Hope
His stomach twisted with hunger as he examined his latest attempt: a deadfall trap designed with heavier stones for more impact. The construction looked solid, the trigger mechanism primed, but still, it lay empty.
"Come on... just one," he muttered under his breath, exhaling sharply.
He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to think. He had his 'Analyze' skill, a tool that had already proven invaluable, but was he truly using it right? With renewed determination, he activated the skill and examined his trap in precise detail.
Analyze Output:
Deadfall Trap: Trigger tension slightly too high.
Bait Placement: Misaligned; insufficient lure.
Material Integrity: Decent but could be reinforced.
Kuma scowled. Just minor flaws, yet enough to cost him a meal. If he wanted results, he had to be smarter.
With quiet focus, he gathered fresh bait—some crushed berries mixed with the scent of his last kill, a trick he hoped would attract small prey. He adjusted the tension, ensuring the trigger was sensitive enough. Then, he stepped back, studying his handiwork.
It was better. He hoped it was enough.
The Fight to Survive
A rustling sound snapped Kuma out of his thoughts. His muscles tensed as he instinctively reached for his newly crafted spear. It wasn't much—just a sharpened branch reinforced with fire-hardening—but it was the best he had.
The low growl came again. His heart pounded.
Then, they emerged—two wolves, their ribs faintly visible beneath their fur, eyes burning with desperation.
Kuma swallowed hard. He could see their condition clearly now.
Analyze Output:
Small Wolf 1
HP: 12/25
Status: Starving, reckless
Small Wolf 2
HP: 13/25
Status: Aggressive, desperate
Their hunger made them more dangerous. They wouldn't hesitate. He tightened his grip on his spear, but doubt crept in. This was his first real fight using it—each thrust might be his last if the weapon snapped.
The first wolf lunged, snapping its jaws at his arm. Kuma barely managed to sidestep, thrusting his spear forward. The tip scraped against its side, but it wasn't a clean hit. His inexperience made every motion feel sluggish, uncertain.
The second wolf flanked him, trying to take advantage of his hesitation. Kuma had no time to think—he twisted and jabbed his spear downward, aiming for the wolf's legs. It yelped as the wooden tip struck home, but the impact nearly wrenched the weapon from his grasp.
"Damn it...!" he hissed.
His hands shook. He could feel the strain in the shaft of the spear—one wrong move and it could snap in half.
The first wolf lunged again, this time going for his legs. Kuma barely had time to react. He planted his foot forward and drove the spear into the wolf's shoulder. The tip sank in, but not deep enough. The beast snarled, twisting wildly, and he had to yank his weapon free before it could snap.
Blood dripped onto the forest floor. The injured wolf staggered back, panting heavily. The second one hesitated now, eyeing its wounded companion.
Kuma didn't wait. He raised his spear high and let out a guttural yell, stomping forward. His aggressive stance was enough—the wolves, weak and uncertain, finally broke. With pained whimpers, they turned tail and vanished into the trees.
Kuma stood there, breathless, his grip on the spear tight.
His first real fight... and he had survived.
But the victory felt hollow.
Small Steps Forward
The next morning, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. The night had been restless—every snapped twig, every distant cry in the forest kept him on edge. His spear rested beside him, still stained with dried blood, a reminder that he had barely made it through the day before.
He had to get better.
With that in mind, Kuma went back to his traps. To his relief, one of them had finally worked—a rat, small but edible, lay motionless beneath the weight of his deadfall trap.
His stomach growled at the sight. It wasn't much, but it was something.
Kuma took his time cleaning and cooking the rat, using his makeshift fire pit. He didn't have the luxury of spices, but hunger dulled any complaints. The taste was bitter and dry, but it filled the gnawing emptiness in his gut.
The Cruelty of the Wild
Just when he thought things were looking up, fate had other plans.
While tending to the fire, a noise drew his attention—a sharp crack of wood, followed by a deep thud. Kuma turned his head just in time to see an old tree collapse in the distance, revealing a small hole beneath its roots.
Curiosity prickled at his senses. A hole like that could lead to shelter, maybe even a water source. He stepped forward, but before he could investigate, another sound interrupted him.
Rustling. Close. Too close.
His instincts screamed at him to turn, but he was too late.
A blur of orange fur darted from the underbrush, snatching something from his campfire. By the time Kuma registered what had happened, the thief was already gone.
His Squabbit.
The fox-like creature that had stolen it disappeared into the forest, its bushy tail the last thing he saw before it vanished.
Kuma stood frozen, disbelief quickly turning to rage.
"No... no, no, no—!"
His only decent meal. Gone in seconds.
He bolted after the creature, ignoring the protests of his aching body. He could see it ahead, weaving through the trees, his stolen meal clamped in its jaws.
"Give it back, you little bastard!"
The fox was faster. Smarter. Kuma knew he wasn't going to catch it, but desperation pushed him forward. He lunged, but the creature veered sharply to the side, vanishing into the thick foliage.
He stumbled to a halt, panting. It was gone.
Kuma clenched his fists. His stomach ached, not just from hunger, but from the cruel reality of it all. The wild didn't care how hard he fought. It would take from him without hesitation.
His legs wobbled, and before he knew it, he had sunk to his knees, frustration boiling over. His throat tightened as his vision blurred.
Tears.
It had been so long since he last cried.
His whole body screamed at him to quit, to just lay down and let the forest take him.
But he couldn't.
With trembling hands, he wiped his face and forced himself to breathe. He had lost the Squabbit, but he wasn't dead. He still had his traps. He still had his fire. And most importantly—he was still alive.
One step at a time. One breath at a time.
He pushed himself to his feet.
"Let me check my old traps again," he muttered, voice hoarse.
It wasn't much, but it was something. Hope wasn't found in grand victories—it was built in the small moments of resilience, in refusing to let despair win.
And so, he kept moving forward.