Back to the present...
The Spiteack, stalking the antlered beasts from above the canopy, couldn't find a way to separate them from the group. But time had worn thin, and it no longer had the luxury of patience. Slowly, it began creeping closer to the herd. If they wouldn't separate naturally, then it would force them to. The moment for patience had long passed.
Silently weaving through the treetops, it glided over branches until it reached a tree near where the herd had gathered. With deliberate slowness, it began descending the trunk—hidden from the antlered beasts' sight. But it couldn't remain hidden for long.
A bird resting in the canopy shrieked an alarm.
The forest stirred.
In a sudden burst of instinct, the antlered beasts scattered in unison, running opposite the direction of the call. The Spiteack surged forward, trying to pursue them—but the beasts were too fast. Far too fast. It slithered, twisted, followed—but could not catch up.
Still, it trailed them.
By following the faint tremors left behind in the earth, the Spiteack soon found something worth its attention.
One of the antlered beasts, in the chaos, had been brought down—but not by the Spiteack.
Another predator had claimed it.
A larger beast—larger than the antlered prey—stood over the body, its jaws dripping with blood. Blood that wasn't its own. One massive claw pinned the carcass down, buried deep in its side. A portion of the beast's thick neck was missing—torn away with deadly precision.
Clean. Efficient. Lethal.
And so, a fight awaited the Spiteack—if it wanted a meal tonight.
It held its ground, hood raised, watching the predator before it with calculated stillness, absorbing every twitch, every movement of the beast to better understand its nature.
This creature was none other than the Olf.The same Olf that had once spotted the child.
The Olf sat still—but its eyes didn't betray awareness. It was staring in a single direction, unmoving, unblinking.
The Spiteack's direction.
It was clear now. The Olf had noticed the Spiteack.And it was considering—weighing its options. Should it confront the massive serpent that was even larger than itself?Or simply ignore it?
The decision came in silence.
After a long pause, the Olf simply resumed its feast—gnawing into the carcass with its wide, brutal jaws. It tore through the flesh with ease, peeled back the skin, and sank its teeth deep into the belly of the antlered beast. A slick string of intestines was pulled free, and the Olf devoured them raw.
The Spiteack, watching this unfold, understood one thing clearly:Delay meant hunger.If it waited any longer, the Olf would strip the corpse bare before it had a chance to strike.
And so, the Spiteack began to slither forward—silent, unwavering, singular in its intent—toward the blood-drenched carcass where the Olf had been feeding.
Soon enough, the Spiteack reached the Olf, confronting it with swift, deliberate motion.
The Olf, threatened by the serpent's aggressive approach, lashed out—a single, violent swipe of its claw aimed at the Spiteack's neck, just beneath its raised hood. It was an attempt to decapitate the intruder in one brutal blow.
Though the Olf was smaller in size, its claws were more than capable of severing even a large Spiteack with a single, well-placed strike.And the Spiteack knew this.
But it moved—just in time.
The razor-sharp swipe carved through empty air, missing the Spiteack by a breath. Yet barely didn't mean desperately. No—barely meant precision. The Spiteack, born of this jungle, had lived long enough to understand exactly how much it needed to move—no more, no less.
What followed was a relentless clash—a back-and-forth struggle between the serpent and the beast. Each strike, each dodge, each movement was a wager made with death. Both creatures knew the truth:
Only one would eat.Only one would live.
But that was the way of the wild.
Here, nothing needed contemplation.No honor. No glory. No afterthought.There was only one truth—fight or die.
And death here was no ceremony.It bore no flags, no songs, no reverence.It simply was.Whether proud or pitiful, death was real.