The Scavengers of Men
The boulder at the base of the tree wasn't a rock. It breathed.
Every time the "Moss-Back" exhaled, a puff of toxic, yellow steam escaped its snout, melting the grass beneath it. Matheo hung from a branch twenty feet up, his knuckles white. He didn't let himself panic. Panic was a luxury for people with choices. He was just a man staring at a grave.
"Move or die, he whispered to his own shaking hands.
He moved like a ghost. He stripped broad, waxy leaves from the tree and tucked them into his clothes, breaking up his human silhouette. He waited for the wind to howl through the titanic trees, masking the sound of his movements. Only when the forest roared did he descend an inch.
He reached the lowest branch. The beast was only ten feet away. It smelled like wet earth and rotting meat. Matheo lowered himself, his injured leg throbbing with a rhythmic, burning heat. He touched the ground. The Moss-Back stirred, a low growl vibrating in its chest that made Matheo's teeth ache.
He froze. He didn't even blink. He waited for five minutes until the creature settled back into its slumber. Then, he crawled. He stayed low to the dirt, moving through the shadows toward the sound of clashing steel.
The sounds grew louder.
"Hold the line, you bastards! Keep the Shield up or we're all fucking dead!"
Matheo reached a thicket of thorn-bushes and peered through. His eyes widened.
In a clearing, five people were fighting for their lives. They weren't like the "adventurers" he had seen in anime. They were filthy, covered in green monster gore, and swearing in a language that sounded like grinding stones, yet he understood it perfectly—a strange gift from whatever hell-hole he had been dropped into.
They were fighting a Razor-Beak—a flightless bird-monster with feathers like serrated knives and a beak that could snap a man's waist in one bite.
Matheo didn't look at them as heroes. He looked at them as a failing business. The man with the shield was exhausted; his knees were shaking. The woman in the back was pale, her hands trembling as she tried to spark magic that wouldn't come.
"Useless bitch! Cast something!" the shield-bearer roared.
They weren't winning. They were dying slowly.
One of the hunters, a man with a jagged scar across his nose, took a heavy blow to his chest and was sent flying. He crashed into the dirt just feet from Matheo's bush.
Matheo stepped out. He looked like a corpse—pale, covered in dirt, with leaves matted into his hair.
"Behind the neck," Matheo croaked. His voice felt like sandpaper.
The scarred hunter scrambled up, pointing a bloody dagger at Matheo's throat. "Who the fuck—! Where did you come from, you little rat?"
"The beast," Matheo said, his eyes fixed on the bird-monster. "It has a gap in the scales under the third feather-layer on the neck. It's a blind spot. It can't see you if you approach from the low left."
The hunter hesitated, looking at Matheo's mangled leg and his trembling hands. He wasn't a threat; he was a beggar.
"Vance! The rat says the neck! Low left!"
The leader, a massive man with a heavy iron mace, didn't ask questions. He was desperate. He lunged, swinging his mace into the exact spot Matheo had named. The monster shrieked, its neck snapping with a sickening crunch.
The clearing went silent. The hunters stood over the carcass, chests heaving.
Vance, the leader, wiped gore from his face and walked toward Matheo. He stood over six feet tall, his shadow swallowing Matheo whole. He didn't look grateful. He looked like a man deciding whether to kill a witness or use a tool.
"You," Vance said, his voice a low rumble. "How did a weak-ass rat like you survive a night on the Coast of Bones?"
The girl—the mage—approached, her eyes scanning Matheo with pure contempt. "He has no mana, Vance. No signature at all. He's just a civilian. A fucking stray."
Matheo felt their eyes. It wasn't kindness. It was the look a merchant gives a piece of damaged meat.
"I hid," Matheo said, keeping his voice steady despite the terror. "I watched the monsters. I know where they sleep. I can carry your gear. Just take me to a village."
Vance exchanged a look with the scarred hunter. A cruel smirk played on his lips.
"Carry our gear, huh? You've got eyes, kid. I'll give you that." Vance grabbed Matheo's chin, his fingers feeling like iron clamps. "But nothing in this world is free, you little shit. You want to see a village? You'll have to earn your weight in silver."
Vance turned to his crew. "Tie his hands. Our last Porter died two days ago because the idiot couldn't run fast enough. If this one survives the trek back, we might get a finders-fee for him at the labor camp."
As they bound his wrists with rough hemp rope, Matheo didn't fight. The rope bit into his skin, and the scarred hunter gave it a sharp, unnecessary tug.
"Move it, slave," the hunter hissed.
Matheo felt the agonizing throb in his leg. He looked at their faces—the greed, the exhaustion, the utter indifference to his suffering. He wasn't being saved. He was being claimed.
I'm alive, Matheo thought, watching Vance kick the dirty rag he had used for a bandage into the mud. That's the only win I get today. Now, I have to figure out how to be worth more alive than dead.
The horror of the jungle was behind him. The horror of men had just begun.