From Prey to Predator

- 118 years after the apocalypse -

Four Years Later

"Jonan!" Enric shouted. "Its coming your way—be ready!"

Enric, a 21-year-old man who lived in the Bloodthorn Camp, was tall, muscular, with black hair and brown eyes.

Jonan turned toward him and saw a Zauron, with a single horn. Without hesitation, he coated his short sword—its black handle firm in his grip—in molten salt.

He sprinted toward the Zauron. The beast, all 180 kilograms of it, charged at him with its maw wide open, fangs gleaming in the sunlight.

But Jonan was ready. This wasn't his first Zauron hunt.

Using the trees around him, he leaped onto a sturdy branch to his right, taunting the beast. Enraged, the Zauron reared up on its hind legs, attempting to lunge at Jonan.

That was its mistake.

Jonan had planned for this. The moment the Zauron leaped, it left itself wide open. Jonan seized the opportunity, launching himself onto the creature's back.

The Zauron thrashed violently, trying to shake him off, but Jonan held firm. With swift precision, he drove his sword deep into the beast's spine, twisting the blade before yanking it out and delivering a final, clean strike—decapitating the Zauron in one fluid motion.

Enric let out a whistle, grinning. "That was a damn fine hunt, Jonan. Hard to believe we used to run when we saw these things. Hell, our whole camp was under siege by them at times." He chuckled, giving Jonan a playful shove on the shoulder. "But then you came along, and now we're the hunters, huh?"

Jonan smirked. "You're exaggerating, Enric. All you needed was the right knowledge on how to hunt them. Once you had that, you would've managed just fine without me."

Enric laughed. "Handsome and humble—what a role model." He shook his head, still grinning.

"Enric, come help me carry this back to camp," Jonan said.

"You know," Enric groaned, hoisting part of the load, "this is the part I hate most about our job. They're just so damn heavy..."

Jonan smirked. "What are you complaining about? We're only carrying the meat. It's not like we're hauling the whole carcass." He paused, then added, "Oh, and don't forget to take the horn."

Enric sighed dramatically. "Blah, blah, blah... horn. Got it." He chuckled.

Jonan rolled his eyes but said nothing, continuing alongside Enric toward the camp.

At the Camp

"Alright, Jonan, I'll catch you later—I need to get back to Lydia," Enric said, stretching his arms. "You know how pissed she gets when I'm late."

Jonan smirked. "Yeah, yeah, I know. See you later."

As Enric walked off, Jonan took a moment to look around the camp, absorbing how much it had changed over the past four years.

He never forgot how he had arrived here. But he no longer held any resentment. This place—this place—was more of a home to him than the grand estate he had grown up in. There, he had been trapped in a massive, empty room, surrounded by portraits of a family that no longer existed.

Here, he belonged. Here, he was valued.

And he saw how much the camp had grown.

There were now two blacksmith stations, newly built food stalls, even a proper clothing shop. A large section of the camp had been converted into a training ground, and whole fields were dedicated to farming—potatoes, carrots, and more.

Jonan exhaled softly, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

He made his way toward his cabin.

It was simple—not too big, not too small. A bed fit for two, a small cooking area, and even a proper latrine.

Jonan didn't need anything more.

He liked the simple life.

Jonan heard a soft knock on his door as he finished getting dressed.

"Lydia? Did something happen?" he asked as he opened the door, revealing Lydia standing outside.

She was twenty years old, with brown eyes and sleek black hair. She was on the shorter side, with a slender frame, a broad chest, and hips shaped like an hourglass.

"Why would anything have happened?" she said, crossing her arms. "Can't a friend just visit a friend?" She flashed him a warm, inviting smile. "Come eat with us tonight. It's a holiday, after all."

Jonan hesitated. "That's kind of you, Lydia, but I'd rather be alone on nights like this. Still… thanks for the offer." He forced a small smile.

Lydia's expression darkened.

"Okay, let me make something clear," she said, her tone sharpening. "That wasn't a request. It was a decision. You are eating with us tonight. And you better not be late. Got it?"

Jonan sighed. "Alright, alright, no need to get worked up—"

"Don't tell me what I need to do. Just don't be late," Lydia huffed, turning on her heel and stomping off.

Jonan watched her go, exhaling through his nose.

She's definitely got a temper, he thought.

Jonan stepped out of his cabin and made his way toward the training grounds. As he approached, he spotted Picha instructing some of the younger kids from the camp.

"Hey, Picha!" Jonan called out. "Duel me."

Ever since Jonan had arrived here, he had constantly challenged Picha to duels. Some believed he simply enjoyed fighting, while others thought it had something to do with how he ended up in the camp.

But the truth was simple—Jonan just wanted to get stronger. He wanted to be able to protect the people he cared about.

For a while, Picha and Jonan trained together, their swords clashing under the dimming sky. Eventually, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Jonan suddenly froze.

Oh no… Lydia is going to kill me.

He barely had time to say goodbye to Picha before sprinting toward Enric and Lydia's cabin.

A firm knock.

The door swung open.

Lydia stood there, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

"Glad you finally decided to show up," she said, her voice unexpectedly calm. "Come on, sit down."

Jonan blinked, caught off guard by her lack of anger, but stepped inside anyway.

At the table, Enric was already seated, grinning as he looked up.

"Hey, Enric," Jonan greeted.

"Oh," Enric said, smirking. "Long time no see."

He chuckled, amused by his own words. Jonan just sighed, shaking his head as he took a seat.

And with that, they sat down to eat.

The Next Day

Jonan was on his usual patrol around the camp, scanning the perimeter for any suspicious movement—whether from people or monsters. He was dressed in his Zauron-hide armor, its tough, dark leather providing both protection and flexibility.

Everything seemed normal.

Then, a voice rang out.

"Hey, kid!"

Jonan turned toward the sound. It was Picha, calling down from one of the watchtowers.

"Come to the gate!" Picha shouted.

Something was happening.

Jonan didn't hesitate—he changed course and sprinted toward the entrance of the camp.

Jonan arrived at the camp gate, where Picha stood alongside Enric and two other guys—Tim and Cham-Cham.

Tim was tall and lanky, with bright orange hair and skin as pale as snow. Cham-Cham, on the other hand, was short and stocky, with jet-black hair. The two were brothers, both seventeen—one year younger than Jonan.

"Everything okay?" Jonan asked between breaths, still catching his wind.

Picha raised an eyebrow. "Huh? Why are you out of breath? Did something happen?"

Jonan frowned. "What do you mean? You yelled for me to come to the gate—I thought something was wrong!"

Picha let out a hearty laugh. "Kid, you really need to relax. You're always so tense."

Jonan rolled his eyes but said nothing.

"Anyway, back to business," Picha continued. "I want the four of you to head to the nearest city. Pick up some supplies and sell whatever Bill loads onto the cart. He's getting it ready now."

He gave them all a pointed look. "And no trouble in the city, got it?"

Enric sighed. "The city… You mean the one with that noble, Greenbur?"

"Yeah," Picha confirmed.

Enric groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Great…"

"Picha said, 'Enric will explain the job to you…' and then walked away."

,"Enric muttered before turning to the group. "Listen up. When we're there, do not wander off. That place is crawling with corrupt scum, and they'll try to get you from every corner. If you run into one of the city's nobles, get out of there as fast as you can. Understood?"

Jonan raised an eyebrow. "Why are you so worried? It's just a noble. And if the city is under noble rule, shouldn't it be safe?"

Tim chuckled. "I'm guessing you've never been to a Vestian city before, huh?"

Jonan shook his head. "No, never."

Tim exchanged a look with his brother. "Cham-Cham, go ahead and tell him."

Cham-Cham rolled his eyes but started explaining. "Alright, listen, Jonan. Most cities in Vestia are ruled by brute force. Basically, the strong survive, the weak get crushed. And this city is one of the worst. You can see murders happening in broad daylight. Kidnappings. Everything you can imagine. And no one lifts a finger to stop it."

Jonan's expression hardened.

"What's the name of this city?" Jonan asked, still trying to process what he had just heard. He could hardly believe it.

Cham-Cham let out a small sigh before answering.

"They call it Belhorn."