It was an unassuming summer day like any other. The late-afternoon sun filtered through the cottage’s windows and cast long shadows across our worn wooden table. Uncle Flo cooked us another masterpiece of a meal, rabbit stew with root vegetables and herbs from our garden. The lemon-like fruits, which were now in season, gave it a satisfying tang. I was savoring the flavour when Uncle Flo cleared his throat. His amber eyes fixed on me with rare intensity. “So, Zar,” he rumbled, voice gritty and decisive, slicing through the comfortable silence, “tomorrow you pack for a trip deep into the Valley. Pack rations and camping gear. It’s time for the trial that separates pups from wolves.”

  I froze mid-chew. The rabbit meat suddenly turned tasteless in my mouth. The Sleeping Valley is a stretch of meadows and pine forests that lies between the kingdoms of Sonem and Veridia. Our cottage sits right on the Valley’s outer rim, but we never go far inside. Part of me was excited to finally see the clearings where various beastkin clans live. Maybe I’d even meet elves or fairies, who also call this place home, according to Uncle Flo. But there was a problem. The forests are home to creatures with teeth and claws much sharper than mine. Wasn’t I still a pup? Why now? My ears flattened as excitement tangled with dread.

  “Huh? What do you mean?” I stammered, mouth still half-full.

  “It’s the wolfkin way,” he growled in response. “Every pup gets to do it, or they’re stuck as a pup. Can’t join a clan, can’t claim to be an adolescent, so you can’t start contributing. People who aren’t contributing are a waste of space and food. That’s the deal.”

  “Are we even in a clan?” I protested. “We hardly see other beastkin. I thought we were just hermits?”

  Aunt Estrah snorted into her bowl. “Cavewolves, more like,” she chimed between slurps.

  Uncle Flo’s stare softened. “I left my old clan for a reason. But if the day comes, I want you to have a choice. Traditions often open doors. They are not there just to build walls between different groups of people,” he murmured.

  My sole ally in this conversation raised her hand. “Florent, I have a lot of respect for your people, but Zar would fit much better at the Academy. There he could pursue knowledge, even potentially make some serious contributions to the world,” she countered.

  Uncle Flo didn’t waver. “Tradition is knowledge too.”

  “Ah, you got me there!” she grinned. “Zar, you go do it. For knowledge!”

  “Does my opinion matter at all in this conversation?”

  “Not in the slightest!”

  The next day, Uncle Flo shook me awake before the sun had even crested the horizon. My legs burned as we trudged deeper into the Valley, the cottage shrinking behind us until it disappeared entirely. My legs trembled by midday, but whenever I slowed, Uncle Flo would push me to hurry along. I was used to trekking in the wilderness. The problem was the pace, which was more akin to a soldier’s march than a stroll through nature. I suppose he really wanted to cover a lot of territory very quickly.

  We finally stopped when the first stars pricked the darkening sky. After a silent meal of cold jerky, I crawled into my bedroll, muscles already screaming. At dawn, he stood over me, his amber eyes unreadable. “Seven days alone,” he said, pointing to the dense forest ahead. “Bring back a worthy trophy.” He turned and melted into the shadows, leaving only his scent trail behind. I hurled a pinecone at his vanishing form, then another, and another. My anger wouldn’t diminish for quite some time.

  Isn’t it barbaric to throw a not even 5-year-old alone in the wilderness, expecting them to survive for a week? What is this, Sparta? My mind raced with anger as I scattered in search of a safe place to camp. Part of me wondered if this was some twisted population-control method, and whether it was the reason there were relatively few beastkin compared to humans…

  Argh, but seriously, even Aunt Estrah didn’t complain when he told me I had to do this. Did she know the specifics? A week alone in the forest? You would think an intellectual would see the danger of this ridiculous tradition. Maybe I’m missing something vital. Is this about proving strength, or is it what growing up means here? I was an adult in my past life! This has nothing to do with being a grown-up. My frustration warred with my uncertainty. I couldn’t decide whether I was angrier or more scared.

  I explored the forest for what seemed like forever, until I came across a spot where an old tree had fallen against the cliff, creating a naturally formed V-shaped shelter. Inside, I spread dry grass from a nearby ravine that crackled under my paws for insulation. On top of that layer, I put my sleeping bag.

  Now it was time to build a makeshift wall from tree branches and carpet moss. It will work as both camouflage and the main entrance to my new temporary home. After finishing that, I dug a small hole under the tree and covered it with a big rock using magic, so I’d have an emergency exit. For the final touch, I stuck some sticks in the ground around the perimeter of my camp and set up a tripwire connected to a small copper bell inside. Good thing I packed one with me. This way, I’d know if anyone got too close while I was sleeping.

  Honestly, I don’t know exactly how my old memories got transferred into this body, but whatever process was used had an unexpected benefit. I can now remember things I couldn’t before. For example, when I was a teenager, I had read some survivalist-type books because I wanted to write a fan fiction story set in a post-apocalyptic world. I never actually wrote it, but that’s not important. What matters is how easily I can recall things I’ve read in my past life, almost like I have a photographic memory (which I didn’t have before, and I still don’t). If I’d tried this five years ago in my old body, I probably wouldn’t have remembered even half of what was in those books.

  I suppose this is the closest thing I have to having a cheat power in this world. It helps recall useful facts instantly, like what a cumulonimbus cloud looks like or how to build forest traps. Uncle Flo taught me to track small prey, hunt with a javelin, and forage. But he never really taught me to survive alone in the woods. That’s why I’m still pretty mad at him.

  No time to mope, though, it was getting dark. I spent the whole day finding this place and building a shelter. Tomorrow I’ll run out of rations, so I’ll have to hunt or forage if I don’t want to go hungry. Ok, alarm. Check. Wall. Check. Bed. Check. I’m exhausted. At least this new body can’t sweat, so I don’t have to wash every day. I still do, and I like it, just like I did as a human, but now it’s not something I have to do daily. Good night, big scary forest. Hopefully, I won’t be reincarnated against my will tomorrow.

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  After tracking Zar to his new basecamp, I picked a large tree far enough to hide my scent but close enough to watch him. I climbed up and tied myself with a rope so I wouldn’t fall while sleeping. Then I took a drink from my canteen. This reminds me of my army scouting days. Really, I’m too old for this, but parenting comes first.

  Zar doesn’t get this angry often, but it’s part of the learning process. He must think he’s alone now, but naturally, beastkin aren’t cruel or foolish enough to leave kids alone in the forest. This tradition is a double-edged sword of sorts. Kids have to learn to survive. Parents must prove they can still call themselves hunters. If they can’t observe their child without being noticed, the clan picks a mentor instead to ensure all pups become capable hunters. I’m not sure what I’ll do if he spots me, since we don’t have a clan. I like to think I’m not that decrepit yet.

  He picked an interesting, defensible spot and even set up an early warning system. I don’t think I taught him that. What a bright kid. This area is usually calm, so I’ll sleep now. I’ll need energy to watch him for a week if he goes deeper into the forest.

  Hey, I woke up, and nothing ate me. Lucky me. Sunlight sifted through the gaps in my makeshift wall-slash-ceiling cover and cast speckled patterns on the dry grass mattress I made. I blinked away my sleepiness and stretched my stiff muscles, enjoying the pops in my joints. My camp held up well through the night, but a curious fox or other animal could sniff out leftover jerky and dried fruit in my pack. Better safe than sorry. I put everything into my waxed canvas backpack, cinched it tight, and used some leftover rope to hoist it up to a sturdy branch two meters off the ground.

  With just my javelin in hand and my hunting knife strapped to my thigh, I stepped into the morning forest. A dented metal canteen and an empty waterskin hung across my chest. My first goal was to find a water source. I listened for the sound of a stream, or the chorus of frogs, which meant a pond was nearby. Magic to create water does exist. Or rather, magic to condense water molecules in the air does. I haven’t grasped it just yet, and I doubted water produced by such means would have all the minerals my body needed, so I had to rely on a more old-fashioned approach.

  Next, I’d look for rabbit droppings, those little dark pellets under the brambles, and set up a few simple snare traps. Earning passive income is all the rage these days, and I wanted some passive rabbit income, too. Once the traps were set, I could look for chanterelles-like mushrooms or purple berries, which were supposed to grow in these parts. Maybe I’d even catch the rustle of a pheasant’s wings or spot the distinctive hoof prints of a young deer while exploring the deeper reaches of the forest.

  Half an hour later, I crouched beside a small stream, watching sunlight dance across its surface. I dipped my finger in, it was cool and clear, but appearances can be deceiving in the wild. I unslung my waterskin, weighing my options as mosquitoes whined around my ears. I could fill it and boil it later at my camp, or I can set up a small fire and boil it here and now. The problem was that I didn’t have a kettle or any pot. I couldn’t risk burning my only waterskin, and boiling small batches in the canteen would take forever.

  Come on, brain, do you remember anything useful for this? I snapped my fingers, thinking of a picture from yet another survivalist manual. “Hot rocks,” I muttered, picking up smooth stones from the stream bed. With magic, I soon had a small fire going and the stones heating in the flames. Using some more magic, I moved one hot stone after another into my waterskin. The container bulged as steam hissed from the opening. I swirled it carefully, watched bubbles rise, and counted under my breath for a minute, then another for good measure.

  The waterskin bulged against my side, heavy with enough purified water to last two days. Not bad for an hour of work. I’ll cook here too if I catch anything, so my shelter stays inconspicuous.

  I spent the whole afternoon looking for rabbit trails and setting traps. My fingers started to ache from tying snare knots. The pouch that hung from my belt slowly filled with a handful of edible mushrooms. Just before shadows started to lengthen across the woodland floor, a pheasant’s startled cry betrayed its location. My javelin found its mark. As dusk was about to fall, I returned to the stream to eat. I cleaned and cooked the bird. The meat sizzled over flames, fat dripping and hissing on hot stones. As I finished my meal, my eyelids grew heavy. Counting each footstep, I trudged back to my shelter for some much-deserved Z’s. Closing the cover behind me, I fell asleep almost immediately.

  Ring, Ding, Ting!

  My ringbell went off for a few seconds before dropping onto my head. The thin thread holding it must have been cut or torn off. I jumped up and focused all my senses. Something smelled awful. I could hear it rustling outside my camp. It sounded like one person or creature, but I wasn’t sure. I grabbed my knife and crawled as quietly as I could to my emergency exit. It was a tight fit, so I couldn’t take my javelin, but I’d rather ambush something I know with a knife than face the unknown with a javelin. If it were a bear, I’d run straight home. Screw tradition.

  The rock behind the tree floated a meter away as I whispered my spell, letting me slip out of my shelter hopefully unnoticed by my invader. Moving carefully and quietly, I made a wide circle around the fallen tree to find a spot where I could observe the uninvited guest from a safe distance. A few minutes later, I saw him.

  A creature a little taller than me stooped over my belongings, its spine curved and bent like a sickle beneath filthy rags. Light of dawn glinted off the crude stone axe it clutched. My nose wrinkled at the sour smell of unwashed skin and rotting teeth. It matched Aunt Estrah’s description to a tee. Goblins aren’t that dangerous alone, but they are never alone. I concentrated, scanning the shadows between trees, straining to catch any whisper of foliage or snap of twigs that might betray others. Nothing. Just this lone scavenger, snuffling as it pawed through my supplies. My hands gripped firmly around my knife. If there was just one...

  I remembered a technique for taking down enemies from behind. It wasn’t part of the regular self-defense course, but our instructor sometimes showed us advanced stuff just for fun. Like disarming a terrorist holding a live grenade or taking down a lookout. Not something a civilian should ever do, but boys be boys, it was treated like a game. Reality is far scarier. Now the trick is to sneak up behind him without being noticed. I learned how to prowl thanks to Uncle Flo. Quietly but quickly, I approached him, still preoccupied with my beef jerky. In one swift motion, I grabbed both his ankles and pulled as hard as I could.

  With his hands still holding my stuff, the goblin could do nothing. His skull cracked against the earth with a wet thud. Before it could screech, I grabbed a knife lodged in my teeth and drove it between its shoulder blades. Hot blood spurted over my knuckles as I twisted the blade, yanked it free, then plunged it in again. And again. The creature’s limbs twitched, then went slack. My heart beat rapidly, pounding on my ribcage as I gulped air through clenched teeth. Copper-scented mist saturated the air. I scrambled into my shelter, fingers quivering as they closed around my javelin. My ransacked backpack lay gutted like a carcass, but the frame held. My last ration was gone, but most things were scattered around my shelter unscathed. I grabbed everything salvageable and bolted toward the stream, every dark shape suddenly alive with yellow eyes.

  Goblins are relentless and spiteful. If any of his group finds his body, they won’t let it go, so I had to move. Five more days to go, but now I have to start over from scratch.

  1.1 - I finished a thorough line editing of this entire chapter. I removed more unnecessary scene separators. I will try to keep only those when I move from Zar’s POV to other's, and vice versa.

  1.1.1 - It suddenly bothered me how Zar used both hands to take down a goblin with a knife, somehow also in his hands. Quick fix. Also fixed a newly found typo.