The Hidden Hunger
Chapter 5: The Hidden Hunger
The fire still burned in the distance, a beacon of his loss and a grave marker for everything he had ever known. Zhao Fei wandered through the dense forest, his small frame struggling to navigate the thick underbrush. His clothes were tattered, his face pale, and his eyes hollow. He carried nothing with him except a small satchel that contained a few dried roots and a crude knife his father had forged.
Three days had passed since he buried his parents. He had dug their graves with trembling hands, each scoop of earth a testament to his sorrow. The memory of their lifeless bodies, their faces frozen in expressions of fear and pain, haunted him relentlessly.
He had cried until no tears were left, his voice hoarse from screaming at the heavens, begging for a reason, a purpose, or at least an end to his torment. But the heavens remained silent. The only response he received was the gnawing hunger in his belly and the growing emptiness in his soul.
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Zhao Fei stumbled over a root, falling to his knees. His hands sank into the damp earth, and he stayed there, breathing heavily. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he thought about giving up. What was the point of continuing? His family was gone. His village was ashes. He was a mere boy, alone in a world that seemed vast and merciless.
But then, a spark of something ignited within him. It wasn't hope, nor was it courage. It was something darker—a fierce, burning desire that whispered to him: Live. Fight. Take what is yours.
Zhao Fei clenched his fists, dirt embedding itself under his fingernails. He didn't understand the voice, nor did he know where it came from. But it resonated with the hollowness inside him, like a distant drumbeat calling him to war.
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The forest grew colder as the sun dipped below the horizon. Shadows lengthened, and the once vibrant hues of green turned into ominous shades of black and gray. Zhao Fei's stomach growled loudly, the sound echoing in the silence.
He had been surviving on scraps—roots, berries, and whatever water he could find. But it wasn't enough. His body was weak, his limbs trembling with every step. The hunger gnawed at him relentlessly, not just in his stomach but deep within his very being.
As he trudged forward, he saw a small clearing up ahead. In the center of it, a rabbit sat nibbling on a blade of grass, its ears twitching at every sound. Zhao Fei froze, his heart pounding in his chest.
Take it, the voice urged.
He hesitated, the thought of killing the creature sending a wave of guilt through him. He had never taken a life before, not even that of an animal. But the hunger was unbearable, and the voice in his mind was insistent.
Moving slowly, he crouched low, his small hands gripping the knife in his satchel. His breaths came in shallow gasps as he inched closer to the rabbit. It didn't notice him, too engrossed in its meal.
And then, with a burst of movement, Zhao Fei lunged. The rabbit tried to dart away, but his hand closed around its fragile neck. It kicked and struggled, its small body writhing in his grip.
As he tightened his hold, a strange sensation washed over him. It was subtle at first, like a warm current flowing into his hands. But then it grew stronger, a rush of energy surging through his veins. Zhao Fei's eyes widened as he felt the vitality of the rabbit transfer into him.
The hunger within him quieted, replaced by a strange sense of fulfillment. For the first time in days, he felt… alive.
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Zhao Fei stared at the lifeless rabbit in his hands, his mind racing. What had just happened? He didn't understand it, but he couldn't deny the sensation. It was as if the very essence of the creature had become a part of him.
He dropped the rabbit, his hands trembling. Guilt and fear warred within him, but beneath those emotions was something else—something darker. A flicker of satisfaction.
Was this power?
The voice in his mind returned, stronger this time. More. Take more. Only then will you be strong enough.
Zhao Fei shook his head, trying to banish the voice. But it lingered, a constant whisper in the back of his mind. He didn't know what it was or why it had appeared, but he couldn't deny the truth: he had taken the rabbit's life, and in doing so, he had gained something.
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The days that followed were a blur. Zhao Fei continued to wander the forest, surviving as best he could. But the hunger never truly went away. It would subside for a while, only to return stronger than before.
He began to notice things he hadn't before. The energy of the forest seemed to pulse around him, invisible threads connecting every living thing. He could feel it in the trees, the grass, even the wind. And when he concentrated, he could draw that energy into himself.
At first, it was small—just a faint trickle of vitality. But with practice, it grew stronger. He didn't know how he was doing it, but the technique felt instinctive, as if it had always been a part of him, waiting to be unlocked.
The voice in his mind guided him, teaching him to take without hesitation. It was relentless, urging him to consume more, to grow stronger. Zhao Fei resisted at first, clinging to the kindness and innocence that had defined him. But as the days passed, and the hunger grew, he found it harder to hold on to who he once was.
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One night, as he sat by a small fire, Zhao Fei stared at his reflection in a puddle of water. His face was pale, his eyes sunken. He hardly recognized himself.
"I don't want this," he whispered. "I just want my family back."
But the voice responded coldly: The world took from you. Take it back.
Tears streamed down Zhao Fei's face as he clenched his fists. He didn't want to lose himself to this darkness, but he couldn't ignore the power it offered. If he wanted to survive—if he wanted to avenge his family—he needed strength.
And so, as the fire crackled beside him, Zhao Fei made a silent vow. He would use this power, but he would not let it consume him. He would remain himself, no matter how difficult it became.
But deep down, he knew that the line between who he was and who he might become was already beginning to blur.
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