Life, in its essence, is an eternal struggle—a zero-sum equation that does not accept division: you either eat, or you are eaten. The wilderness does not recognize good intentions; it only acknowledges blood-stained results. To live here, you must burn your fragile convictions like old firewood. You must shed every excess of luxury, even the "pleasure" of food; for here, you chew to survive, not to enjoy.
The old Ahmed used to prey on his own weakness, but Harten now realized that in the world of monsters, merely showing hesitation meant you had reserved your seat on the victim list before you could even blink.
The barking of the dogs was tearing through his eardrums, approaching like the rhythmic beat of war drums. Harten stood before the dangling rope, while the voice of "Ahmed" screamed in the corridors of his mind: "Yes! Do it! Cling to the rope and flee... Prove to the world that you are that weak child who will never change! Thus you were created, and thus you shall die!"
Suddenly, a cosmic silence prevailed. The world darkened in Harten's imagination, and he stood face-to-face with the trembling specter of "Ahmed." In that decisive moment, Harten reached out—not to grab the rope and climb, but to seize it and hurl it away into the abyss. A smile crept onto his face for the first time, marked by a chilling coldness.
"Farewell... Ahmed."
The specter fell, the frightened boy vanished into the depths of oblivion, and the sound of wind and barking returned to occupy reality. The darkness dissipated, and Harten looked at the jungle with entirely new eyes—eyes that no longer saw trees as prison bars, but as a hunting ground. He made a vow to himself: to crush everything in his path. "I will kill it... or I will kill it. Winning is the only option."
With a single, calculated leap, Harten mounted a massive, crumbling boulder on the edge of the ledge. With every ounce of survival instinct he possessed, he shoved it, letting it fall like a bomb onto the heads of the dogs. The entire rocky ledge collapsed, crushing bones beneath it, and with it, the hope of an "easy" exit from the jungle before the fourth day was shattered.
Meanwhile, at the top of the cliff, the hidden camera of fate was monitoring the rope; it hadn't been tied to a tree trunk or a solid rock... it was merely a dangling illusion. The foot of a stranger appeared, and a familiar voice emerged, tinged with a tone of satisfaction and mystery: "You chose the better option... the one that does not depend on false hope."
Harten awoke from his trance to the hum of flies circling his nose and the stench of death wafting from below.
"What happened?" he whispered to himself, before memories exploded in his mind. "Yes! I did it! I killed them all! Yes!"
But he quickly reined in his joy. He mentally slapped himself: "Wait... why am I so intoxicated? Killing dogs doesn't mean I've become almighty... I am still weak compared to what awaits me. Euphoria is the trap of the weak, and the pursuit of power is the fuel of monsters."
Harten rose, brushed the dust off his clothes—which had now become like a second skin—and took his first confident steps at the base of the cliff. This was no longer a "survival mission"; it had become a "journey of sovereignty."
Ahmed had died... and the monster that eats monsters lived on.