I was 6 years old. Hours after the incident in the dark, I was following basic survival tips I had read in one of the myriad of books I asked my parents for: namely, finding a water source, tinder and kindling for a fire, and edible berries and other fruits. I was plucking some blackberries off a bush when I heard leaves crunching behind me.
I turned around just in time for a gray wolf to lunge at me, instinct barely moving my head out of reach of its snapping jaws. I stumbled and fell onto the ground, which was admittedly a better fate than getting my skull crushed, and I quickly clambered up to find cover behind a tree. This worked for all of 2 seconds, and then the wolf was on my tail once again.
I scrambled to hide behind another tree and circled around it to avoid the wolf. And once its absurd speed made a mockery of my pathetic attempts to keep the tree between myself and the wolf, I ran over to another thick wooden trunk and resumed the cowardly circling.
I continued to evade the beast for a minute or two, but I was already tiring. Panting while running, I furiously tried to come up with a plan, anything that would ensure the wolf was no longer a threat.
What did I know? The wolf was alone, likely cast off by its pack because it failed to contribute to kills. That means it was either injured or sickly, and it was plainly smaller than a regular wolf.
Great, but it could still easily break my bones with a swipe of its paw, and shred my muscles with its claws. What else? It seemed like it would keep coming after me, and it was so agile that losing it, making it bump into a tree, or climbing a tree myself were all not viable ideas.
I needed to incapacitate it. Kill it, even. But how could a scrawny 6 year old deal damage to a wolf while preserving his life? I kept thinking while my dodges grew narrower and narrower. It was a twisted game of tag, and I couldn't hide around obstacles forever.
An ominous feeling dawned upon me. I knew what must be done.
5 more dodges. 4 more. 3. 2. 1.
I stood still this time, putting my left forearm in the way of the wolf's snap of its jaws at my head. The sickening sound of flesh tearing and bone snapping resounded throughout the air, as I howled in sheer agony.
With blood rivulets flowing down my left arm and my skin shredding between the wolf's teeth, I clenched my teeth and core, withstanding the pain as I slammed the sharp end of a heavy rock into the wolf's eye. I had picked it up on one of my evasions, and I put it to great use, managing to pierce the other eye as well before it tore away its jaws from my arm.
It was the wolf's turn to howl in pain, a grim satisfaction washing over me as I watched patiently. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins. My every sense was heightened to levels I didn't know possible. I repeatedly bashed the rock into the wolf's eye sockets and skull during the openings in its blind thrashings. My left arm dangled in the air as I thundered the rock against its head. Over. And over. And over. The air swelled with the rusty scent of blood, both from my arm and the wolf's skull. I didn't stop until I saw brains, didn't stop until I smashed the head apart, didn't stop until the wolf lay immobile on the ground with remains of its cranium splattered around us: a most gruesome scene dimly illuminated by the moonlight.
I dropped the bloody rock and staggered away, knowing I would die from infection within weeks if the blood loss didn't kill me within the hour. Still, with my remaining instinct of self-preservation, I found a hollow in a hill, ensured no creature resided in it, covered the entrance with foliage, and collapsed on the ground just as everything went black. Was it my imagination, or did the ring on my string necklace suddenly sear with heat during my final vestiges of awareness?
It was not my imagination. I woke up to find no signs of infection, no blood gushing out of my arm, and luckily no insects or creatures gnawing at my body. The only explanation I had was the ring releasing some manner of energy that enveloped my body, preventing those maladies entirely.
Days later, I noticed the bones in my forearm were not setting correctly. I hissed as I pressed into the flesh to feel the bones underneath, and indeed there were several points where the bones were not quite straight. I braced myself, and twisted the regions around the vertices of flexure. I allowed myself a short scream, and I then ran my fingers along the bone again. They were not quite straight. I twisted, screamed, and checked twice more. Finally, the bones in my forearm are aligned. I grimaced at what I had gone through in the first week, and I hoped I could find a way out soon. I decided to travel east using the North Star as a reference point, ensuring I did not go back to the village in northeast Burma that I fled from.
…
…
It had been 4 years. I had broken nearly every bone in my body, experienced countless lesions and gashes, and suffered during the aftermaths to ensure proper healing.
I realized I was growing stronger. Smarter. Warier. Scanning my surroundings for any signs of danger, masking my scent with mud, fashioning tools out of sharp rocks, wood, tendons, and vines, making as little sound as possible, hiding my figure behind trees and foliage. They all became instincts.
My greatest instinct of all was my sense for battle. I tried to win while sustaining as few injuries and using as little stamina as possible, since I had no idea whether my black pendant would stop giving me its energy at some point. This resulted in cleaner and cleaner victories.
Reading the muscles of my opponents. Predicting their motions. Evading even before they swiped their paws. Punishing failed strikes with increasingly fatal blows. I was outclassed in every respect: size, strength, speed, durability, and more. Yet it seemed that as long as I could read my opponent's motions and cause it to bleed heavily, I could kill while expending little stamina and shedding little blood.
The only times I was mortally wounded like in the battle with the wolf, Soldier-class beasts were involved, but I managed to lose even them after quickly plastering mud over my wounds. How would they find a nearly scentless, small, quick boy that doesn't leave any tracks to follow? Let alone a child so resistant to pain that even after receiving severe injuries, he maintains virtually all his agility and stealthiness unless he's literally unable to run away.
I kept proceeding eastward, but although I still wanted to leave the forest, I wasn't too unhappy remaining here. At least I was accustomed to life here, with dangers that were avoidable as long as I kept my guard up. Perhaps subconsciously, I didn't want to face humans. Didn't want to be reminded of that night, that incident…