The forest was quiet—but not peaceful.
Joe walked a few steps behind Rook, eyes lowered toward the ground rather than the trees. His steps were lighter now, careful not to disturb fallen leaves or loose gravel. He was learning that the forest didn't reveal itself to those who rushed.
Broken twigs. Pressed mud. Faint scratches along tree bark.
Something heavy had passed through recently.
"Don't stare too hard," Rook said without turning. "You'll miss what matters."
Joe adjusted his focus, breathing slowly.
The forest spoke in layers—rustling leaves high above, insects hidden beneath roots, the subtle creak of wood shifting under weight. Joe didn't understand all of it yet, but he was beginning to separate noise from meaning.
Rook stopped abruptly and crouched.
Joe mirrored him without thinking.
There it was.
Fresh tracks. Deep and wide, the earth compressed unevenly.
Joe swallowed. "A boar?"
Rook nodded. "And a big one."
Joe's fingers tightened around the dagger at his waist. Not in fear—anticipation.
Boars weren't monsters, but they were dangerous. Territorial. Fast. A careless mistake could mean shattered bones or worse.
Rook glanced at him sideways. "You don't have to engage."
Joe shook his head slowly. "I want to."
There was no bravado in his voice—only intent.
Rook studied him for a moment, then nodded once. "Then remember—don't try to overpower it. Outsmart it."
They moved carefully, circling the clearing ahead. The air felt heavier here, dense with the smell of earth and musk.
Then—
The boar burst from the brush.
It was massive. Tusks curved and chipped, eyes wild with instinct. It charged like a living battering ram, tearing through shrubs and snapping branches in its path.
Joe moved.
Not backward.
Sideways.
The boar thundered past where he'd been standing, slamming into a tree with enough force to shake the clearing. Bark exploded outward.
Joe didn't chase. He repositioned, heart pounding steadily.
The boar turned faster than he expected.
Too fast.
It clipped his side.
Pain flared white-hot as he was hurled into the dirt. His shoulder screamed as the breath was ripped from his lungs.
Joe rolled instinctively.
Pain is information, he reminded himself.
Panic is useless.
The boar charged again.
Joe scrambled to his feet, muscles screaming, lungs burning. He ducked behind thick roots and uneven ground, forcing the beast to slow and adjust its path.
That hesitation was enough.
Joe lunged—not for the head, but the leg.
The dagger scraped tusk, then bit shallow into flesh.
The boar squealed and thrashed violently.
Joe didn't cling to the blade.
He let go and moved.
Another charge. Another dodge.
His vision swam. His legs trembled. His body begged him to stop—but his mind stayed clear.
When the boar overextended, Rook stepped in.
One precise strike.
The forest fell silent.
Joe stood there, chest heaving, blood trickling down his arm—some his, some not. His legs finally gave out, and he dropped to one knee.
Rook looked down at him for a long moment.
"You didn't close your eyes," he said.
Joe laughed softly, breathless. "Didn't have time."
Rook allowed a small smile. "Good."
They dragged the boar back together.
The village erupted when they returned. Meat was rare. Fresh meat even rarer.
Fires burned brighter that night. Children laughed louder. Stories grew with every retelling, each version making the boar larger and Rook more heroic.
Joe sat among them, quietly cleaning his dagger, listening without correcting anyone.
Later, as the stars rose and the fire crackled low, Rook sat beside him.
"You fought smart," Rook said. "But remember—survival isn't winning. It's lasting."
Joe nodded. "I know."
"And you're still weak," Rook added bluntly.
Joe smiled faintly. "I know that too."
That night, sails appeared on the horizon.
A Marine ship.
Not large. Not threatening.
Just passing.
Joe's body tensed slightly—but his mind remained calm.
The ship anchored briefly. Marines disembarked, professional and quiet. They asked simple questions.
"Any unfamiliar ships recently?"
"Pirates pass through here?"
The villagers answered honestly.
"No."
"Not for a long while."
Joe listened from a distance.
So that's why they haven't returned, he realized.
Marines nearby. Pirates cautious.
The world was moving—but not rushing.
Days passed. Weeks followed.
Joe trained.
But something changed.
He laughed more.
He raced the other kids along the shore, climbed trees, helped mend nets while humming tunelessly. He still ran until his lungs burned, still practiced dagger movements until his hands shook—but he no longer treated every moment like borrowed time.
Old Mira caught him smiling at nothing as he helped her sort fish near the shore.
"What's that look for?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "You look suspiciously happy."
Joe blinked, then shrugged. "Just feels... nice."
Mira snorted. "Nice, huh? That's new."
Joe tilted his head. "Of course I'm living."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Otherwise," he added seriously, "I would be dead."
For a moment, Mira stared at him.
Then she burst out laughing.
"Oh, don't get smart with me, boy," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "You looked like a dead fish when you washed up here."
Joe frowned in thought. "So… am I an alive fish now?"
Mira laughed even harder, the sound carrying over the waves.
"Haha! That you are," she said, reaching out and ruffling his hair. "An annoyingly stubborn, very alive fish."
Joe allowed himself a small grin.
"Good," he said. "I like being alive."
Mira studied him quietly for a second, her smile softening.
"Then keep it that way," she said. "The sea already took enough."
Joe nodded—not heavy, not grim.
Just certain.
That night, Joe lay on the roof of his hut, staring at the stars.
One day, I'll be strong enough that no one can stop me from going where I want.
He smiled softly.
But I don't need to rush there.
This time, I'll enjoy the journey.
The waves answered gently.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, Joe didn't feel like he was running from something.
He felt like he was moving toward it.