Hawke slowly turned his head, looking over his shoulder.
And there it was.
The creature's glowing eyes reflected a distant flash of lightning, like two small yellow suns burning in the darkness. Its half-open jaws revealed rows of serrated teeth as long as daggers, along with two fangs the size of Hawke's forearm.
It approached slowly, deliberately, every muscle beneath its spotted fur tense and ready to strike.
Had it not been for the shadow cast by the lightning behind Hawke—a distorted silhouette stretching along the branch like an omen—he would never have noticed it.
And that would have been his end.
Time seemed to slow.
Hawke could hear the pounding of his own blood. The creature's scent of blood finally reached his nostrils.
The moment Hawke fully turned toward the beast, it realized it had been discovered. The growl that escaped its throat was deep and guttural, a private thunderclap that vibrated through Hawke's chest.
And then it leapt.
The air itself seemed to tear apart with the movement. The saber-tooth's massive body crossed the distance between them in an instant, front claws extended, jaws wide open and ready to sink into flesh.
Hawke's thought was as fast as lightning:
Jump. Jump now.
But in a single glance, his mind calculated the height, the branches below, the hard and merciless ground. It would be dangerous.
As quickly as the thought came, his body moved instinctively, guided by something deeper than reason.
He didn't jump.
And he didn't try to flee.
Hawke gripped the black club tightly, the wet, rough wood pressing against his palms. He twisted his body with explosive speed, using his hips as a pivot while all the strength in his legs drove the movement.
The club carved an arc through the air and struck the beast squarely in the flank just as it came close enough—almost on top of him.
The impact was precise.
With the blow, he managed to knock the creature off course midair, breaking the deadly trajectory of its leap. The beast was hurled off the branch, howling in surprise and fury.
But in a horrifying reflex, even while falling through the air, the creature managed to drive its claws into Hawke's shoulder.
The curved talons, sharp as obsidian blades, hooked deep into flesh.
Hawke felt the pain like an electric shock, a sudden burst of heat radiating from the point of impact.
The beast fell, and with it, the weight of its body yanked Hawke violently toward the edge. His legs bent sharply, fingers digging into the wet bark of the branch.
But resisting was useless.
The claw lodged in his shoulder tore downward in one brutal motion, ripping through flesh and leaving a savage wound that crossed his entire chest—from his right shoulder all the way to his left ribs.
Hawke grunted, a mix of agony and determination.
The beast fell below, a dark blur swallowed by the darkness, but its attack had been enough to throw him off balance. His feet slipped against the rain-soaked branch.
The world spun beneath him.
Hawke, just like the saber-tooth, fell.
The fall became a blur of branches, leaves, and darkness. His body slammed into several thick limbs that slowed his descent with heavy impacts, each collision forcing rough "ugh!" sounds from his throat while leaving fresh scratches and bruises across his body.
Before he could hit the ground, his hand found a lower branch in a desperate reflex.
His fingers locked around it with unnatural force, joints straining under the effort. He hung there over empty space, swinging slightly, his shoulder and chest burning like fire and the other hand holding the club.
He looked down.
The beast had not been as fortunate.
It had crashed directly onto the forest floor, and for a brief moment Hawke felt a flicker of hope, almost happiness at having survived while the creature smashed into the ground below.
But no.
Through the gloom, he saw the dark mass moving.
The beast was rising again, slowly shaking its head, its eyes still glowing with even greater hatred.
Probably stunned, Hawke thought.
Soon enough it would recover.
And once it did, he would have no chance left. No luck either.
Hanging there wounded and exhausted, he would never make it past the creature.
There was only one option now.
He had to try to kill it.
The thought drifted through his mind like a sentence.
Can I really kill something like that?
A slight tremor ran through the arm supporting his weight one-handed.
His flesh throbbed with pain. Blood mixed with the rain and streamed across his chest, hot and sticky, tracing a line down his body before dripping from the tips of his toes.
Badum. Badum. Badum.
His heart began racing, not only out of fear, there was something else.
Something primal.
Even beneath the freezing rain pouring down in thick drops, his body began to heat up. A wave of warmth rose from his stomach and spread through his limbs.
His entire focus narrowed onto the beast below.
The distractions faded away: the pain, the exhaustion, the cold.
Only the target remained.
And like a spreading wildfire, confidence began infecting him.
He had no certainty of victory.
Only one certainty remained: He would act.
He would not stay there hanging helplessly, waiting for death to arrive.
Hawke used the weight of his body to swing from the branch once, twice, building momentum.
Then he let go and hurled himself toward the beast below, a projectile made of flesh, bone, and sheer determination.
Still in midair, he gripped the club with both hands, wielding it like a war club. Every ounce of strength he possessed poured into that strike, enough to make his arms ache and his muscles scream in protest.
His chest hurt even more.
Hawke unleashed a roar of fury, a rough, animalistic sound swallowed whole by the roar of thunder.