The Trial of the Jungle

The dense jungle of Yusolo stretched endlessly before the boy, its towering trees and twisting vines creating an impenetrable fortress of green. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the distant cries of unseen beasts. Mosquitoes buzzed around him, their tiny wings whispering threats in his ears.

He was alone.

Abandoned.

The last thing he remembered was his uncle's cold stare before the guards tossed him into the wild like discarded waste. His body ached from the fall, his bare feet stung from the sharp undergrowth, but his heart—his heart burned hotter than ever.

The boy did not know his own name.

Not yet.

But he knew this: he would not die here.

The First Night

As the sun sank beyond the jungle canopy, darkness swallowed the land. The boy had no fire, no shelter, and no weapons. Only his will.

His stomach twisted in hunger, but he ignored it. He had seen how the palace hunters survived in the wild—how they moved, how they listened. He needed to become like them.

Dropping low, he pressed his ear against the earth.

Silence.

Then—a rustling sound, faint but deliberate. Something was nearby.

A memory surfaced.

"Do not fear the jungle, boy. Fear what lurks within it."

His father's voice. Or was it his grandfather's? He could barely remember.

The rustling grew louder.

A predator.

The boy slowly reached for a rock, his fingers tightening around its rough edges. He turned his head—two glowing eyes peered at him from the undergrowth. Low, guttural breathing filled the air.

A Nyaka.

A shadowcat.

Sleek, black, and deadly. It crouched low, its powerful muscles coiling like a spring, ready to pounce.

The boy's heart pounded, but he did not run.

Running was death.

Instead, he locked eyes with the beast, baring his teeth like a wild animal.

He growled.

The Nyaka hesitated.

Then, in one swift motion, the boy hurled the rock with all his strength. It struck the beast's snout, causing it to yelp and retreat into the shadows.

He did not wait to see if it would return. He climbed the nearest tree, gripping its rough bark with desperate strength. Higher and higher he went, until he found a thick branch sturdy enough to hold his weight.

Only then did he allow himself to breathe.

The jungle whispered below, alive with unseen threats.

But he had survived the first night.

And he would survive the next.

The Test of Hunger

Days passed. The boy wandered through the jungle, learning its secrets.

Hunger gnawed at him, but he refused to die. He watched the monkeys pluck fruits from the trees and mimicked them, testing which ones were safe. He followed the birds to water sources, cupping the cool liquid in his trembling hands.

He learned to move without a sound, to blend with the shadows, to listen.

But the jungle was cruel.

On the fourth day, his body grew weak. His vision blurred. His legs threatened to give out.

He needed meat.

And he would take it.

Spotting a small deer-like creature drinking from a stream, he crouched low, gripping a sharpened stick he had carved against a rock.

He lunged.

The creature bolted, but the boy was faster. He tackled it, wrapping his arms around its slender neck. It kicked and thrashed, hooves slamming into his ribs. Pain flared through his body, but he did not let go.

The boy tightened his grip.

The struggle ended.

Sweat and blood dripped down his face as he stared at the lifeless creature beneath him.

For the first time since entering the jungle, he felt something deep inside him awaken.

Power.

He had taken a life.

Not as a prince.

Not as a boy.

But as a survivor.

He cooked the meat over a fire made from dry leaves and twigs, his first fire, and ate in silence.

The jungle no longer frightened him.

It belonged to him now.

The Arrival of the Volx

On the seventh day, everything changed.

The boy had grown leaner, his muscles defined by hardship. He moved like a shadow, his senses sharper than ever.

But he was not the only hunter in the jungle.

They came at dawn.

Figures with dark skin and painted faces, moving like spirits through the trees. Their eyes burned with silent intensity, their weapons carved from bone and stone.

The Volx.

A tribe spoken of in hushed whispers—a people untouched by the outside world, feared for their ruthlessness, respected for their strength.

And they had found him.

The boy did not run.

He stood his ground as the warriors emerged from the shadows, circling him like wolves.

A woman stepped forward, her presence commanding. Her braids were woven with beads of bone, her arms adorned with intricate tattoos. A chief, or perhaps a warrior of high rank.

She studied him, eyes like cold steel.

"You are not of the jungle," she said in a language he somehow understood. "Yet, you have not died."

The boy straightened his back, meeting her gaze without fear.

"I will not die."

A flicker of amusement crossed her face.

"Then prove it."

She tossed a blade at his feet—a crude, sharp dagger made from obsidian.

The boy picked it up.

A warrior stepped forward, taller and broader than the rest, gripping a spear. His expression was unreadable.

The woman gestured between them.

"Survive."

The meaning was clear.

The boy tightened his grip on the dagger, his heart steady.

This was his trial.

And he would not lose.

To be continued…