Chapter 382

The jungle was alive, but it was not like the forests other people knew. It did not breathe in a rhythm or pulse with a pulse. There was no harmony. This jungle was older, darker, and far more dangerous.

It grew thick with vines and brambles that coiled around the trees like the hands of something watching. The air here was dense, not with moisture but with the stench of decay, and the scent clung to skin, crawling beneath clothing and digging into bone.

Jonas had lived here his entire life.

When he was small, they had found him. The hunters. The ones who saw the wild boy running with the beasts. The boy with the eyes of a wolf and the spirit of something untamed. He was never a child in their eyes.

He was an animal. But Jonas never understood them. He only knew the jungle, its rhythm, its beat. When he was young, there were others who came—men and women with stories of cities, of lights, of lands beyond the thick foliage.

But the jungle called him. It had whispered in the winds that crossed its shadowed paths.

They had tried to take him. The men, with their sharp sticks and strange, cold faces. They tried to cage him, as they caged the animals they hunted. But the jungle would never let him be caged. Jonas fought them, his movements wild and brutal.

His hands became claws. His teeth sharpened, his eyes glinted with ferocity. He had learned their ways, learned how to watch, how to listen, how to be the hunter.

Years had passed. He had become one with the jungle, more beast than man, more spirit than flesh. His feet moved like the jaguars, silent and swift. His senses had grown sharp, able to hear the rustle of prey from miles away. He did not feel the hunger that others felt. The hunger in the jungle was always quiet, always waiting, always patient. But he had been taught the way of patience.

Now, it was his turn to hunt.

And hunt he did. It had started with a few outsiders, wandering too close to the jungle's heart. Those who strayed into his domain were never seen again. The stories spread through the nearby villages. The man raised by animals.

The shadow that prowled the edges of the trees. Some said he was the jungle itself—an incarnation of its vengeance. Others whispered that he was the last of an ancient race, a forgotten tribe who had once ruled this land. None dared challenge the stories. None dared trespass again.

Until they came. A group of men. One of them had a gun, and the others carried knives. They had heard the stories, but they didn't believe them. They thought they could conquer the jungle, tame it, take what it offered and leave before it could take anything from them. They had no idea what they had walked into.

Jonas watched them from the shadows, crouched low among the thick underbrush. His breath came slow, steady. His eyes flicked from one man to the next. They laughed, talking too loudly, their voices disturbing the fragile peace of the jungle. They were foolish. But he knew that they would not last long.

The first man fell silent when he heard it—the sound of movement, like the breeze rustling the leaves. He froze, his hand gripping the rifle tightly, scanning the forest with wide eyes. His companions noticed, but they only mocked him. "You hear something, Carl?" one of them sneered. "I thought the wild man didn't come this close."

Jonas smiled to himself. They were wrong. He was already there, and he had been for hours.

His senses picked up the smallest of movements. A flicker in the trees. He saw it. The hunter.

He moved first, silent, swift. There was no time to think, no room for hesitation. The first man never knew what hit him. Jonas' hands grabbed his throat, sharp nails digging into the flesh. The rifle dropped, falling to the ground with a dull thud, and the man's last breath came in a strangled gasp. Jonas let him go, his body crumpling to the ground.

The others turned when they heard the thud. One man screamed, raising his knife. But Jonas was already on him, his body crashing into the hunter like a storm. His teeth sank into flesh, tearing and ripping with animal rage. There was no hesitation. No mercy. Only hunger. Only survival.

The last two men ran. One of them stumbled over roots, his face pale with terror. The other was faster, moving like a panicked animal himself. But Jonas had learned the art of the chase long ago. The jungle's silence swallowed him as he pursued them. His footsteps were quiet, like the breath of a predator closing in.

The man who stumbled looked behind him. He caught a glimpse of Jonas. A pale face, eyes glowing in the darkness like the moon over a storm-tossed sea. It was too late. Jonas lunged, his body crashing into the man, driving him into the dirt.

The man gasped, his hand clutching at Jonas' chest, trying to push him away. But Jonas' hands were too strong, his grip unbreakable. He dug his nails into the man's throat, squeezing tighter as the man struggled.

The sound of his wind leaving his body was a sickening, wet sound.

Jonas stood over the body, staring down at it, his chest heaving. His heart was beating hard. Blood stained his hands, but the taste of it was nothing new. He had tasted blood since he was a child, when the jungle had first taught him the way of the hunt. But as he stood there, something shifted. A hollow feeling crept into his chest.

He stared at the final man, the one who had run the furthest. The one who had thought he could escape. But Jonas was already there, waiting. The hunter was always faster.

The man's eyes locked onto Jonas, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He dropped his knife and fell to his knees. "Please," he begged. "Please don't—"

Jonas didn't answer. He didn't need to. His hands moved, and the man's throat was crushed beneath his grip. He let go once the last breath escaped the man's body. It was over.

Jonas stood alone in the clearing, surrounded by the bodies. The jungle watched him, silent and still. He turned and began to walk back into the trees, his movements easy, unhurried. The hunt was over.

But as he moved deeper into the jungle, something in him felt different. The scent of blood hung thick in the air, but it didn't taste as sweet anymore. The jungle, his jungle, no longer felt like a home. The sounds of life seemed distant, as if the forest had withdrawn from him.

He stopped at the edge of a cliff, looking out over the vast, dark expanse. His chest felt tight, a dull ache settling there. He had been born here, raised here, but it wasn't enough anymore. He didn't belong to the jungle as he once did. He had crossed a line—he had become something else.

The wind shifted, brushing past him like a cold hand. For the first time, Jonas felt its chill.

Then, in the distance, he saw something. A figure. Someone standing at the edge of the jungle, watching him.

It was a man. A man like the others, but different. He was older, dressed in ragged clothes. His face was lined with age, but his eyes were sharp. He didn't flinch when Jonas stepped into view. The man simply watched him, his face unreadable.

Jonas felt a strange pull, a flicker of recognition. The jungle called to him, urging him to retreat, to escape. But he couldn't. The figure stood there, waiting.

And in that moment, Jonas realized the truth. The jungle was not his anymore. He had never truly belonged to it. It had used him, shaped him into something monstrous, but he was not the beast it had made him. He was more than that.

As he took a step forward, he knew he was walking toward his end. There would be no escape. There would be no redemption.

And when the man raised his hand and Jonas' body collapsed in a heap, he realized that perhaps, the jungle was never the monster at all.