Yuki had only dozed for a few minutes.
Then the branch shook beneath him, and the foul odor returned—thicker than before, clinging to the back of his throat like rot.
His eyes opened.
A jaguar crept toward him along the branch.
Black fur, slick as oil. Golden eyes locked onto his. Muscles moved in slow, silent waves beneath its skin. It didn't rush. It didn't need to.
This is its tree, Yuki realized. I'm in its bed.
He could feel the beast's ki—dense, pulsing, heavier than the wolf or the snake.
It has a Kizo.
The jaguar crept closer.
Yuki stood. His bare feet pressed into the bark. His injured ankle screamed. His cracked ribs ached with every breath.
He gripped the black ice dagger.
The jaguar vanished.
Not a blur. Not a dash into the shadows.
Gone.
But Yuki could still hear it—the slow rhythm of its heart, the whisper of its breath, the stench that didn't fade.
It's right in front of me.
It lunged.
Teeth sank into his shoulder.
Pain—white, hot, endless. Yuki screamed and drove the dagger into its torso, all the way to the hilt.
The jaguar convulsed. They fell.
Branches cracked against his back. His head snapped sideways. Then the ground—hard, unforgiving.
Thud.
Silence.
The jaguar lay dead beside him. Its golden eyes stared at nothing.
Yuki clutched his shoulder. Blood pumped between his fingers. Too much. Too fast.
I'm bleeding out.
Fear crashed over him—not the sharp rush of a fight, but something deeper. Colder.
When Giyu locked him in that room, he never feared death. Giyu wouldn't kill him. The pain had a purpose.
In the tournament, there were rules. Barriers. Medics waiting.
But here?
No rules. No medics. No second chances.
His breath came in ragged gasps. Tears spilled down his cheeks—hot against the cold sweat on his face.
"I don't want to die."
He had almost died three times in one day. The flower. The wolf. The snake. Now this.
Three times.
His hands trembled as he pulled the dagger from the jaguar. He grabbed his backpack, tore a shirt into strips, and wrapped them around his shoulder—too tight, then looser, then tight again.
He stood.
His legs felt like water. His vision blurred at the edges.
But he had learned something during the night: foul smell means a beast nearby. The fouler the smell, the stronger the beast.
His nose—one of the few gifts his bloodline had given him—could guide him.
He started walking.
Morning came slowly.
Too slowly.
Yuki walked all night. Every time his nose caught a foul stench, he changed direction. No pride. No hesitation.
Survive first. Fight later.
The sun rose like it didn't want to wake—pale gold bleeding through the canopy, soft and hesitant.
When light touched his face, relief washed through him.
Still alive.
He was thirsty. Hungry. His wounds itched. His shoulder throbbed beneath the blood-soaked bandages. His bare feet were cut and bruised.
But he was alive.
Then—a scent. Clean. Familiar.
Water.
He ran.
Through trees. Over roots. Stumbling. His ankle screamed. He didn't stop.
The trees parted.
A lake.
Crystal clear. Glittering in the early light. Surrounded by a quiet opening in the forest—a pocket of peace.
Yuki dropped to his knees at the water's edge and plunged his head beneath the surface.
Drink.
He drank until his stomach ached. Pulled his head out. Gasped.
His reflection stared back.
Messy black hair, damp and matted. Light blue eyes—still striking, still sharp, even with dark circles beneath them. His face was scratched, dirty, smeared with dried blood.
But he was alive.
He stripped off his ruined clothes—the torn shirt, the blood-soaked pants—and stepped into the lake.
The cold water stung his wounds at first, then soothed them. He washed the dirt and blood from his skin, from his hair, from the cuts on his arms.
He looked down at his body.
Scars crisscrossed his chest and torso—jagged lines from old wounds, the large diagonal slash from the Giyu, smaller marks from Giyu's lessons. His muscles were lean, defined, hardened by years of survival. The fresh wound on his shoulder stood out, dark and angry.
He looked like what he was: a fighter who had never stopped fighting.
Then he smelled something.
Not foul. Pleasant. Like wildflowers after rain.
He looked to his right.
A bush near the tree line was shaking.
The watcher.
A girl stumbled out.
She was young—teenager, maybe his age. Tan skin, dark messy hair falling past her shoulders. She wore clothes made of animal skins: a tied top that left her flat belly bare, a short skirt that stopped mid-thigh, leather wraps on her arms and legs. Strange tattoos spiraled across her brown arms—symbols he didn't recognize.
Her face turned red.
Not a light blush. A deep, burning crimson that spread from her cheeks to her ears to her neck.
She was staring at him.
Naked him.
Her eyes traveled down his body—over his broad shoulders, his scarred chest, the hard lines of his stomach, the muscles of his legs.
Her lips parted slightly.
She didn't look away.
Seconds passed. Five. Ten.
Yuki's brain finally rebooted.
"Uh—"
The girl turned and dashed into the forest.
"Wait!"
He started after her—then remembered he was naked.
Right. Clothes first.
He climbed out of the lake quickly, his face now almost as red as hers had been. He dried himself with what remained of his old shirt and pulled on fresh clothes—a green long-sleeve shirt and green camo shorts.
He wrapped a clean strip of fabric around his shoulder wound, tying it tight.
His shoes were ruined. Caked with mud and blood.
Barefoot is better.
He tossed them aside.
He sat at the edge of the lake, staring at the bush where she had appeared.
Who was she?
She had been watching him last night. He was sure of it. The presence in the darkness—the eyes that tracked him from the shadows.
Was that her?
His stomach growled.
Loud.
He looked up. Large birds circled above the lake—too high to reach, too fast to catch.
He smiled.
It was small. Tired.
But it was there.
Yuki stood by the lake and refused to leave.
This clearing was the safest thing he'd found since falling out of that plane. Open sky. Clean water. No invisible jaguars trying to eat his face.
I could live here, he thought. Become a hermit. Grow a beard. Talk to fish.
His stomach growled.
Right. Food first.
He looked up at the birds circling overhead—big, dark, meaty shapes against the pale sky. Too high to reach. Too fast to catch.
Unless...
He opened his right fist.
Black ice.
A jagged spear formed in his palm—dark, hungry, terrifying. It looked like something a villain would carry in a bad movie.
It also drained his ki like a leaky faucet.
He dispersed it immediately and sighed.
Okay. Plan B.
He tried again. This time, the ice that appeared was clear, pale blue, completely ordinary.
His regular ice. The one he'd ignored ever since the black ice started showing off.
He turned the spear in his hand. It felt lighter. Cheaper. Like trading a sports car for a bicycle.
But the bicycle doesn't run out of gas in five minutes.
He took aim at the birds.
His left shoulder was useless—the jaguar had made sure of that. The bandage was already soaked through. So he shifted his stance, planted his bare feet on the grass, and threw with his right.
The spear shot upward.
Fast. Straight. Beautiful.
It missed every single bird by about twenty feet.
Yuki watched it dissolve into mist and wondered if the universe was laughing at him.
Again.
Another spear. Another throw. Another miss.
Again.
Miss.
Again.
Miss.
AGAIN.
His arm felt like noodles. His ki was running on fumes. His pride had packed its bags and left the building.
One more, he told himself. Last one. I mean it this time.
The spear formed—thinner than before, wobblier, held together by pure stubbornness.
He threw.
The spear tore through the air like a bullet. It pierced through two birds—a wet, satisfying sound—and kept going, disappearing into the clouds.
The birds fell.
Yuki watched them drop, heart hammering, and when they hit the ground with two soft thuds, he raised his fist to the sky.
"THAT'S RIGHT! WHO'S THE PREDATOR NOW?!"
No one answered. A parrot squawked at him from somewhere in the trees.
He dragged the birds to the edge of the lake. They were huge—eagle-sized, with dark feathers and yellow beaks that looked like they could do damage.
Sorry, birds. It's the circle of life.
He needed fire.
He gathered twigs, dry leaves, small sticks. Arranged them in a pile. Circled them with stones like he'd seen in movies.
Then he realized he had no matches, no lighter, no clue what he was doing.
He tried rubbing sticks together.
Thirty minutes. Blisters on his palms. No fire.
He tried striking stones together.
Another thirty minutes. A few sparks that died immediately. His fingers were raw.
He sat back on his heels and stared at the stubborn pile of sticks.
I survived a jaguar. I survived a snake. I survived a wolf.
I'm going to die of starvation because I can't start a fire.
Unbeknownst to him, the girl had returned.
She sat on a low branch, legs swinging, watching him with curious brown eyes. Every time he growled in frustration, her shoulders shook with silent laughter.
Think, Yuki told himself. You made lightning before. You can do it again.
He remembered the tournament. Ice crystals. Water droplets. Friction.
Science.
He knelt in front of the sticks, extended his hand, and closed his eyes.
Concentrate.
The girl leaned forward on her branch.
A tiny bolt of lightning jumped from his palm and struck the kindling.
Fwoosh.
Flames erupted.
Yuki's eyes flew open. "I'M A GENIUS!"
Then the lightning crawled back up his arm.
Pain shot through his nerves—his hand seized, his fingers twitched, his entire arm screamed at him for being an idiot.
He shook it out, hissing through his teeth.
Worth it.
The girl's eyes went wide. She had seen the lightning. She had seen him hurt himself.
And he was smiling like a fool.
She tilted her head, confused.
Gutting the birds was a disaster.
Yuki had never done this before. He knew, theoretically, that the organs needed to come out. He did not know how to do that without making a mess.
He cut. He pulled. He made sounds that would have made Hana barf.
Blood got everywhere. On his hands. On his face, somehow.
He rinsed the meat in the lake—probably not sanitary, but neither was half the stuff he'd already survived—and cut a small piece.
He stabbed it with a stick and held it over the fire.
The girl watched from the branch, covering her mouth.
When the meat looked cooked enough—which is to say, it had stopped dripping blood—Yuki took a bite.
He chewed once.
Twice.
His face went gray.
He spit it out immediately.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!" he yelled at the sky. "OH GOD! I'M GONNA PUKE!"
The girl lost it.
She laughed—a bright, loud, wonderful sound—and laughed so hard she fell off the branch into a bush.
Yuki spun around.
That smell.
Wildflowers. Rain. Something sweet.
The girl crawled out of the bush, leaves stuck in her dark hair, a few twigs poking out at odd angles. Her brown eyes were watery from laughing.
This time, when she looked at him, her cheeks only turned a light pink.
She walked over and squatted beside him.
He noticed leaves in her hand—green, crushed, fragrant.
She picked up a piece of his sad, raw meat, smeared the crushed leaves onto it, and held it over the fire.
Yuki watched her work.
"Who are you?" he asked.
She didn't respond.
"Can you understand me?"
Nothing. She didn't even look at him.
Different language. Or maybe she just doesn't talk.
She turned the meat over the flames with practiced ease.
When it was done, she handed it to him.
He took a bite.
...What?
His eyes went wide. The meat was tender, smoky, alive with flavor. It melted on his tongue.
He stared at her.
She stared back.
He shoved the rest of the meat toward her.
More.
She smiled—small, satisfied—and got to work.
He pointed at himself. "Yuki."
She tilted her head.
He pointed again. "Yu-ki."
She pointed at him. "Yuki."
Yes.
Then he pointed at her.
She looked at his finger, confused. He pointed at himself, said his name, then pointed at her again.
Understanding lit up her face.
She pointed at her chest. "Nia."
"Nia," he repeated.
She grinned.
Then she leaned in close.
Suddenly, her face was inches from his. He could see every detail—the gold flecks in her brown eyes, the small scar on her chin, the way her dark hair fell across her cheek.
She sniffed the air around his face.
...What is she doing?
He copied her. Leaned in. Sniffed the air around her neck.
She smelled like leaves and smoke and something sweet—honey, maybe, or wild berries.
She giggled and pulled back.
Then she returned to cooking, shaking her head like he was the strangest creature she'd ever met.
Fair enough.
She made piece after piece. Yuki ate until his stomach felt like it might burst. Every time he took a bite, she watched his face—studying his reactions, smiling when he closed his eyes in satisfaction.
She likes this, he realized. She likes watching this weird looking human eat.
He leaned back on his hands, full for the first time since arriving in the Amazon.
"Nia," he said.
She looked up.
"Thank you."
She didn't understand the words.
But she understood the smile.