The moment Kealen realized the sound of pursuit had faded into the vast, indifferent silence of the rainforest, he stopped. He didn't just slow down; he staggered to a halt, leaning heavily against the trunk of an ancient oak, the adrenaline that had fueled his flight now quickly abandoning him.
The immediate problem wasn't the enemies he had narrowly escaped, but the searing pain anchoring him to the spot. Blood pulsed quickly from the two gunshot wounds in his left hand, dripping scarlet onto the emerald moss below. The loss of blood was profound, and a cold tide of weakness was washing over him, threatening to pull him under. He knew he had minutes, maybe less, before the shock overwhelmed him.
Survival demanded immediate surgery. Gritting his teeth, Kealen pulled the heavy combat knife that was attached to the gun. He found a broken branch nearby, strong enough to serve as a makeshift tool, and quickly sharpened the end into a crude probe. Using the stick, he began the agonizing process of digging the deformed slugs out of his flesh. Each scrape of the stick against bone and embedded metal sent a white flash of pain through his system, but his focus was absolute. He was a Major in the field, trained to endure. He finally managed to lever the metal fragments free, tossing the bloody stick aside.
The worst was over, but the fresh bleeding was immediate and heavy. He pressed his uninjured right hand tightly over the wound cluster, desperate to slow the flow. His jungle lore kicked in. He couldn't risk leaving a trail of blood, nor could he afford to pass out. He began a frantic scan of the dense foliage, searching for the specific venous plants known to aid coagulation.
He moved silently despite his pain, eyes sweeping the undergrowth until, finally, he spotted the deep-veined, reddish leaves he recognized. Relief, sharp and visceral, washed over him. He harvested a large handful, crushing them between his palms until they formed a pulpy, dark mass. He squeezed the viscous juice directly onto the open wounds. The immediate effect was a stinging burn, followed by a noticeable thickening of the blood. Next, he tore a long strip from the sleeve of his sweat-soaked shirt and bound his battered hand tightly, creating a makeshift tourniquet and protective dressing.
His immediate survival secured, he retrieved his pistol and walked a little further until he found a protected hollow beneath a canopy dense enough to shield him from observation. He settled down, the gun clutched on his hand.
A few minutes into his strained rest, Kealen jerked upright, his senses screaming a warning. He scanned his surroundings, first checking for human threats, then for the apex predators that ruled this green domain. The forest was too quiet.
Then his eyes settled on a moving shadow just beyond the thicket.
It was Khaos.
Kealen froze, utterly disbelieving. Khaos was his companion tiger, he had always thought it was killed by the python in the hut few months ago.
Yet, here he stood.
Kealen recognized the tiger immediately, not just by its size, but by the jagged, months-old scar that ran like a silver thread from behind its left ear down to its shoulder, the definitive marker of a near-fatal encounter long ago. But there were fresh injuries. The tiger was breathing rapidly, its massive sides heaving. Its teeth and muzzle were smeared with fresh, deep-red blood, confirming it had just emerged from a savage, recent battle.
Kealen was not surprised; this was the unforgiving jungle. Encounters with rivals and prey were daily occurrences. What shocked him was the reunion itself.
He lowered his guard slightly and gave a low, specific whistle, a signal they hadn't shared in almost a year.
Khaos responded instantly. The great cat, weighing half a ton, moved with startling speed, rushing forward and dropping heavily onto the earth directly in front of Kealen's position. It lay there, tired and watchful.
"I have really missed you, old friend," Kealen whispered, squatting down gingerly and reaching out with his good hand to stroke the thick, scarred orange fur on the tiger's back. "You abandoned me in this unforgiving place. I had to make a desperate leap from the hands of the enemy, and I've been alone ever since. I am glad you came back, Khaos."
He knew the that the tiger was not a domestic pet. It was a king of the jungle, and its instinct would always prioritize the wild. He didn't blame Khaos for reverting to its natural state. But now, in his moment of extreme vulnerability, the presence of the tiger rekindled a fierce, vital happiness within him.
Throughout the long, oppressive night, Kealen did not sleep. The cold seeped into his bones, and every rustle of the leaves sounded like approaching boots. He stayed fully awake, his gun ready, his eyes constantly searching the shadows. He had to remain vigilant, not just against the assassins who hunted him, but against the myriad of lethal creatures the forest held. He was an outsider in their domain, despite living here for a year and now.
As the first faint light of dawn filtered through the canopy, Kealen noticed that Khaos was gone, slipped back into the depths of the jungle as silently as he had arrived.
Two days later, Major Kealen climbed stiffly to his feet. His hand, though throbbing, was patched, the bleeding finally stemmed, covered by the stiff, caked cloth of his shirt strip. The cold humidity had ceased to bother him; his body had recalibrated to the harsh environment. He was stripped down to his trousers, his torso exposed, hardened by survival and scarred by conflict. His gun felt solid and reassuring in his right hand.
He had waited long enough. His mission had failed, his unit wiped out, and he was now a ghost hunted by his supposed helper, the shady mining conglomerate.
"It's time to face my fear one more time," he muttered, his voice raw. "It's simple: either they listen to me and take me out of here alive, or they go down one after the other."
He started walking back, not toward deeper obscurity, but toward the established perimeter where the miners and their security forces were settled. Every shadow, every broken twig magnified in the morning air, was familiar to him now.
After he had walked for perhaps a hundred yards, the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He heard a distinct, heavy tread behind him, a measured padding that was too large for a civet or a wild boar. He swiftly spun around, his pistol raised, expecting to see the glaring eyes of a jaguar or perhaps another venomous python.
He lowered the gun slowly.
It was Khaos. The tiger was trailing him by only a few yards, moving effortlessly through the undergrowth, a silent sentinel. The sight of the massive creature choosing to follow him, choosing him over the untamed freedom of the jungle, sent a wave of exhilaration through Kealen.
He smiled, a grim, battle-hardened expression. In the past, he had relied entirely on the tiger's immense power to deal with the forest's inhabitants. Now, he would finally confirm what he had long suspected: just how devastating that power would be when unleashed against human enemies.
Major Kealen pressed on, no longer a lone man running for his life, but a commander leading his deadliest weapon back into the fight.