The sun shone bright. The forest filled with the various fragrances of fruits and trees. The child—ever confident after taking down the Spiteack—now lay on the soil. But rather than the face of happiness that the child should wear, it was one of nervousness and sickness.
The child was sweating all over. With nowhere to go, and no understanding of what to do anymore, he lay there on the soil. White foam spilled from his mouth. His neck pulled in intervals, puking green liquid to the side.
The fever raged ever higher after the fight with the Spiteack had ended. The child—heavily poisoned—didn't understand what had happened. Bitten by the Spiteack and then consuming its poisonous belly, the child had been doubly infected by the Spiteack's deadly brew.
Not fully grasping his situation, he simply lay on the ground, muffling. Trembling. The ground was cold, but the heat in his body began to warm it. The child, trembling and in pain, rolled back and forth on the cold earth, trying desperately to cool himself. But the fever would not yield.
Overwhelmed by the unbearable heat and searing pain, the child began vomiting blood. It poured from his nose, uncontrollably. He still lay there—dirt-covered, now mostly replaced by blood and intestinal fluids.
Little by little, his senses began to fade. His limbs no longer moved. Eyes wide open, the child's body stopped working. Though the heart still beat, but no one could tell if he was truly alive.
Blood gushed from every opening his body could offer. And he just lay there. Helpless.
As the sun set and darkness took over, the child wanted to move. To find shelter. To find a place where he might feel secure during the cold night. But he couldn't. The child could only lie there. Eyes wide. Blood and foam slowly gurgling from his mouth.
He could see and hear everything—but his sensory system had failed him. He could no longer feel his body. He could no longer claim it as his. The only thing left to him was pain.
The body was already far bygone.
He couldn't move.
And as he lay there... helpless... the night passed. Dawn broke.
Still—no movement.
The child had been forcefully trapped in his own body, with no control whatsoever. Beasts passed across the plains nearby. None dared approach the place where the child lay—though the reason was unknown to the child.
Another day passed.
Still, no movement.
The fractured bone pained no more. The redness in his eyes itched no more. The world... didn't feel the same anymore.
There—laying on the ground just like that—two more days passed.
The child awake the whole time.
This day, though, was different.
The sense in his body returned.Not fully—but enough to move his limbs, slowly—lacking energy and with an empty stomach.The senses returned to the child.
The past three days had been hell for him. No movement in his body. He had watched insects crawl over him, taking a bite or two—yet it hadn't hurt. Nothing hurt anymore.
It seemed that the last few days' experience had hardened him, if anything.
His fractured arm was now under his control. Though there was still pain in that arm, he couldn't feel it anymore. His pain resistance had grown immensely in those few days.He could move the arm now, with no resistance.
And so the child began to re-vitalize his broken body.
But the atmosphere around him—it wasn't the same.
The natural happiness he had carried since the moment he was born... now felt distant.Though still an infant, the child had learned too much.He had to fight to survive.These past days had carved this truth into him.
His body no longer felt the same.Pain was no longer new to him.
Slowly, he rolled toward the side of a tree, where fallen fruits lay scattered.Little by little, the child crushed a piece of fruit and placed it into his mouth.The green fruit didn't taste as sour anymore.It simply felt enough—enough to quiet his hunger.
These three days had changed him too much.Taught him too much.
His eyes had been wide open for days.Now, he couldn't see clearly anymore.They seemed permanently damaged.Though his vision was still just enough to help him separate fruits from rocks.
The little child, now without complaint, ate the sour fruit without even gagging.Though he was still highly dehydrated, and the fruit did little to help.
Glancing around, he found nothing.
Desperate, he stumbled toward the Spiteack's carcass, hoping to find some leftover blood to quench his thirst.But to his surprise—for the first time—he saw a massive pile of insects and small ants feasting over it.The carcass was gone.Only the insects and the smell of death remained.
A foul stench rose into the air, but the child didn't seem to mind much anymore.
After some time, unable to bear his thirst, the child started moving deeper into the forest, searching for anything—anything—to survive.Bruised by spiky plants and sharp objects, he searched in vain.He was exhausted, and his hunger only deepened.
The light in the jungle began to fade.
Moving sluggishly, the child caught sight of another Spiteack—this one larger than the last.
He had no better choice now.No better way to find a source of hydration.
And so—with his heart clenched and his battered body steeled—the child prepared himself for a fight to the death once more.
This time—not for defense—but for the survival of his own.