"Two months from now, the Blood Moon will rise again…"
The reporter's voice crackled through the static-filled television.
"As it has for centuries, the rise of the Blood Moon marks the beginning of the Apex Tournament—a trial born from chaos, where strength, instinct, and evolution decide who stands at the peak of nature's hierarchy."
The screen cut to footage of previous tournaments: a blur of claws, wings, and roars—beasts in human form tearing through concrete arenas while crowds screamed their approval.
"From every corner of society," she continued, "from every faction—Enforcers, Sentinels, Predators, and Drifters—every Apex of Rank A or higher will answer the call. They will fight for supremacy, glory, and wealth… but above all—for the Ascension Wish."
Her words lingered, the hum of the broadcast filling a quiet room.
A solitary figure sat before the TV, face half-lit by its flickering glow. The remote trembled slightly in his hand as the final words echoed:
"One will stand at the summit of evolution—the Apex of Apexes."
The screen faded to static.
In its reflection, a pair of silver eyes stared back. Calm, yet haunted.
Varga. The Wolf.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch. The faint light of the Moon painted his scars.
He hadn't planned to enter.
But something in that broadcast clawed at him—the word Ascension carried the weight of ghosts.
"Twelve years…" he murmured. "And still no peace."
Then—
a flicker.
The TV's reflection blurred, and the room dissolved into memory.
The sound of thunder rolled again, but it wasn't thunder—
it was rain from another night.
— Twelve Years Ago —
Rain fell hard.
The kind that drowns out reason.
A younger Varga stumbled through a dark street, his shirt torn, blood leaking from a fresh cut above his brow and another one below his eye. He could still hear the echo of his father's voice—slurred, violent, breaking things that weren't there.
"You're just like her! Weak!"
He didn't fight back.
He just ran.
He didn't even think to grab his phone.
Sirens wailed in the distance as he reached the emergency clinic, soaked and shaking.
A nurse looked at him with practiced pity.
"You're going to need stitches, kid."
He didn't answer. His mind was somewhere else—on a promise.
It's my turn to go today…
He had told Vico he'd be there by sunset.
But the clock above the hospital bed ticked past midnight, and the rain didn't stop.
When he finally got home, his phone was filled with missed calls.
One from Kongu.
Three from Duma.
Five from Falko.
And a text from Zame that said:
"Vico needs help!"
He dropped his phone.
The sound of rain from the past bled into the quiet hum of the present.
Varga blinked, and the light of his room became the flicker of his TV again.
He stared at his own reflection—older now, scarred, but still carrying that same night inside him.
"It was your turn," he whispered, echoing Falko's words.
"And I never made it."
He pressed his palms against his eyes, fighting the tremor in his breath.
Outside, thunder rolled—soft, distant.
The Moon's faint glow peeked through the window.
"If that's fate's game…" he muttered, reaching for his coat,
"then I'll end it myself."
His reflection lingered in the dark screen—the same eyes that once watched a friend's funeral.
As he opened the door, his voice was steady, cold, resolute.
"I'll find the ones who killed him… even if it takes me my whole life."
The door closed.
Silence settled again, broken only by the faint static whispering from the TV.
Outside, the city lights flickered beneath the sky.
Far above those lights, among clouds and cold wind, another pair of eyes watched the same Moon.
Falko. The Hawk.
The wind brushed through his feathers as he sat atop a steel tower, wings folded, gaze sharp and distant. The reporter's voice still echoed faintly from his radio, repeating the same announcement Varga had just heard:
"…strength, instinct, and evolution decide who stands at the peak of nature's hierarchy."
He turned it off with a flick of his clawed finger.
He remembered those same words—
"It was your turn."
He had thrown them like a blade that night.
Part of him wished he hadn't.
But the wound never healed.
Falko knew the truth now.
He'd learned years ago—Varga never came because his father had beaten him, because he'd been in a hospital bed, stitched and broken.
But knowing the reason didn't erase the rage.
"You could've fought back," he muttered.
"You could've gone to him instead of going to the hospital."
His talons dug into the steel beneath him, metal groaning under the pressure.
"You always thought you were the smart one… clearly, you weren't."
Below him, the city pulsed with neon—small lives moving in patterns that reminded him too much of the past.
"And you're still hunting for the killers? Don't make me laugh."
"You were the one who killed him."
A cold gust tore past him, carrying whispers of the Blood Moon broadcast from open windows below.
He spread his wings, letting the night swallow him whole.
"If we ever meet again," he whispered,
"I'll make sure you stay buried in the past where you belong."
With a single motion, the Hawk vanished into the storm, leaving only drifting feathers and hate behind.
❖ ❖ ❖
The next morning—
A thunderous blast ripped through the quiet district.
Glass shattered. Flames rose. Dust swallowed the street in a choking wave.
Screams echoed between the crumbling buildings.
And through the smoke, a towering silhouette strode forward—steady, unshaken, glowing with a warm golden aura.
Gaja.The Elephant.
He lifted a fallen beam with one hand, clearing a path for trapped civilians.
His breath came slow and steady—gentle, despite the carnage around him.
"Is everyone all right?"
He knelt beside a trembling child, placing a calming hand on their shoulder.
"Don't worry," he murmured. "You're safe now."
But behind him—
from atop a collapsed wall—
a familiar, feral cackle sliced through the smoke.
"HAHAHAHA—still the do-gooder, aren't you, Gaja?"
Gaja froze.
That laugh…
that voice…
He turned slowly.
A lanky silhouette stood against the rising flames, head tilted, grin carved across his face.
Waraabe.The Hyena.
For a moment, Gaja's calm cracked—shock flickering in his eyes.
"…Waraabe? Is that really you?"
Before he could step forward, a gust of wind swept past.
Duma. The Cheetah.
landed beside him, dust kicking off the ground as he straightened.
"Oh?" he said, raising a brow.
"So this is a reunion now?"
Waraabe threw his head back and laughed again.
"HAHA—if only! Trust me, I'm not here to stroll down memory lane."
He turned away, walking off with lazy, mocking steps.
Gaja called after him, "Do you still remember him?"
Waraabe paused.
Half-turning, his grin widened—dark, hollow, and painfully familiar.
"How could I forget?" he said softly.
"His laugh sounded just like mine."
With a final snicker, he slipped into an alley and vanished.
Gaja exhaled, shoulders sinking.
"What happened to us, Duma…?" he whispered.
"Why did we break apart? This isn't what Vico would've wanted."
Duma didn't look at him.
His gaze remained fixed on the burning building ahead.
"Vico is dead," he said flatly.
"He doesn't want anything anymore. So, stop digging in the past."
His voice held no anger—only exhaustion.
A man who had run from grief so long, he no longer knew how to stop.
Gaja lowered his head.
The morning sun rose over the ruins, warm and indifferent.
Three members of the Pack stood once again in the same place—
not reunited,
not healed,
just… near each other.
And even that felt fragile.
© 2025 Moku. All rights reserved. INSTINCTBOUND is an original work by Moku. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution is prohibited.