Human Ancestor

Alypos stood outside the cottage, his body aching and sore from the relentless, grinding cycle of training. The days blurred together, each one harder than the last. Twenty days had passed, and the monotony of his arduous routine had turned his muscles into steel but left his soul worn thin. His spear—the one extension of his will—was his only companion, its wood slick with sweat, its sharpened tip gleaming faintly in the morning light.

The rain hadn't let up for weeks, a constant reminder of his isolation. The few scraps of food he had left wouldn't last more than another week. Every moment was becoming more critical. But it was the wolves he feared most. He knew they were out there, lurking somewhere, their pack hunting him silently, waiting for their moment.

Alypos exhaled sharply, feeling the weight of his exhaustion pull at him. His body was bruised and battered, fingers bloodied from endless repetition. He had spent hours on basic forms: thrusts, parries, and feints. Each movement was methodical and precise, yet every mistake punished him with pain. His spearmanship had improved, reaching level 4, but even then, he still felt raw, unrefined. He was not yet the predator he needed to be.

***

For twenty days, Alypos pushed his body to its limit. He would wake at dawn, immediately beginning a grueling routine. First, he started with his body—strengthening it. He set boulders on his back and did squats, feeling his legs burn with each rise. Then he would sprint, dragging those same boulders behind him, until his lungs burned, and his legs quivered from the exertion.

After his conditioning, he would grab his spear. The practice became a brutal test of both patience and pain. He thrust it into the ground, into the air, repeatedly, until his shoulders screamed in protest. Blisters formed on his palms split open, and reformed into hard calluses. But still, he pressed on.

"Again," he muttered through gritted teeth.

He forced himself to fight fatigue, jabbing the spear into his targets—wooden posts he had constructed, boulders he had marked with crude symbols. Every hit drained his energy, every miss was met with a moment of frustration that pushed him harder.

By the end of the day, when his arms were heavy, and his legs barely held him upright, he shifted his focus to mana control. Water manipulation was a skill that had once seemed within his grasp, but only after constant failures did he understand its true complexity. Water wasn't just an element to be commanded—it had to be understood and felt. Every time he summoned the spear, his mana drained too quickly, leaving him weak and disoriented.

In his meditations, he visualized the water particles, controlling them slowly. Every move was precise, each breath calculated. It was not simply a matter of summoning the water but guiding it, shaping it into the form he desired. But each attempt was a strain—his mana exhausted far too soon, the spear collapsing into droplets just as quickly as it had formed.

And yet, on the fifteenth day, something changed. With each breath, with each focus, he pushed himself further. The water spear no longer dissipated the moment it was formed. It held, sharp and clear. Alypos's hand trembled, but this time, the spear shot forward, smashing into a boulder with enough force to split the boulder. He stood there, watching the deformed rock, chest heaving, a satisfied grin creeping across his face.

He had mastered the technique.

***

Far beyond the cottage, through the dense forest, four shapes moved silently, stalking through the wet terrain. Their presence was heavy, their steps methodical. They were searching, tracing the scent of their lost infant.

The father wolf led the group, a hulking black creature, its fur matted with mud and rain. Beside him, the mother—sleeker but no less deadly—moved in perfect unison, her body rippling with predatory grace. Behind them, the two adolescent wolves, still young but far from harmless, trailed. They had grown larger in the last month, towering at three meters, their bodies tense with youthful energy.

Though the infant's scent had long since faded, the area remained familiar. The faint trace of its last presence lingered in their memories. The wolves moved with a primal understanding. They didn't need to see what had happened—they knew something had gone wrong. Something foreign had taken their kin.

***

On the twentieth day, Alypos spotted them from a distance—four large wolves, silently prowling near the edge of the clearing where he trained. His body tensed as he watched them. They were enormous—larger than the one he had killed weeks ago. The father, towering at 4 meters, was a mountain of muscle and fur, its presence alone radiating authority. The mother was close behind, her sleek, nimble body moving with practiced ease. The two adolescents—massive for their age—were nearly as imposing.

But Alypos didn't panic. He observed, as still as a statue, noting their movements, their formation, their strategy. He couldn't afford to waste a single moment in fear. His mind raced. The barrier would protect him for now, but he had no illusions—if they found a way to breach it or outlast its protection, he was as good as dead.

"They've come," he muttered to himself, gripping his spear. "But I'm not ready... not yet."

He stared at the wolves, his heart steady but his mind calculating. The spear he had mastered was good, but would it be enough? Against four of these creatures, he would need more than just raw skill—he would need a strategy. His food stores had dwindled to almost nothing. In just a week, he would have to hunt, to risk exposing himself.

"I need to survive." The thought echoed in his mind, louder than ever before.

As the wolves prowled just out of range, Alypos made his silent vow. "I'll become strong enough to kill them. And then... I'll hunt whatever it takes."

He wasn't going to wait to die. Not again.

Near the Black Dawn forest

In the heart of the Cephalie village, Osei, the clan chief, towered over the bodies of dead goblins, his axe dripping with blood. He had led his people into battle, as he had done countless times before, and they had emerged victorious, though the price of victory felt heavier each time.

Osei was a force of nature. His skin, dark as the night sky, rippled with an aura that suppressed everything within a certain range. His very presence seemed to bend the air around him, heavy with dominance. His hair, as dark as his skin, flowed like water waves, immaculate despite the battle. The tribal markings etched into his flesh glowed faintly in the dim light—white and green, symbols of his rank and power within the Cephalie clan. His broad shoulders held the weight of his axe, a massive weapon that seemed too large for any ordinary man to wield. But Osei was no ordinary man.

With a solemn expression, he gazed at the battlefield, his mind far from the immediate victory. "The monsters are increasing," he murmured, his deep voice resonating through the clearing like distant thunder. "At this rate, we may not last more than a decade."

Behind him, his warriors moved with precision, harvesting the cores of the goblins they had slain, their faces set in grim determination. But Osei's mind was elsewhere, filled with the weight of a future that grew darker with every passing day.

Night fell over the Cephalie village, the soft glow of fires casting long shadows. And as the darkness deepened, so too did the uncertainties in Osei's heart.