The cart jolted over uneven ground, each bump sending fresh pain through Haut's body. He kept his eyes closed, breathing shallow, listening.
"Captain. It's been many hours. Why's he still unconscious?"
The voice came from somewhere outside the cart—one of the soldiers. Young. Impatient.
"Yeah, he's right." Another voice. "We've moved far from that village and kept walking, but he's still having his goodnight rest. Should we investigate him? After that… we could sit and eat something?"
A pause. Then the captain's voice—Selini's voice—cool and measured.
"Maybe."
"Maybe? Maybe what, Captain?"
"Maybe you're right." She sounded tired. "We shouldn't be careless. He's immature but still dangerous. I don't want any suicidal brat ticking like a time bomb on our heads. As soon as we reach the city, we'll get rid of him. But first—we'll investigate properly. Take care of his wounds for now. Put him on the ground. Remove the ropes."
Inside the cart, Haut's heart clenched—then steadied.
Expected, he told himself. Could only delay investigation so long.
"Put me on the ground," she says, like I'm not here at the verge of death fighting to breathe in this stuffed cart. He kept his breathing steady, his body limp. I was still hoping the refinement would succeed. Pity I lost the chance to create the Analytical Muscle Vien. Otherwise, the situation would be vastly different.
If nature were generous, life wouldn't exist.
"Captain, he looks terrible. Almost… gross. Should we even investigate? Maybe worry about his wounds first?"
A boot connected with Haut's leg—hard. Pain flared through his numb body. He didn't move. Didn't flinch. If not for the numbness, staying still would have been impossible.
"What an idiot." The soldier who'd kicked him. "Trying to refine an impossible recipe, then planning to kill your own allies? That's not just disgraceful—it's beyond human morals. Captain, we could've sold him for a fortune as a bounty. Why keep this burden? I don't understand."
Silence.
Through half-closed eyes, Haut saw Selini staring at the sky—at the stars and their constellations. Her gaze was distant, absent.
"Captain?"
She blinked. Looked at them. Even with her firm attitude, her beauty was impossible to hide. The soldier who'd spoken swallowed, momentarily dazed.
"Captain?" he repeated.
"Yes." She seemed to gather herself. "Everyone, take a break. Look after his wounds. I'm going to fill the water bottle from the lake. Don't follow me. I'll be back in a few minutes."
She walked toward the lake, leaving the soldiers around a small fire.
At the water's edge, Selini knelt and filled her canteen. Her fingers felt frozen—not from the cold water, but from something deeper.
Where is my brother? The thought surfaced unbidden. Even the Squadron has no idea. Haut… do you really think you can fool me by lying about him?
She stared at her reflection in the dark water.
But the Shadow Sect still holds Elite Squadron captives. The higher-ups won't let me rest until this is resolved.
A sigh.
Not the time for this. My fault for these useless thoughts. I should head back. Eat something.
She stood and turned toward the camp.
The faint fragrance of food reached Haut's nose. His stomach growled. He knew his condition was pathetic—like a beggar's. But he was a man with very little shame left.
Strange. Why didn't they investigate me? Are they planning something?
He couldn't move from this spot. He'd even spread his blood along the trail—multiple times—hoping to attract wild beasts that might cause chaos. But nothing came.
Maybe my estimates were wrong. Seems I'm going to die like this. A man with a pitiful death.
But a life lived on one's own terms—that's the ultimate way.
Around the fire, the soldiers ate.
The one who'd kicked Haut tore into a chicken leg, bones cracking between his teeth. "Scent of a beauty and a meal—best fragrance in the world. Specially at night."
Another soldier—the young one with a constant sniff—glanced toward the cart. "She said to look at his wounds. Should we…?"
"Clean him?" The first soldier snorted. "Bandage him? Use our precious supplies on a walking dead man who tried to blow up his own allies? Use your head, boy. The Captain's smart, but she's thinking like a commander. We need to think like survivors."
He took a long swig from his canteen.
"That bounty on his head from the Shadow Sect—a thousand zenin. Alive or dead. If he dies on the road from 'natural causes'… who's to say we didn't find him that way? We bring the head. We collect. Simple."
The young soldier's eyes gleamed in the firelight.
"But the Captain… she has a deal with him."
"Deals change." The first soldier's voice dropped lower. "When we get to the city, everything changes. Out here, in the dark, with the wolves? Things happen. If he stops breathing before she gets back… we were eating. Got distracted. Tragic accident."
Silent agreement passed between them. They deliberately turned their backs on the cart, focusing on their rations, letting the fire and their hunger become their excuse.
Inside the cart, Haut heard everything. He lay like meat on a chopping block, feeling the shallow, ragged struggle of his own breathing.
The numbness was receding. Replaced by deep, throbbing agony in his leg where the boot had connected—and a terrifying hollowness in his chest. His body was failing.
Then—
The constant chirp of crickets died.
Leaves stopped rustling.
The very air seemed to thicken, draw back.
The young soldier froze, hardtack halfway to his mouth. "What was—"
A guttural, clicking growl—too large for a fox—rolled out of the darkness to the east.
"Lights! Get the torches!" The squad leader—Kael, the veteran—scrambled for his rifle.
Too late.
They came not from one direction, but from the edges of the firelight itself.
Wolves—but wrong. Their shoulders stood as high as a man's waist. Fur matted with burrs and old blood. Eyes like chips of red and white glass. And with them, loping on twisted, powerful hind legs—scavengers. Hyena-like creatures with jaws that could crack bone. Drawn by the scent of blood and weakness.
The smell of their saliva was so intense it could make a man vomit.
This wasn't a random pack. This was a coordinated hunt by the expert hunters of this area.
The blood trails Haut had left were a dinner bell.
"FORM UP!" Kael screamed.
Chaos.
Beautiful, terrible chaos.
A wolf launched itself—grey blur, yellow fangs. The young soldier raised his rifle. The shot went wide, sparking off a stone. The wolf took him down at the knees. His knee shattered into uncountable pieces. A scream—cut off into wet, rending gurgle as powerful jaws found his throat.
Hot blood sprayed across the side of the cart, pattering like rain.
The soldiers were snipers. Their power was distance, silence, a single perfect shot. At point-blank range against multiple fast-moving targets in the dark—they were butcher's meat.
Kael fought with brutal veteran efficiency. Rifle as club—smashing a scavenger's skull with the stock. The scavenger howled. He drew a long knife, gutting a wolf that leapt for his face. A tornado of desperate violence, shouting curses, orders no one could follow.
Haut, from his prison of canvas and pain, experienced it all in sound and vibration.
The wet thump of bodies hitting ground. The snap of bone—clear as a branch breaking. A soldier's scream cut short as a wolf's bite separated shoulder meat from bone. He tried to scream again, but no voice came.
Screams—not of bravery, but of pure animal terror and agony. One soldier cried for his mother. Another sobbed, begging for it to stop.
The beauty of the captain faded from their minds, replaced by the fear of death.
Easy deaths were acceptable. But men had to face the brutality of living and dying in a manner that nature sighed at. At the sight of wolves, one soldier pissed himself before his voice was replaced by the sound of ripping cloth and a low, satisfied growl.
Hot, metallic smell of blood flooded the cart—overwhelming gun oil and mold.
The cart shook as a body slammed against its side. Haut felt the thudding charge of heavy paws right next to his head—separated by only thin wood and canvas. Heard the grunting, snarling squabble as beasts fought over still-twitching prey just feet away.
But if blood flows everywhere, he thought coldly, the scent will spread. I might go unnoticed. After all, I'm what they came to feast on.
Kael's last stand ended with a choked-off yell and heavy impact against the cart's wheel.
But the wolves weren't done.
Two of them still fought over the young soldier's body—the one who'd cried for his mother. The first wolf had his throat, jaws clamped around the windpipe, dragging. The second wanted the belly, softer meat, easier to tear. They snarled at each other, low and guttural, neither willing to share. The soldier's arm, still attached, flopped against the dirt as they pulled. A wet tearing sound. Then they stopped fighting. There was enough for both.
Near the cart, a third wolf paced. Its shoulders were higher than the cart's wheel, fur matted with old blood and burrs. It circled slowly, head low, sniffing. Its nose found the blood trail—Haut's blood, leaking through the cart's floorboards, seeping into the dirt below. The wolf stopped. Sniffed again. Its ears flattened.
It dropped to its belly and crawled under the cart.
Inside, Haut didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The wolf's head appeared beneath him, separated only by the thin wood of the cart's floor. He could smell it—wet fur, old rot, the iron sweetness of the soldier's blood still fresh on its muzzle. Its eye, yellow and depthless, pressed against a crack in the boards, watching.
The wolf's tongue slid through the crack, long and grey, and licked the blood pooling beneath him. A low sound came from its throat—not a growl. Curiosity. Taste.
Haut stared at the eye.
The wolf stared back.
Haut sneered internally. "Piece of a shit."
A second wolf joined the first. It sniffed the same crack, shoved its muzzle against the boards, testing. The wood creaked but held. The first wolf growled, snapped at the second, and they tussled briefly, claws scrabbling against the cart's wheel.
Then, as suddenly as they'd come, they stopped.
One of them lifted its head. Ears forward. The pack leader, somewhere beyond the firelight, had made a sound Haut couldn't hear. A signal. A command.
The wolves turned.
They didn't run. They walked—slow, unhurried, sated. The one with the young soldier's throat finally released its prize and padded after the others. The one beneath the cart gave the blood trail one last sniff, then pulled itself out and followed.
Within seconds, the camp was empty of them.
The fire had died to embers. The bodies lay scattered where they'd fallen. And somewhere in the darkness, the pack moved on, leaving behind only the smell of wet fur and the sound of wet breathing that faded and faded and was gone.
Haut lay still for a long time.
Then, finally, he breathed.
Human nature, in the end, is just another story of perceptions, experiences, emotions, ambitions, norms—and trapped cages.
Selini had gone to the lake to mourn a lost future.
She returned to find the present devoured.
She stood there, water bottle forgotten in her hand. The firelight—dying now—played over the scene. An abattoir. Scattered gear. Dark spreading stains on earth.
Helpless in the night forest.
"It's all my fault…" She dropped to her knees. "I led them to death…"
"You're right." A low voice from the cart. "You did."