The first thing Ben heard that morning was the song of wood.
Not actual music — but the sound of his axe biting into a branch, the crunch of splintering bark, the low thump of logs dropping into the dirt. It was almost pleasant in a weird, primal way. Like some ancient part of his brain was pleased with the act of "building shelter" as if he were a caveman crossing an item off an instinctive to-do list.
The sun spilled golden light across the [Ruins of the Holy Light], catching in the dust motes that danced above his makeshift pile of supplies. His "fence" so far was laughable — three posts in a line, some crude horizontal sticks lashed with twisted grass — but it was something.
"Step one of not dying: make the predator work for it," he muttered, driving another stake into the ground with the blunt end of his axe.
The hours passed in a steady rhythm. Chop wood. Strip bark. Lash with vines. Stack. Repeat. His back ached, his palms were raw, and sweat ran down into his eyes. But by the time the sun began to droop toward the west, his wall was… well, half a wall. It formed a jagged crescent around one side of the ruins, angled to corral anything trying to get in.
Sure, it wouldn't stop a shadow from the cursed forest — but shadows didn't come during the day. Beasts, however, absolutely did.
The Sound That Froze His Blood
The rustle came first.
Low, steady, moving through the underbrush in a rhythm Ben recognized immediately.
Snort. Trot. Snort. Trot.
His stomach dropped.
"No… no no no no… not you again."
The boar emerged from between two trees like a nightmare wearing tusks. Its black eyes locked on him instantly.
Ben's mind ran through his setup — the half-built wall wasn't going to stop it. The glowing rock wasn't going to scare it. That left… his other project.
He grabbed the pile of crude stone "daggers" he'd made the day before — basically sharp-edged shards wrapped in grass to give him something resembling a grip. With a grunt, he scrambled up the sloping ruin wall until he was perched on top, ten feet off the ground, the boar pawing at the dirt below.
"Alright, pigzilla… let's see if I can turn you into dinner before you turn me into roadkill."
He took aim and hurled the first dagger.
It hit with a thwack… and bounced off.
The boar barely flinched.
"...Oh, come on!"
Another throw. This time, the shard struck the boar's shoulder. It grunted — not in pain, but in sheer annoyance.
It took a step forward.
Ben's heart hammered. "Okay, uh… third time's the charm?"
The stone flew. This time, it grazed the boar's flank — shaving a bit of bristle off. That was it. Not even a scratch in its hide.
The boar lowered its head and charged.
Ben barely had time to leap off the ruin, hitting the ground hard and rolling. Dust and grass filled his mouth, but he spat it out and stumbled to his feet, axe in hand.
The boar was on him in seconds. He sidestepped — barely — feeling the wind of its bulk as it thundered past. He swung the axe in desperation, the stone blade glancing off a tusk with a sharp crack. The weapon held — barely.
The boar wheeled and came again, and this time Ben planted his feet, swinging for the head. The axe bit into the beast's skull, not deep enough to kill but deep enough to enrage.
The boar screamed — a high, guttural sound that rattled his bones — and lunged. The impact sent him sprawling. Pain flared along his ribs where one tusk had clipped him.
"Ghh—ah—!" His breath caught, vision swimming.
The boar came again, and this time Ben rolled toward it, coming up under its chin. He swung upward, burying the axe into its neck.
Blood — hot, steaming — sprayed across his arms. The boar stumbled, shaking its head, trying to dislodge the weapon.
Ben didn't let go.
With a ragged yell, he twisted the axe and yanked it free, then swung again — hard, into the same spot.
The boar gave a final, choking grunt and collapsed, its massive body shuddering once before going still.
Ben staggered back, panting, the axe dripping red. His arms were trembling from the effort. His ribs ached every time he breathed.
For a long moment, the only sound was his own heartbeat in his ears. Then, slowly, reality trickled in:
He'd won.
The beast was dead.
And there was a lot of meat sitting in front of him.
"...Guess it's barbecue night," he rasped, sinking to his knees.
It took the rest of the daylight to drag the carcass toward the ruins, butcher it with his stone blades, and hang strips of meat near the fire to cook. The smell was mouthwatering — smoky, rich, primal.
By the time the first stars peeked through the treetops, Ben was sitting by the flames, chewing on a thick slab of roasted boar. His body still ached, his hands were blistered and cut, and his clothes were a mess of blood and dirt.
But for the first time, he didn't feel like prey.
For the first time… he felt like the hunter.
Still… he couldn't shake one thought as he stared out into the dark forest.
If the boar came back twice…
What else might decide to try?
The Next Day
The boar meat was still warm in his stomach when the night wind began to change.
Ben sat by the fire, staring into the twisting flames, a chunk of half-burnt stick in his hand that he'd been using to poke the logs. His ribs still ached from the fight earlier, but there was a new, heavier sensation weighing on him — the knowledge that this world didn't stop throwing things at you just because you'd had a "big day."
Tomorrow, he would need more firewood. Lots more. Fire wasn't just for cooking anymore — it was life insurance. That boar could've been the first of many meat-headed battering rams that might wander into his camp.
And then there were the shadows.
He didn't like thinking about them, but his brain refused to drop the image: the long, twisting silhouette from before, the way it had moved like liquid darkness until the holy light erased it.
If the light from the ruins could keep them away… maybe the light from fire could do the same.
Only one way to find out.
Ben jammed the end of a thick branch into the fire until it caught, flames licking up its length. The torch flared, crackling with the scent of burning sap. Holding it aloft in one hand, axe in the other, he stepped out from the safe glow of the ruins into the forest's shadowed embrace.
The night air was colder here, heavy with the damp musk of earth and leaves. Every step sank slightly into the loam, sending small crunches through the silence.
His torch cast a jittery circle of gold, the darkness just beyond seeming to lean in, as if curious. The trees loomed tall, their branches knitting together above like bony fingers.
He focused on the task — dry branches, deadfall, anything to feed tomorrow's fire.
He found a cluster of sticks under a twisted oak and crouched to gather them, setting his axe against his thigh. That's when he felt it.
A tingle, running down his spine.
It wasn't the sound that got him first.
It was the sudden wet warmth across his ribs.
He froze, hand instinctively going to his side. When it came away sticky, his brain screamed the truth: blood.
Ben spun, torch raised — and that's when he saw it.
At first, he thought it was the darkness itself peeling away from the trees. But then it moved — wrong, fluid but jerky, like a shadow forced to obey joints it didn't have. Long, too long, its arms trailing almost to the ground.
A flicker in the corner of his vision brought words into view, like some invisible subtitle burned into the air:
[Shadow Horror]
The name alone made his heart thud harder. It was looking at him — no eyes, but somehow he knew.
Then it came forward.
Instinct took over. He didn't think, didn't plan. He swung the torch.
The fire's glow caught the thing full in the chest.
The effect was instant — the Shadow Horror screeched, a sound like tearing metal under water, and its form shrank. Its towering height collapsed inward until it was barely taller than Ben himself.
His breathing quickened. "You're… smaller?"
It hissed, backing away, but the torchlight kept it within his circle of gold.
Something in his head clicked. Sunlight burned them. The holy light erased them. And this — this weakened them.
It was like being in sixth grade again and finally figuring out how the hell algebra worked. One minute, the numbers were nonsense — the next, it was obvious.
Ben grinned despite the blood on his side. "Guess what, buddy? You're not so scary anymore."
He switched the torch to his left hand and hefted the axe in his right. The Shadow Horror's limbs quivered like they were struggling to hold shape.
He stepped forward and swung the axe.
Thunk.
The blade bit into shadow-flesh with the same resistance as chopping into dense meat. The thing howled, reeling back. The wound didn't close — it stayed, jagged and smoking where the edge had passed through.
"Ohhh… ohhh that's good news for me. Bad news for you."
It lunged. This time, Ben didn't retreat. He sidestepped, swung the torch into its face, and followed with a brutal overhead chop.
The axe buried itself deep in the Shadow Horror's shoulder. Its body convulsed, breaking apart like ink dissolving in water.
One moment, it was there.
The next, it was a smear of darkness on the ground, melting into the soil.
Ben stood there, chest heaving, the torch still hissing quietly in his hand.
His side throbbed where the first strike had caught him, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the realization now pounding in his head:
Shadows could be fought.
Not just run from.
Not just avoided.
Fought.
And won against.
The knowledge sent a strange thrill through him — the same kind he'd felt when the boar fell, but sharper. This wasn't just about eating or staying warm anymore. This was survival at a higher level. This was taking control.
Back to the Fire
By the time he returned to the ruins, he'd gathered twice the firewood he'd planned. Not because he needed it for cooking — but because he knew now what it meant to keep the flames burning.
He fed the logs into the fire until it roared, the light spilling out into the night.
Somewhere out in the trees, something moved. Multiple somethings. But none of them crossed into the light.
Ben sat down, torch planted upright in the dirt beside him like a miniature sun, and let his mind replay the moment again and again — the swing, the shrink, the final blow.
Tomorrow, he thought, he'd make more torches.
And maybe, just maybe… he'd go looking for them.
2 Days Later
The sun was already up by the time Ben left the ruins.
He had his axe strapped to his back, a bundle of twine-like grass slung over one shoulder, and a fresh idea brewing in his head.
Yesterday's boar fight had left him with a lot of meat and a lot of bruises, but also an important realization: wood was useful, but stone could be game-changing.
Not just sharp stones — bigger ones.
Flat, heavy slabs for building. Pointed chunks for better blades. Maybe even a pickaxe-like thing for breaking apart the bigger formations in the forest.
And he knew exactly where he wanted to start.
Two days ago, while foraging, Ben had spotted a narrow passage between two boulders. A thin gap, barely wide enough for a person, but blocked at the far end by a lump of rock that looked like it had collapsed in from above.
What was beyond it? No idea. But blocked paths in games always meant something. Treasure. A shortcut. Maybe even another light source.
He was going to find out.
The plan was simple:
1. Find bigger stones to craft something resembling a pick.
2. Smash through the blockage.
3. Pat self on back, loot whatever's inside.
It was, he thought, a perfectly reasonable use of daylight hours.
The morning air was bright and calm. Sunlight dripped through the canopy in golden shafts, painting the mossy ground in soft light. The birds — or things pretending to be birds — chirped in the distance.
It was almost peaceful. Too peaceful.
Ben didn't notice.
His mind was on stone. He turned over every boulder and chunk of shale he could find, weighing them in his hands, testing edges. Every so often, he'd find one good enough to tuck under his arm.
He was so focused on the ground, he never saw the shapes moving in the shadows behind him.
...
Four of them. Broad-shouldered, low to the ground, hides dark and bristled.
Wild boars.
Their eyes were black, not just in color but in presence. There was no wild animal caution in them, only a heavy, simmering intent.
One of them still had a scar along its flank — an axe-shaped wound that had never healed clean.
They moved in near-silence, broken only by the faint crunch of hooves in the undergrowth. The wind was against Ben, carrying his scent to them while keeping theirs away from him.
Ben found what he was looking for — a thick, wedge-shaped rock, heavy enough to break something, if he could just bind it to a handle.
He straightened, smiling to himself. "Perfect. Now we—"
A sharp crunch behind him made him stop.
He turned.
At first, he thought it was just one boar. The same species as the one he'd killed. This time, he'd be ready.
Then the second one stepped out from behind a tree. Then the third. Then the fourth.
Ben's throat went dry.
There was no warning grunt, no time for intimidation.
The scarred one charged first, head low, tusks glinting.
Ben dove sideways, barely avoiding the strike. The force of the boar's momentum slammed into a tree with a sickening thunk, shaking leaves loose.
He scrambled to his feet, yanking his axe free from his back. "Alright, you—"
The second boar hit him from behind.
Pain
The impact knocked the air from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, the axe flying from his grip.
Before he could roll away, a third boar barreled in, its tusk catching his thigh.
Pain exploded through his leg. Warmth spread fast — blood. Lots of it.
He tried to crawl, but the fourth boar was already in front of him, snorting, stamping.
They weren't hunting for food.
This was punishment.
The scarred one turned back toward him. Its eyes locked with his — and for a split second, he could've sworn he saw something more than animal instinct there.
Rage.
Recognition.
The one I killed… was yours.
The charge came fast. Too fast. The tusks caught him full in the chest this time, lifting him off the ground.
The world went sideways. He crashed down, vision flickering, ears full of the pounding of hooves.
Something heavy slammed into him again. His body rolled once, twice, and then stopped.
He tried to breathe, but nothing worked. His hands wouldn't move. His mouth wouldn't open.
The last thing he saw was the sunlight glinting off a tusk.
...
Darkness.
Silence.
And then — breath.
His eyes snapped open. The same cursed forest surrounded him. The same ruins. The same faint hum of holy light in the air.
Ben sat up, clutching his chest. His hands came away clean.
"No…"
He knew what had happened. Knew because it had happened before, though never so violently.
He had died.
And now he was back.
The Lesson
He stood slowly, fists clenched, heart hammering with a mix of fear and fury.
They had followed him. They had hunted him. And they had made it clear — this forest didn't forget.
But neither would he.
If the boars wanted a war, fine.
Next time, he'd bring more than an axe.
He'd bring traps. Fire. Walls.
Next time… they wouldn't be the ones doing the killing.