(AN: Hi guys, sorry but whilst i was editing the chapter i removed about 300 to 400 words about the slinger fight. Sorry about that ,but i placed em back in as i always have a backup of my work.)
The moment came quietly, without ceremony beyond the beating of hearts and the steady breath of the forest.
At the base of Home Tree, the hunters in training gathered in a loose formation, direhorses shifting beneath them as if sensing the weight of what lay ahead. Leather straps creaked, packs settled, and weapons were checked one final time. Above them, the vast trunk of Home Tree rose into the morning haze, its platforms crowded with members of the tribe who had come to witness the departure.
Nussudle sat astride his direhorse, spine straight, hands resting lightly on the reins. He kept his gaze forward, though he could feel the eyes of the clan upon him. Pride, worry, hope, fear—all of it pressed in from every direction. He forced himself to breathe slowly, matching the rhythm of the animal beneath him.
At the front of the group, Eytukan turned his direhorse with practised ease. He raised one arm, palm open, and the tribe responded with a rising chorus of calls and cheers. The sound echoed through the roots and branches, carried outward into the forest as if Pandora itself were acknowledging the moment.
Eytukan nodded once, then faced forward.
With a soft command, he urged his direhorse onward.
The group followed.
They moved as one, slipping between the towering roots at the base of Home Tree and into the dense forest beyond. Vines brushed against shoulders, leaves whispered overhead, and shafts of pale light cut through the canopy in fractured patterns. Behind them, the voices of the tribe gradually faded, replaced by the living pulse of Pandora.
Nussudle did not look back.
By midday, the terrain began to change. The forest floor dipped, and the air grew cooler, damp with the scent of running water. Eytukan slowed the group, raising a fist to signal caution. Ahead, a wide river cut through the land, its surface broken by stones and submerged roots. The current was strong but manageable, the water clear enough to reveal darting shapes beneath the surface.
They dismounted in silence.
Nussudle led his direhorse carefully into the river, boots sinking into the soft silt. Cold water surged around his calves, then his knees, sending a sharp chill through his muscles. He tightened his grip on the reins, murmuring reassurance to the animal as it stepped forward, muscles tensing against the current.
Halfway across, the water rose to his waist. The pull of the river tested his balance, but he leaned into it, planting each step with care. Around him, the other hunters did the same, faces set with concentration.
They reached the far bank without incident, hauling themselves and their direhorses onto solid ground. Packs were checked, and weapons were inspected for water damage. No one spoke. The journey had truly begun now.
The attack came less than an hour later.
A low growl rippled through the undergrowth, followed by the snapping of branches. Eytukan's head snapped up, eyes scanning the tree line.
"Viperwolves," he hissed.
They came in a blur of motion—sleek bodies streaking through the foliage, eyes gleaming with hunger. A pack, moving fast and coordinated.
Nussudle reacted on instinct.
He loosed an arrow, the shaft burying itself in the shoulder of the nearest creature. It yelped, momentum carrying it forward before it collapsed. Another lunged, teeth snapping inches from his arm. He twisted aside, drawing his spear in one smooth motion and driving the butt into its jaw.
The forest erupted with sound.
Arrows flew, spears thrust, direhorses reared and kicked. The viperwolves darted in and out, testing for weakness, but the hunters held their ground. Nussudle felt the surge of strength in his arm as he moved, the pain he once feared absent, replaced by a raw, focused power.
Within minutes, it was over.
The remaining viperwolves retreated, disappearing back into the forest as suddenly as they had emerged. The hunters stood breathing hard, scanning for further threats.
Eytukan moved among them, checking for injuries. A few scratches, nothing serious.
They pressed on.
They travelled on through the afternoon with renewed caution. Every snapped twig set nerves on edge, every distant call analysed for threat or warning. Eytukan used the moments between hazards to instruct them quietly, pointing out marks on bark where territory shifted, places where the ground dipped deceptively, and signs of predators that did not announce themselves openly.
Nussudle absorbed everything. He watched how Eytukan rode, how he listened to the forest before making decisions. Leadership, he realised, was not command alone but awareness sharpened to a blade.
The river crossing had soaked their supplies more than expected, forcing them to pause and dry what they could in brief shafts of sunlight. Nussudle checked his bowstring repeatedly, testing its tension until satisfied. He felt stronger than he had days ago, more balanced. The forest responded to him differently now, or perhaps he was simply learning to hear it.
As dusk settled, the hunters shared quiet glances rather than words. Bonds were forming, fragile but real, forged by shared danger. Even those who had once competed with sharp tongues now respected the skill shown in battle.
When camp was established, Eytukan outlined the watches and routes for the following day. The Hallelujah Mountains still lay far ahead, floating shapes barely visible through the haze. Their presence loomed in every thought.
The night air cooled rapidly, carrying with it the hum of insects and the distant roar of something massive moving far away. Nussudle tightened his grip on his spear as he stood watch, feeling the weight of responsibility settle into his bones.
The night had settled uneasily around the camp, the kind of silence that felt stretched too thin, ready to snap.
Nussudle stood at the edge of the clearing, spear grounded lightly beside him, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the fire's weak glow. The forest had fallen quiet after the earlier chaos of the day, but the forest never truly slept. It watched. It waited. He breathed slowly, listening not just with his ears, but with something deeper—instinct sharpened by danger and the quiet pressure of Eywa's presence.
That was when he heard it.
At first, it was faint. Almost nothing at all. A whisper of movement, like air being displaced rather than sound properly made. His ears twitched, and he stilled completely, heart slowing as his senses stretched outward. The sound grew rapidly, the rhythm uneven and wrong—too fast, too close.
Flapping.
Not the heavy beat of an ikran's wings, nor the gliding hush of stingbats riding thermal currents. This was frantic, erratic, as though whatever flew did so out of necessity rather than grace.
Instinct screamed.
Nussudle dropped and rolled to the side just as something tore through the space where his head had been a heartbeat before. Wind exploded past him, sharp enough to sting, and he felt the rush of displaced air brush his queue. He came up on one knee, spear raised, eyes wide.
Hovering above him was a triangular shape, its wings beating so fast they blurred. Its skin was a sickly red, stretched tight across an angular frame that looked more like a weapon than a living creature. Its eyes—too few—yet it still locked onto him instantly.
Before he could fully process it, another sound reached him.
Heavy. Wet. Familiar.
Hooves.
Nussudle twisted just in time to see the second beast emerge from the darkness behind him, and his stomach dropped.
The body was unmistakably a slinger.
It moved like a direhorse, powerful muscles rolling beneath leathery skin, hooves digging into the earth with brutal force. But where its head should have been, there was nothing—only a raw, sealed stump that glistened faintly in the firelight. The absence was wrong, deeply unsettling, like a living thing that had been assembled incorrectly.
Realisation hit him all at once.
A slinger.
The head circled above him, wings snapping as it repositioned with terrifying speed. The body advanced from the opposite side, hooves churning dirt as it began to close the distance. They were coordinated. Not two creatures, but one—divided, hunting from both air and ground.
Nussudle backed away slowly, forcing his breathing steady even as adrenaline surged. His grip tightened on the spear. He could feel the system flare faintly at the back of his mind, identifying the threat, cataloguing danger, but there was no time to read prompts. This fight would be decided by reflex alone.
The head struck first.
It folded its wings and shot toward him like a thrown blade, moving so fast the air screamed in protest. Nussudle hurled himself sideways again, the slinger's head missing him by inches before slamming into the ground hard enough to crack stone. It rebounded instantly, wings snapping open as it rose again.
Behind him, the body charged.
Nussudle spun, planting his feet just as the slinger's body lunged. He drove the spear forward with everything he had, the reinforced tip punching deep into the creature's chest. It let out a guttural, vibrating sound—more felt than heard—and staggered, momentum carrying it forward.
He didn't hesitate.
With a sharp cry, he wrenched the spear free and thrust again, angling upward this time, piercing through vital organs he could not see but instinctively knew were there. The body convulsed violently, hooves scraping uselessly at the earth before it collapsed in a heap at his feet, lifeless.
The head screamed.
The sound was high-pitched and furious, wings beating so fast they created a violent downdraft. It swooped again, enraged now, no longer precise but desperate. Nussudle barely had time to react. He dropped his spear, snatching his bow from his back in one fluid motion.
The head veered, zigzagging through the air with unnatural agility.
Nussudle drew and released in the same breath.
The arrow struck true, punching through one of the creature's wings. It shrieked and spiralled, crashing into the ground nearby, thrashing wildly as it tried to take flight again. One wing dragged uselessly behind it, torn and bleeding.
Nussudle was already moving.
He closed the distance in a heartbeat, knife flashing in his hand. The slinger's head snapped at him, jaws gaping, but its movements were slower now, clumsier. He dodged once more and brought the blade down hard, driving it between overlapping plates of bone and sinew.
The creature convulsed, wings spasming violently.
Nussudle twisted the knife and ripped it free, striking again and again until the head finally went still, its unnatural eyes dimming as life fled it completely.
Silence crashed down around him.
Nussudle stood over the remains, chest heaving, blood—some his, mostly not—spattered across his arms and chest. His hands trembled as adrenaline bled away, leaving behind a hollow, aching calm.
Only then did he realise how close he had come to dying.
The system flickered into view at the edge of his vision, prompts already forming—harvest opportunities, venom extraction—but for a moment, he ignored it. He stared at the broken body and severed head of the slinger, understanding fully now why the elders spoke of such creatures with caution bordering on reverence.
This was not a predator you outmatched.
It was one you survived.
And tonight, by instinct, resolve, and no small measure of luck, Nussudle had done exactly that.
As the stars climbed higher, Nussudle found his thoughts drifting despite his efforts to remain alert. Images of Home Tree surfaced unbidden: the echo of laughter, the weight of expectations, the look in Ilara's eyes when she had watched him depart. He wondered if the tribe still stood at the base of the great trunk, or if life had already resumed its familiar rhythm.
He thought, too, of Nayat'i, and forced the thought away with practised discipline. There would be time later, after the trial, after he had proven himself worthy of standing beside an ikran. For now, he belonged to the path ahead.
The forest shifted around him, subtle movements indicating creatures settling into their nocturnal patterns. He adjusted his stance, ensuring his silhouette blended with the roots and shadows. Training guided his actions, each motion deliberate and economical.
When the slinger struck, it shattered that fragile calm, turning contemplation into survival. The memory of the fight replayed itself even as he worked to extract the venom, every decision analysed, every movement critiqued. He noted where he had hesitated, where he had acted without thought. Both would shape him.
Carrying the body back to camp was a test in itself. Sweat slicked his skin despite the cool air, muscles burning under the weight. Yet he welcomed the strain. It grounded him, reminded him of the reality of the journey.
The encounter with Nayat'i lingered longer than the fight.
He replayed her voice, the way it had faltered when he passed her by. Guilt gnawed at him, but he buried it beneath resolve. The Iknimaya demanded sacrifice. If distance was the price, then he would pay it.
Unseen, Nayat'i remained where he had left her for several moments longer, gathering herself before turning back into the forest. Her hunt forgotten, her thoughts tangled and heavy.
By the time Nussudle returned to camp and laid the slinger's body at the edge of the clearing, the night felt heavier than before.
Dawn would come regardless of their doubts. The forest did not pause for uncertainty, nor did the mountains waiting beyond the horizon. Each step taken this day carved the hunters further from childhood and closer to something irreversible.
Eytukan knew this, and it showed in the way he watched them even as they slept. Responsibility weighed on him differently now, not just as a father, but as the one entrusted with guiding the next generation through sacred danger. He sat near the embers, eyes reflecting firelight, listening to the forest speak.
When the night finally began to thin, the camp remained intact, untouched by further threat. That alone was a victory.
Nussudle shifted in his sleep, muscles aching, dreams fragmented by memory and anticipation. Somewhere between waking and rest, he felt the pull of the mountains ahead, distant yet insistent, like a call waiting to be answered.
The journey was no longer an idea.
It was real.
And it had claimed its first toll.
Morning preparations would demand discipline, but even now the forest whispered lessons. Every sound had meaning, every silence intention. Nussudle would remember this first day not for triumph alone, but for the quiet understanding that survival depended on respect as much as strength.
Somewhere in the canopy above, creatures shifted as the balance of night and day began to tilt. The embers crackled softly, sending sparks upward like fleeting stars. The hunters breathed in unison, bound by purpose even in sleep.
Pandora watched them go, patient and eternal.
The path ahead would test more than muscle or skill. It would test belief, endurance, and the willingness to let go of what had once felt safe. For Nussudle, that truth settled slowly, like sediment in water, unavoidable and heavy. He would carry it with him, alongside his weapons and provisions, into every step that followed. The forest did not promise mercy, only balance, and balance demanded sacrifice. As the first light brushed the leaves above, the hunters stood on the edge of something vast, their lives narrowing into a single direction. Forward.
In the days to come, stories would be told of this departure, shaped by memory and emotion, altered by distance and pride. Some would speak of courage, others of fear, but few would capture the uncertainty that lingered in the quiet moments between action. That uncertainty lived in Nussudle's chest, steady and unresolved. It was not weakness, he realised, but awareness. Awareness of consequence, of choice, of the fragile line between success and loss. He accepted it as part of the trial, as essential as blade or bow. With each breath, he anchored himself to the present, letting the past fall behind and the future wait its turn. The journey demanded nothing less.
Even now, with danger freshly faced, the resolve within him hardened rather than broke. He would endure the distance, the silence, the ache of unanswered words. The Iknimaya required it. And so, beneath the endless sky of Pandora, he committed himself fully to the path ahead, whatever it might demand in return.
Nothing could be reclaimed once the first step was taken. That knowledge, stark and final, steadied him more than comfort ever could.
It was enough.
Enough to continue, enough to endure, enough to face what waited beyond the trees.
The forest would judge him soon. And he would answer.
With every breath, every step, every silent vow he carried within him. The trial had begun. There would be no turning back now. Only forward into legend or loss. Under Eywa's watchful gaze.