The Nihord lay twitching at Sol He's feet.
Its body was shaped like a warped insect, limbs bent at impossible angles, its skin cracked open like dried mud. Black fluid leaked from its wounds, hissing softly as it touched the ground. Sol He stood there, chest rising and falling, his hands shaking so badly he almost dropped the knife.
He had done it.
Not cleanly. Not bravely.
But he had killed it.
Sol He collapsed to his knees, exhaustion crashing into him all at once. His arms felt numb, his vision blurred, and a sharp pain throbbed behind his eyes. Fighting Nihords was never easy, but this one had been stronger than the others—faster, smarter. If it hadn't lunged carelessly at the end, he would be dead now.
He stared at the corpse.
A familiar dread settled in his stomach.
Eating time.
He swallowed hard and began cutting.
The knife struggled against the Nihord's tough flesh, scraping bone more often than meat. Sol He worked slowly, carefully, just as he always did. Waste nothing. Take only what you can carry. Stay alert.
A scream echoed far away.
Sol He froze.
It was short. Sharp. Then abruptly cut off.
He didn't move.
He didn't look in that direction.
In this world, screams were invitations—to predators, to killers, to death. Running toward them meant you were either powerful… or stupid.
Sol He was neither.
Once the meat was packed away in a torn cloth, he wiped his blade clean on the Nihord's shell and stood. His body ached, but he forced himself to move. Staying in one place too long was dangerous. Someone would smell blood. Someone always did.
As he walked, his thoughts drifted—unwanted, but persistent.
Why am I still alive?
The question followed Sol He like a shadow as he walked, each step heavier than the last. The ground beneath his feet was uneven, littered with fragments of bone—human and otherwise—half-buried in ash-colored dust. Every crunch felt too loud. Every breath felt like a risk.
He tightened his grip on the cloth bundle slung over his shoulder.
Food.
Proof that he had survived another encounter.
Proof that survival here demanded something twisted.
Sol He didn't stop walking until the smell of blood finally faded from the air. Only then did he duck into a narrow crevice between two jagged stone slabs, barely wide enough for a child's body. He pressed himself deep inside, pulling the shadows around him like a blanket.
Safe—for now.
He slid down until his back hit the cold stone and exhaled shakily. His hands still wouldn't stop trembling. No matter how many Nihords he killed, the moment after was always the same—fear catching up, replaying every mistake his body had narrowly avoided.
If it had grabbed my leg…
If I had tripped…
If someone had been watching…
His jaw clenched.
Someone might *still* be watching.
Sol He waited. Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time had no meaning here, but patience kept people alive. Only when his instincts stopped screaming did he reach into the bundle and pull out a strip of Nihord flesh.
He stared at it.
It twitched once.
He looked away and bit down hard.
The bitterness flooded his mouth, making his eyes water. His stomach churned, threatening to reject it like poison, but he forced it down. He always did. Hunger didn't negotiate.
As he chewed, a warmth spread faintly through his chest—subtle, almost imaginary. It has been happening more often lately. Ever since he started eating Nihords regularly.
Sol He frowned.
Others avoided consuming them. Everyone knew Nihords weren't just monsters—they were *wrong*. Eating them could rot the body, warp the mind, or worse. Sol He had seen people lose their sanity after a few meals, attacking allies, laughing while killing.
But he didn't have a choice.
He had never had a choice.
No power meant no protection. No protection meant death. So he did the only thing left to him—he adapted.
He swallowed the last bite and leaned his head back against the stone.
"I don't want to die," he whispered.
The words felt weak. Pathetic. But they were honest.
In this world, morality was a luxury. Mercy was suicide. Strength decided everything, and those without it existed only as prey.
Unless they found another way.
Sol He's fingers curled slowly into fists.
If eating monsters kept him alive…
If killing turned him into something else…
Then so be it.
Footsteps echoed faintly in the distance.
Sol He's eyes snapped open.
More than one.
Humans.
He held his breath, pulling himself deeper into the crevice as shadows swallowed his form. The voices passed by—laughing, arguing about who got the next kill, who deserved the loot. Their confidence was sharp, cruel.
Predators.
Sol He watched them go, his expression unreadable.
One day, he thought, a strange calm settling in his chest.
One day, I won't have to hide.
The thought frightened him.
Not because it was impossible.
But because a part of him believed it.
In a world where everyone killed to survive, Kim Sol He had already chosen his path.
And it only led forward—through blood, through monsters, through whatever remained of his humanity.
Because here, there was only one option for survival.
And Sol He intended to take it.