Chapter 24: Monster ecology
For two weeks, Shaun didn't hunt a single thing. If there was one lesson that had finally sunk in, it was this: every battle he'd survived was through sheer luck, not skill. He hadn't truly won—he'd scraped by. The forest could have claimed him a hundred different ways, and each time, he'd managed to avoid that fate by a hair's breadth. He was weak, and that truth gnawed at him daily.
More than anything, Shaun knew he'd been sloppy. His Wrap Traps, while useful, weren't enough on their own. They were defensive, reactive, and required perfect timing. The reptiles had nearly torn him apart, simply because he hadn't set up traps in advance. He'd rushed in unprepared, and nearly paid the price.
But that wasn't a mistake he would make again.
In his latest battle, Shaun had learned the hard way that he couldn't rely on a creature's temperament. The reptiles' leader toyed with him, but the next beast could strike him down without hesitation. He wouldn't always have the luxury of planning in the middle of a fight. He needed to be ready—always. No exceptions.
So, his routine changed. The days of reckless fighting were behind him. Now, he spent his time scouting and learning, not hunting. Each morning, he packed light—some smoked meat, water, a single spear, and a notebook—and descended into the jungle, not for battle, but for observation.
Whenever he spotted signs of life—tracks, disturbed foliage, or distant sounds—he'd set traps along his escape route, then begin tracking the beast. He observed their movements, where they slept, how they hunted, and, most importantly, how they fought. His notebook filled quickly with sketches, detailed notes, and patterns he noticed in their behaviors. He wasn't just a hunter now. He was a student of the wild.
If a creature spotted him, Shaun would slip into action, setting off the Wrap Traps he'd prepared in advance. The traps still couldn't hold these jungle beasts for long, but they caused enough confusion for him to vanish into the undergrowth. Every escape was an opportunity—one he used to test his body, pushing himself harder each time. His speed, his endurance, his instincts. The jungle wasn't just a threat anymore; it was his training ground.
Gone were the clumsy, aimless runs of survival. Shaun had adapted to the jungle's rhythm. Now, his movements had purpose, precision. His legs no longer carried him with the straightforward strides of a man jogging through a park. Instead, he flowed through the jungle like a creature born in it—vaulting over fallen logs, his hands gripping low-hanging branches to swing himself forward. When the underbrush thickened, he dropped into a crouch, using his hands to weave between roots and vines, scrambling under and over terrain with the practiced grace of someone who had learned to navigate every inch of it. He didn't just run—he leapt, crawled, slid, and bounded through the dense forest with a fluidity that resembled a wild predator, or perhaps, more like Tarzan himself.
The repeated journeys through the thick canopy had shaped him. His legs had transformed from simple tools of escape to powerful engines of endurance, coiled with muscle, designed to outlast even the swiftest predator. He didn't just sprint—he could sustain that speed for miles, each footfall carefully calculated to conserve energy and dodge the dangerous terrain. His back, once simply sturdy from carrying a spear, now rippled with new strength, broadening as it bore the increasing weight of his supplies.
Every part of him changed, hardened. His arms, once just lean and capable from practice, had become defined—etched with the muscle of someone who had fought for every inch of survival. His hands, rough from gripping spears and climbing trees, now moved instinctively, knowing when to reach for a branch, when to hurl a weapon, and when to push off a trunk to launch himself to safety.
Shaun wasn't just surviving anymore. He was evolving—both mentally and physically, his body sculpted by the relentless demands of the jungle, honed into a machine meant not just to endure, but to conquer.
After 20 hours of scouting, he'd return home to spar with Panda, pushing the creature—and himself—harder every day. What had started as simple practice became a vicious dance of close combat, with Shaun learning to read every twitch in Panda's muscles before an attack. The rabbit's speed was still blinding, but he was getting better at keeping up. His staff work, once limited to wild swings, now had a deadly precision. He could stab, parry, and switch hands in a heartbeat, fluidly blending offense and defense.
Panda was changing, just like Shaun. In the wild, herbivores usually rely on instinct—speed, agility, sharp senses—all defensive tools to survive. They spend most of their time conserving energy, ready to flee at the first sign of danger. But Panda was different.
This wasn't some scavenging creature waiting for its next meal. Panda had food, safety, and comfort. And instead of resting, it was training, pushing itself with the same focus and intensity Shaun had. With its instincts honed and food readily available, Panda had shifted from mere survival to deliberate growth.
Its dashes, once wild and linear, had transformed. Now, Panda moved like a shadow—short bursts of speed, slipping into blind spots with startling precision. Where it used to charge headlong, it could now stop on a dime, pivot, and strike. Every failed move in their sparring matches became a lesson.
Shaun couldn't help but mock Panda whenever it overstepped or misjudged an angle, his taunts laced with the kind of smug satisfaction that only comes from a sore loser getting one up on their adversary. "Nice one, Speedy," he'd throw out with a smirk, "You aiming for the trees?" It was all a petty little victory for him—one he seized with relish every time Panda stumbled.
But Panda learned fast. Each misstep was quickly corrected in the next bout, the rabbit adapting in real-time. Soon enough, it barely missed at all, leaving Shaun no openings to jeer. His mocking tone turned quieter as he realized that even those brief moments of superiority were fading fast. a
The gap between them had grown. Panda wasn't just fast anymore; it was becoming tactical. Its short dashes let it close in with brutal efficiency. Even Shaun, who had memorized its patterns, found himself barely keeping pace. To anyone else, its movements would be a blur—impossible to track, let alone counter.
Shaun's obsession with training bordered on madness. The weighted rocks he strapped to his body had quadrupled since day one. His skin, once soft, now tore and healed faster than ever. By the last night, he could survive outside for 11 straight hours—through biting cold that would've shattered him before. His cold resistance had skyrocketed, and the eleventh hour pushed him to the peak of his limits as the night air grew dangerously frigid.
His stats by the end of the two weeks told the story:
[Name: Shaun]
Age: 19
Organism type: Human male
Class: Trapper
Status: Mental trauma detected, Toxic substance detected, Body fatigued (excessive), Body injury (severe).
Strength: 8
Durability: 6
Vitality: 10
Speed: 8
Dexterity: 9
Mentality: 11
Resistance:
Heat: 2
Cold: 3
Toxic: 1
Electricity: 0
Light: 0
Dark: 0
Skills:
Active: Wrap Trap
Passive: Feeding
Though the progress seemed fast, the world's altered time had turned what felt like two weeks into the equivalent of a month. Each day lasted sixty hours, and Shaun slept for no more than eight of them, dedicating the rest to training. Over the course of two weeks, he trained for an astounding 714 hours, all while continuously charging his traps. And his mentality? Forged in pain, fatigue, and survival. His mind was sharper now, able to charge traps almost instinctively while multitasking.
He couldn't last long when he tried to sense that strange "flow" he'd felt before, but each attempt pushed him a little further before knocking him out.
The jungle wasn't just shaping him into a better fighter. It was shaping him into something more—apredator
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone