The problem with monsters wasn't how strong they were.
It was how fast they noticed you.
I realized that the moment the bushes to our left exploded outward.
"RUN."
Porlyusica didn't shout.
She didn't even raise her voice.
She just said it—flat, sharp, final.
I didn't argue.
I ran.
Branches whipped past my face as I sprinted after her, boots slipping on wet dirt. Something heavy crashed through the undergrowth behind us, snapping wood like it was made of paper.
I risked a glance back.
Bad idea.
Big. Four legs. Too many teeth. Skin like cracked stone and eyes that absolutely did not like us being here.
"…Okay," I muttered while running. "So this is happening."
"Eyes forward," Porlyusica snapped.
"Yes, ma'am!"
I focused on her back instead. She moved fast—but not panicked. Every turn was deliberate, every step placed where the ground held firm.
I copied her as best I could.
Don't think. Move.
My legs burned almost immediately.
Not screaming pain—just that deep, ugly ache that told me I couldn't keep this pace forever.
Behind us, the monster roared.
"That thing sounds offended," I said between breaths.
"It is," Porlyusica replied. "You're breathing too loudly."
"Sorry! I'll suffocate quietly!"
Running Is a Skill
The forest opened up into a slope, loose gravel sliding underfoot.
Porlyusica veered right.
I followed.
My foot slipped.
For half a second, gravity won.
Then something warm steadied inside me—not strength, not speed. Just… balance. My muscles tightened together instead of fighting each other, and I caught myself instead of falling flat on my face.
I didn't slow down.
Didn't think about it.
Just ran.
Porlyusica glanced back once.
Just once.
Her eyes narrowed.
Then she turned forward again without comment.
Good.
If she'd stopped to explain, we'd be dead.
Bad Ideas, Quickly Executed
We burst out of the trees onto a narrow ridge.
Drop on the left.
Rock wall on the right.
The monster followed, claws scraping stone as it climbed.
I swallowed.
"…I'm going to say something very brave," I said.
"Don't."
"What if we—"
"Absolutely not."
"—split up?"
She stopped so suddenly I nearly crashed into her.
The monster roared again, closer now.
Porlyusica turned slowly.
"…Explain."
"If it follows you, I hide," I said quickly. "If it follows me—"
"You die."
"Yes. But very heroically."
She stared at me.
Then sighed. "You're reckless."
"I prefer 'efficiently desperate.'"
Another roar. Too close.
She grabbed my collar and yanked me sideways just as the monster lunged where I'd been standing.
We ran again—this time straight toward the rock wall.
"…This feels wrong," I said.
"It is," she replied. "Climb."
"What?"
She shoved me toward a narrow crack in the stone.
I didn't ask questions.
I climbed.
Holding On
The crack wasn't deep. Just enough to wedge into.
My fingers screamed. My arms shook.
Below us, the monster slammed into the wall, claws scraping uselessly.
It roared. Again. Louder.
I pressed myself flatter against the rock, heart pounding.
"…I do not like this creature," I whispered.
"Be quiet," Porlyusica hissed. "It tracks vibration."
"…Of course it does."
I forced myself to slow my breathing.
Slow. Quiet. Still.
The warmth under my skin settled—not spreading, not pushing. Just holding everything together so I didn't shake myself loose.
Seconds passed.
Then minutes.
Finally, the monster snorted, turned, and crashed back into the forest.
Silence followed.
Real silence.
I exhaled carefully.
"…I lived."
Porlyusica looked at me. Really looked this time.
"You didn't freeze," she said.
"I considered it," I replied. "Briefly. Then decided dying would be inconvenient."
She huffed. "Good choice."
Aftermath
We climbed down once it was safe.
My legs wobbled the moment my feet hit the ground.
I sat. Hard.
"…I need a minute," I said. "Possibly several years."
"You ran well," she said.
I blinked. "…That was praise."
"No."
It absolutely was.
I pulled out my notebook with shaking hands.
Day 10.
Almost died today. Running is now officially my favorite combat style.
Monster had too many teeth. Did not ask its name.
Body held together under pressure. That's new. Good new.
Note: Do not tell Dad about this. Ever.
I closed it and leaned back against the rock.
Porlyusica stood nearby, scanning the forest.
After a moment, she said, "You learn fast."
I smiled weakly. "Fear is a great teacher."
"…Rest," she added. "Tomorrow will be worse."
I groaned. "I hate it when you say that."
She didn't deny it.
I stayed seated longer than necessary, back against the stone, legs still buzzing like they hadn't decided whether they belonged to me anymore.
After a bit, curiosity won.
"…Can I ask something?" I said.
Porlyusica didn't look at me. "You're going to anyway."
"Why didn't you fight it?"
That made her pause.
Slowly, she turned her head.
"…You think that was a fight?"
"I mean," I shrugged, "big monster, sharp teeth, dramatic entrance. Felt like the start of one."
She stared at me for a long second.
Then she sighed.
Deeply.
"Heads up," she said flatly. "If you try to 'fight' everything that shows up in the wild, you won't survive a month."
"…So you do always run?"
"I choose," she corrected. "And today, running was the only correct choice."
I frowned. "But you're strong. You could've—"
"No," she cut in. Sharp. Immediate. "I could've wasted energy, drawn more attention, or gotten injured for no reason."
She crouched in front of me, finally meeting my eyes.
"And you?" she continued. "You're seven."
I opened my mouth.
She raised a finger. "Seven."
"…I was going to say 'almost eight,'" I muttered.
"That doesn't help."
She straightened again. "Your job right now isn't fighting monsters."
"…Then what is it?"
"Surviving them."
That shut me up.
She continued, voice calm, matter-of-fact.
"Most people don't die because they're weaker," she said. "They die because they stand where they shouldn't, fight what they don't understand, or freeze when moving would save them."
I thought back to the ridge.
The slip.
The balance.
The choice to keep moving.
"…So running is fighting," I said slowly.
She glanced at me.
"…You're learning."
I grinned. "Don't worry. If I ever try to punch something with teeth bigger than my head, you have permission to hit me first."
"I wouldn't waste the effort," she replied. "I'd let nature correct you."
"…Harsh."
"Accurate."
I leaned my head back against the stone again, staring up through the trees.
"…So," I said, "until I'm bigger, faster, and less breakable—"
"You run," she said.
"And when I'm bigger?"
"You still run," she answered. "Just smarter."
I laughed quietly. Nervous, relieved, alive.
"…Guess that means today was training."
"Yes."
"…Do I get credit?"
"No."
"…Food?"
She paused.
"…Maybe."
I smiled.
Running wasn't weakness.
Today proved that.
And somehow, that felt like progress.