Aaron looked downriver, toward the screams and saw only the bending canyon walls. He rolled his eyes. Of course, it's around a bend. He looked upriver and sighed. Following waterways downriver usually leads to civilization. If binge-watching survival shows had taught me anything, it was to follow the water. Fuck. With a deep breath, he readed himself. Club in his belt, spears bundled in hand, he set off along the stream. Just a quick look.
Aaron scrambled over boulders and debris. No more screams could be heard for a while. He noticed his muddy stench. On a shallow beach, he took a moment to wash off the muck as well as he could. Cleaning his mouth was nice as well. His robes were still a mess. That isn’t the worst thing. I should be harder to sniff out for predators. Hopefully.
The ground was tough going but passable. Seems safe here, but with the river’s noise, I can’t hear anything. A hundred steps from his start, he ran into the next corpse. Only a little bile came up his throat. An old woman. Her chest had been caved in. She’d gotten out of the fight, only to suffocate on blood in her lungs. Nasty way to go.
As he approached a bend in the canyon, he thought he heard something else again. Not screams this time. What could that be? The surviving fighters? He stood still and listened for several heartbeats. Yes. Those were definitely voices. No chance to make out the words over the rushing water. Should I investigate further?
With the corpses, it seemed the locals were less than cordial. Aaron looked around. He could cross the creek. Use the bend for cover. Yes, I should definitely investigate. I need to know what’s going on here. And this seems relatively safe.
Standing on the water’s edge, he saw that the two-step-wide creek was full of stones. They looked slippery. No better options. Using the spear as a walking staff, he moved into the water.
The first small steps went well. Cold water lapped at his calves.
Then his foot slipped.
The stone shifted—too fast to correct.
His balance tipped.
Fall forward. I have to fall forward.
The creek blurred. The rock rushed up to meet his face.
Aaron didn’t pass out. Not that it was an improvement.
Something shifted. Not time—just his body, slumped against the rock, ribs grinding like loose gears. Blood ran hot down his face, thick and warm, slipping into his left eye. He blinked, but the world remained half-blind, smeared in red. His head throbbed—distant at first, then sharp, hammering against the inside of his skull. His stomach twisted.
He dry-heaved, body convulsing, hands digging into the wet stone beneath him. Nothing came up but bile, burning the back of his throat. He spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The motion smeared blood down his chin.
The cut above his brow was deep. He could feel the raw split in his skin, pulsing with heat. His fingers brushed it, and fire lanced through his skull. His vision swam.
Too much blood. It’s not stopping.
He clenched his teeth and forced a slow breath. His hands shook as he wiped at the wound, smearing more than clearing. The red streaks on his fingers made his stomach twist again.
Not the worst injury I’ve had. Right?
His balance wavered as he pushed himself upright. The world lurched sideways, and he had to brace against the rock beside him. Everything felt unsteady, like he wasn’t fully inside his own body.
Concussion.
The river gurgled beside him, deceptively serene. The sound pulled at him. His throat burned, his head throbbed. He swallowed against the nausea and scooped a handful of water into his mouth.
Is this safe?
His body didn’t care. The icy burn hit his stomach like a slap, shocking his senses awake. He took another mouthful. His shaking eased, if only slightly.
Safer than dying of thirst.
His ribs ached as he pushed himself to his feet. The bleeding had slowed, but the world was still too bright, the air too thick. His head pulsed with every heartbeat, nausea lurking just beneath the surface.
He gritted his teeth. The world swayed again. Focus.
Voices. Sharp, angry.
He froze.
His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the river’s murmur.
Ahead, movement.
Aaron dug his fingers into his temples, as if pressure could hold his skull together. The pain pulsed outward, bright and sharp, like glass behind his eyes.
A cave halfway up the canyon wall, shadowed against the rock. Three figures—young, tense. Spears gripped tight. Below them, a mess of broken stone—a half-formed escape route. And at the bottom…
Five men. Armed. Stalking. Predators circling the den.
A sixth lay on the ground, writhing, clutching his head.
Failed climb. That meant the young adults fought him off.
A stalemate. Or am I hallucinating? No—the pain is real enough. Or is it?
The rushing water masked some of their words, but not enough.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“Push the girls down, boy. First pick’s yours.”
The voice—nasal, sneering—cut through the canyon like a whip.
Aaron’s stomach twisted. That voice. That sentence.
Nausea became fire. Did he just—?
His fingers clenched around the spears.
Did he just—?
His fingers dug into the wood until his nails bit deep. His breath came shallow, tight in his chest.
A stone shot from the alcove.
It struck the stocky man in the shoulder with a dull thud. He flinched back with a curse.
A girl’s voice rang out, deep and sharp. “By the Sixteen, I will skewer you all!”
Aaron’s gaze snapped to her.
Broad-shouldered. Tall. She stood as high as the second step of the rockslide—impressive.
The wiry leader growled. “Armell! Sorian! Get up there and take their spears!”
Two of the men hesitated. One muscular, one small. Neither eager. The leader’s shouting got louder, more frantic.
They didn’t want to risk it.
He took a step forward.
The concussion hit like a hammer.
His vision blurred, nausea slamming into him like a wave.
His knees buckled. He barely managed to fall behind a boulder before his body revolted.
He retched—dry, violent spasms ripping through his ribs like broken springs. His skull pulsed, each beat splitting it wider.
I’m going to pass out. No. No, stay awake. You’ll die here.
I can’t do this.
I have to.
The girl’s defiance burned in his mind. The laughter at the base of the slope lit something hotter.
His guts churned.
This isn’t my fight. I’ll die.
Screaming echoed off the canyon walls.
I can’t… I won’t let this happen.
His fingers closed around the spears like lifelines.
He swallowed the bile and forced himself still.
They were distracted. Good.
Two spears in his left hand. The third in his right.
One shot. Make it count.
He pushed himself up.
Every step felt like moving through sand. He took slow, measured strides, forcing his body into control.
Thirty paces.
Fifteen.
He stopped.
Leaning back slightly, he locked his arm into a throwing stance.
Here goes nothing.
He exhaled sharply and snapped his arm forward.
The spear left his fingers—
—and veered wide.
A full meter off.
No. Shit. That was my chance.
The clatter of wood on stone slammed into his ears like a gunshot.
For a single heartbeat, the world held still.
Then the men turned.
Their eyes locked onto him.
Cold. Wide.
Aaron’s breath caught in his throat. I just tried to kill a man. And failed.
A cold, sick twist bloomed in his chest.
Now they’re coming for me.
The leader’s lip curled. “You little—”
Then the nearest two men charged.
Aaron snapped out of it, raising the second spear.
Time to fix this mess.
He threw.
The fat man was the easiest target. The biggest.
The javelin slammed into flesh—just above the hip.
A crack. A scream.
The man folded like a broken chair, collapsing into the dirt with a strangled, gasping cry. His hands scrabbled at the spear, fingers weak and trembling. Blood seeped into his tunic, pooling beneath him.
Not dead. But not getting back up.
The other two were almost on him.
Aaron had just enough time to see the muscular one swing.
Wide arc. Heavy weapon. Predictable.
He stepped in. The cudgel whooshed past his ribs, close enough to feel the air shift. The man’s momentum carried him forward—too fast, too committed.
Aaron drove his last spear into his gut.
A choked snarl turned into a wet, ragged breath. The man’s hands fumbled for the shaft, trying to yank it free. Aaron twisted. Shoved deeper.
The man dropped.
Aaron let go, spinning—
Too slow.
The blow crushed into his ribs, and white-hot pain tore through his side. His legs gave way. Air vanished. For a second, the world was only agony and black.
Pain exploded through his side. The impact sent him staggering. His vision darkened. The river roared in his ears, distant, like he was underwater.
Move. Get up. Don’t die.
The small man lunged at him, swinging fast, wild. Aaron barely ducked. Wood split the air above his skull.
No time for distance.
He threw himself forward, slamming into the man’s chest. They tumbled onto the rocky shore in a violent heap.
Aaron landed on top, knees crushing down, pinning arms.
Tiny gasped, thrashing, his hands clawing at Aaron’s sides.
Aaron grabbed a fistful of hair.
Lift.
Slam.
Bone met stone with a sickening crunch.
A sharp gasp. A weak, dazed flail.
Still conscious.
Tiny bucked beneath him, twisting hard, one arm slipping free.
Aaron’s grip slipped. Fingers clenched sweat-slick hair.
No.
He drove Tiny’s head down again.
And again.
The last convulsion ran through the body beneath him.
Then—stillness.
Aaron gasped for air, vision narrowing. The shouts and footfalls blurred into background noise. He was out of time, out of strength—and the fight didn't care.
He blinked, hands shaking, breath coming in shallow gasps. His knees ached. His fingers were still tangled in sweat-slick hair.
Did I just kill him? I…
He shoved away from the corpse like it was still breathing, scrambled back until his shoulders hit stone.
His head whipped around, breath shallow and ragged.
The wiry leader writhed in the dirt, clutching his gut. Aaron hadn’t seen the hit—stone, spear, maybe—but it didn’t matter.
He was down. For now.
It’s over.
He exhaled. His limbs trembled, hollowed out by the kill.
For a moment, there was only silence. He swallowed.
And then he started giggling.
A breathless, broken sound, too sharp, too high. His ribs ached with every shake. The world wobbled, off-kilter, like a dream he couldn’t quite wake from.
He stared at his bloody hands. “One to five…” The laugh tore out of him. “We win. Right? …Right?”
He hunched forward, laughter scraping out of him like splinters. A strange, broken sound.
The girl wiped blood from her face. Her gaze met his, sharp and unreadable.
Was that judgment? Disgust? Or just shock?
Up near the alcove, a boy knelt over another girl.
She wasn’t moving.
Aaron’s giggles faltered.
The headache roared back, a sick pounding behind his eyes.
He swallowed hard.
He stared at his stained hands. “That… was me.” His breath hitched. Gods, what did I just become?
+++ Tier 3 – The Sophont Tier +++
“He who names symbols, commands systems.”
At this level, intelligence becomes recursive, turning inward to reshape itself, and outward to build civilizations.
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