Hunger stopped being an interruption.
It became a schedule.
Not marked by hours or light, but by a steady internal pull that grew stronger when he pushed himself too hard and receded only when he fed with intention. The river offered food freely, but never generously. Algae grew thinly over stone, patchy and inconsistent, and every mouthful was earned through effort rather than chance.
He learned quickly that desperation wasted energy.
The first time hunger sharpened into something painful, he rushed toward the nearest feeding ground without care. The current caught him off guard, pushing him sideways into a rough outcrop. His scales scraped painfully, and the shock sent him spinning into open water where the flow was stronger.
By the time he recovered, the hunger had worsened.
He did not make that mistake again.
Instead, he began to plan—not in grand strategies, but in small, deliberate choices. He memorized which stones collected the richest growth after storms, which shaded areas preserved algae longer during dry stretches. He learned to arrive early, before others stripped the surfaces bare, and to leave before lingering turned into vulnerability.
Feeding became efficient.
Emotionless.
Necessary.
It was during one such careful feeding session that he realized hunger was doing more than keeping him alive.
It was sharpening him.
---
The river was quieter that day, the kind of heavy stillness that followed a recent rain. Sediment hung in the water, thick enough to blur distant shapes but thin enough to carry vibrations clearly. He scraped at a familiar stone, movements precise, conserving strength.
The hunger eased slightly.
Not fully. Never fully.
A ripple passed through the water—soft, almost imperceptible. Another followed, closer this time. His body reacted before his mind could analyze it, pulling him just far enough back from the stone to avoid being silhouetted.
A Corphish scuttled into view, claws clicking faintly against rock.
It paused, antennae twitching, assessing the space. Corphish were territorial but predictable. This one claimed the stone with a sharp snap of its claws, asserting ownership without bothering to chase him.
He drifted back further, conceding the spot.
Once, that would have angered him.
Now, it felt like arithmetic.
Energy spent fighting was energy not spent surviving.
He let the current carry him sideways, toward a secondary feeding patch he'd noted days earlier. The algae there was thinner, but uncontested.
As he fed, he considered the change in himself.
He no longer resented being driven away.
He resented miscalculation.
The distinction mattered.
---
Hunger also taught him patience.
Some feeding spots looked promising but weren't worth the effort—too exposed, too close to predator paths, too unpredictable. He learned to pass them by, even when the ache in his body urged him otherwise.
Once, he watched a smaller Feebas dart recklessly into such a spot. Moments later, the water exploded into motion as a Carvanha surged through, scattering the shoal. The smaller Feebas escaped by chance alone, disappearing downstream in blind panic.
He stayed hidden, hunger gnawing, until the river calmed again.
When he finally fed, the relief was muted but satisfying.
*Living is not about seizing every opportunity,* he realized. *It's about choosing the ones that won't kill you.*
The thought felt grim—but honest.
---
As days blurred together, he noticed subtle changes.
His body felt… steadier.
Not stronger in any dramatic sense, but more responsive. Movements that once required conscious correction now flowed smoothly. His fins held their shape better against the current. Scrapes healed faster, leaving behind scales that were slightly less dull than before.
The changes were small enough to be dismissible.
He did not dismiss them.
This world rewarded consistency, not brilliance.
Hunger reinforced that lesson relentlessly.
---
One stretch of river tested everything he had learned.
The current narrowed sharply, forcing the water through a rocky chute that offered little shelter and even less food. It was a risky route, but avoiding it meant detouring through shallower waters frequented by humans.
He chose the chute.
The passage demanded constant adjustment. The current slammed into him from unpredictable angles, and the rocks offered no safe resting places. Hunger sharpened quickly, draining his strength faster than usual.
By the midpoint, his movements slowed.
The river did not care.
A moment of inattention sent him spiraling toward a jagged ledge. He twisted at the last second, scales grazing stone with a jolt that sent a flare of pain through his body. The impact knocked the breath—no, the *rhythm*—out of him, disrupting the steady exchange that kept water flowing through his gills.
Panic flared.
He forced himself to stillness, anchoring his body against the rock, waiting for the rhythm to return. The hunger screamed now, loud and insistent, threatening to overwhelm thought.
*Not yet,* he told himself. *Endure.*
He waited.
Slowly, the rhythm stabilized. Pain dulled. The hunger remained, but it no longer controlled him.
When he reached the far end of the chute, he collapsed into a sheltered eddy, body trembling with exhaustion.
There was food there—barely enough to matter.
He ate anyway.
Each scrape was deliberate, measured. He stopped before he was fully satisfied, leaving some algae behind.
Not out of generosity.
Out of foresight.
---
As he rested, something shifted in his perception.
Hunger, once an enemy, had become a teacher. It enforced limits, demanded awareness, punished carelessness. It stripped away illusions of fairness and replaced them with rules that could be learned, adapted to, respected.
It did not care who he had been.
It only cared what he did next.
The realization settled quietly, without drama.
He drifted in the eddy until strength returned to his fins, until the river's pull felt manageable again. Then he pushed forward, rejoining the current with renewed focus.
He was still a Feebas.
Still unchosen. Still ignored.
But hunger had given him something he hadn't expected:
A framework.
And within that framework, the first faint outline of control.
The river flowed on, relentless and impartial, and he moved with it—not blindly, not rebelliously, but with a growing understanding that survival was no longer accidental.
It was practiced.