What Survives the Venom

The forest held its breath.

The Spiteack coiled forward, its body a living ripple across the jungle floor. Each movement was silent, smooth—yet carried the weight of something ancient. Towering in size, its scaled body shimmered beneath mottled light, hood spread in a slow, deliberate threat.

And just across from it—the Olf, crouched low, fur bristling, its golden eyes fixed on the serpent like twin blades of judgment. Its blood-slicked jaw dripped onto the mossy earth, but it did not blink.

Two predators.

One kill.

No space for mercy.

The Spiteack struck first.

It lunged in a flash of muscle and shadow, fangs gleaming with a glistening venom so potent it could burn through bark. The Olf ducked, barely escaping the snap of those needle-tipped fangs. A spatter of venom struck a tree behind him—the wood hissed, blackened, and began to smoke.

The Olf circled fast.

He knew. One bite. Just one—and it would be the end.

But the Spiteack was relentless.

It twisted midair, tail whipping around with impossible speed. The Olf leapt backward, narrowly avoiding the heavy blow, then rebounded off a tree trunk to gain momentum—slashing forward with one claw, aiming to tear into the serpent's flank.

Claws met scales.

A gash opened. Not deep, but enough to paint the air with the copper scent of blood. The Spiteack hissed violently, coils tightening, lurching its massive body forward to slam the Olf into the earth.

The impact shook the ground.

The Olf grunted, wind knocked from his chest—but he twisted away just before the serpent's fangs could find his throat. He rolled, regained his stance, and snapped his jaws at the serpent's hood, testing its reactions.

The Spiteack struck again.

Its bite missed, but not by much. Venom sprayed as its fangs buried briefly into the dirt. The grass sizzled. Tiny wisps of white smoke curled skyward from where the poison had fallen.

The Olf was panting now. His ribs stung. His muscles ached.

The Spiteack wasn't fast—but it was unrelenting. Tireless. Larger, heavier. And it only needed one bite.

But the Olf was the forest's ghost. And he had survived things far worse than size.

With a snarl, he feinted left—then darted right, clawing at the Spiteack's underbelly. The blow landed. Blood surged.

The serpent reared, body towering like a twisting wall of muscle, and came crashing down—trying to crush him. The Olf rolled, ran up the Spiteack's rising coil like a ramp, and slashed at its hood as he leapt away.

A screech.

The Spiteack recoiled, pain flashing in its eyes.

Now it was angry.

It lashed forward, twisting its bulk through the trees with terrifying force, felling branches, shattering bark. Its tail slammed into the Olf's flank, sending him flying across the clearing. He tumbled, crashing into a tree, the breath knocked from him once again.

He staggered up.

The Spiteack came for him like death itself—mouth open wide, fangs ready.

Too close. Too fast.

But the Olf didn't retreat.

He charged straight in.

A blur of fur and fang.

He dove beneath the serpent's lunging head and rolled between its coils, raking his claws across its belly, again and again, until blood poured freely. The Spiteack twisted in rage, tail sweeping to smash him, but the Olf rolled away, claws skimming the earth, catching his breath.

Still alive.

Still fighting.

The two circled again.

The Olf was wounded. The Spiteack was bleeding.

But the Olf's eyes burned. He crouched low—silent, steady, then leapt higher than before, claws raised, slashing open the serpent's hood, just as it hissed and reared back.

A moment of stillness.

The Spiteack faltered—just a tremor—but enough.

The Olf landed, spun, and threw himself forward with every muscle burning. His claws struck the serpent's throat. Then his teeth found soft tissue—not the venomous head, not the fangs, but the jaw beneath.

And he tore.

Blood sprayed in waves. The Spiteack hissed a final time—high, strained, ragged. Its tail thrashed wildly, carving trenches in the earth, knocking over stones and snapping young trees—but the Olf held fast.

He bit again.

Deeper.

The serpent collapsed with a tremor that rattled the ground.

Its coils twitched once.

Then stilled.

Silence returned to the jungle.

For a moment, the Olf stood over his enemy, blood covering his muzzle, chest heaving, fur matted. His paw was cut. His ribs bruised. But he was alive.

And the kill was his.

He turned from the serpent's corpse and approached the antlered beast—the original prize. The meal he'd fought for. He bit into the soft belly, tore through skin, and began to feed.

Flesh. Warmth. Victory.

But behind him—a strange sound.

A pulse. A bubbling shift.

The Spiteack's corpse shuddered.

The Olf turned, lifting his head.

Then it burst open.

A segment of the serpent's body exploded, splashing venom in a wide arc. It hit the trees, the moss, the dirt—all of it sizzled and smoked. Tiny fires danced briefly where droplets landed. The air filled with a foul, burning stench.

From within the burst wound, something rolled out.

An egg.

Oval. Grey. Covered in venom. It pulsed faintly. Breathing. Alive.

The Olf approached, cautiously. Each step measured.

He sniffed it.

The venom burned his nose. His paw stepped near a droplet and hissed.

He backed away.

Whatever it was, it reeked of Spiteack—born of venom, steeped in poison. Not worth eating. Not worth dying for.

He turned his back on it.

The jungle took again its silence.

But behind him, the egg pulsed once more.

Still smoking.

Still alive.