caught her by the ears.
His face lit up.
"I win!" he declared, eyes wide with glee. "Mark it! Today, the streak ends!"
He lifted her up, admiring his prize like a wrestler who'd finally pinned their undefeated rival.
But then, for absolutely no reason at all… curiosity struck.
"Wait a second," he said, squinting suspiciously. "Are you a guy or a girl?"
The rabbit stiffened.
He knew these creatures had retractable genitals, tucked away for safety while they sped across the ground. So he leaned in to check. Just a peek. For science.
But as his face drew closer, a soft warmth enveloped both ears.
He looked up.
Panda was holding his head between her paws, eyes narrowed. The moment hung strangely tender, like the start of a romantic drama where the music would normally swell and someone would say something about destiny.
Shaun swallowed. "Uh… I—"
WHAM.
A single, devastating rabbit knee. Right to the nose.
He reeled, clutching his face as stars exploded behind his eyes. Panda dropped to the ground, unleashing a volley of squeaky scolding that carried the tone of both a teacher and a war criminal.
Somewhere in that tirade, he was pretty sure she called him a pervert.
That night, Shaun nursed a bruised nose, two puffy ears, and one more point in durability.
He didn't win another sparring match for the rest of the week.
But at least now, he knew the truth.
Panda was a she.
And "she" held a grudge like it was a family heirloom.