Predators' Gaze
After Kang Jin-cheol appeared, he and the Olrogs stared each other down in silence. The only sounds filling the clearing were the bubbling of the pot over the fire, the crackling flames, and the chirping night insects.
"Jin-cheol...!"
Dambha, still bound, whispered upon recognizing him. But he couldn't raise his voice amid the tense standoff between Jin-cheol and the Olrogs.
The Olrogs didn't question the sudden intruder—not even who he was. They simply glared at him with their glossy black eyes, breathing heavily. It was like wild beasts sizing each other up on instinct.
"Grrrr..."
The low growls rumbled from the Olrogs' throats after a moment of glaring. Their breathing quickened in unison.
The next instant, one Olrog shifted his foot slightly. Jin-cheol's hand snapped to his bowstring, nocking and loosing an arrow in a blur. The shaft streaked straight and thunked into the ground at the Olrog's feet, burying itself halfway with a dull thud and quivering fiercely. The Olrog froze solid.
Jin-cheol immediately nocked another arrow, aiming at the one holding the ladle. The Olrog's breath grew even rougher under the arrow's point.
Just then, Jin-cheol's eyes briefly met Dambha's. The tear-streaked, dazed Kampoeni boy got a quick wink from him.
"Who the fuck are you?"
The ladle Olrog spoke first. His words were a bit off, but close enough to the Kampoeni tongue.
"Looks like we can kinda communicate," Jin-cheol muttered.
"What? !@#!@#. I asked who you are. Don't like asking twice, !@#."
"Yeah? And what're you gonna do about it?"
The Olrog tilted his head, not understanding. But he soon snorted dismissively, shaking it off like deep thought was too much hassle.
"You're alone. One bow. @#$$%. You're dead."
His gaze flicked to Jin-cheol's bow, humming faintly. Jin-cheol grinned—he'd caught the gist. At this range, he couldn't loose twice before they closed. Three of them, one arrow. They had the edge.
But Jin-cheol didn't give a shit. His job was just to hold their attention.
Ignoring—or perhaps unaware of—that, the ladle Olrog suddenly stepped forward. Instead of shooting, Jin-cheol backpedaled. Seeing it, the Olrog smirked, thinking him scared.
"Jin-cheol..."
From behind, Dambha fidgeted anxiously. He wanted to help, but bound as he was, he could do nothing. Then a small, furry hand clamped over his mouth. Startled, he turned to see Tobi and Chakai gesturing for silence. Knives glinted in their paws.
Jin-cheol kept retreating, spotting them starting to cut Dambha free from behind the Olrogs. Simple plan: he draws their eyes up front while Tobi and Chakai circle wide, free the kid, and bolt. The catch? He was shouldering most of the risk.
"Gotta earn my keep," he muttered. The ladle Olrog cocked his head again at the words he couldn't parse. The other two edged to flank him left and right.
"But seriously, who the hell are you? Why show up outta nowhere stirring shit?"
The ladle Olrog stared hard, jaw working. Jin-cheol looked utterly alien to him—not Esai with those short ears, not Olrog in build. No fishy Baika vibes either. And that skin tone? Unmatched by any race.
"Figure it out and what? Check my ID, stamp my passport, and send me home?"
"Passport?"
While the Olrog puzzled that out, Jin-cheol backed up five paces—meaning they'd advanced the same, buying the fuzzy trio time to loosen bonds and creep away.
The other two Olrogs, ignoring their leader's scrutiny, panted fiercely, ready to pounce from the flanks. Somehow they'd drawn hefty axes and a broad cleaver, blades gleaming steel even in the night—not the stone-age shit he'd assumed from their bare chests.
"Damn, you're huffing like mad. Easy on the lungs, assholes."
Even seeing those edges, Jin-cheol needled them to refocus attention. The fuzzballs were slipping toward the clearing's edge. He'd hold till they vanished, loose his last arrow, then haul ass.
Of course, plans never go smooth. A crack—snapped twig under Tobi's foot—halted the trio. The ladle Olrog whipped around, eyes locking on them. His face twisted. He spun back to Jin-cheol, jaws yawning wide in a beastly roar.
The Olrogs' eyes blazed red. In that split second, Jin-cheol yelled to the Kampoeni.
"Run!"
He released on the ladle Olrog. The arrow punched into his chest like magic. No time to check the hit— an axe whistled down from the left. Jin-cheol blocked with the bowstave instead of nocking anew. The thick limb cracked like dry wood. But the axe's path veered off his skull.
Gripping the broken halves, he whipped them into the Olrog's face alternately. Crack-crack—the brute's head snapped side to side. Jin-cheol pressed, but a cleaver arced huge from the right.
He parried with his right half—snap, it shattered too. Still blocked the headshot. He dropped the pieces, slamming his left fist into the cleaver Olrog's mug. A meaty thunk, and the brute crumpled, nose smashed like hammered scrap.
The axe Olrog recovered with a bellow, heaving his weapon high two-handed for a wood-splitting overhead smash.
Jin-cheol reacted on instinct, no thought. His right leg whipped up in a spinning back kick, heel clipping the Olrog's blocky jaw like wind. The jawbone clunked, eyes rolled back blank. The axe dropped with a thud as he faceplanted forward.
"Hoo..."
After the brief clash, Jin-cheol exhaled the breath he'd held, shadowboxing lightly in place. Thought flashing: tougher than they look, but doable.
These Olrogs screamed warrior—hulking frames, boulder muscles. Street-side, he'd avert eyes and hustle past. Give 'em rifles first, maybe. Hell no to tangling without.
Hell, Jin-cheol's archery was rookie shit—pre-war rec room bowsling with buddies. Might as well be zero. That's why no snipe or ambush despite spotting them first. One bad shot, and he'd pin a fuzzball skull.
Hence standing front and center, life on the line.
"Balloon muscles? Not even juiced-up roiders..."
Excitement fading, he smirked at the twitching pair. Bare-handed takedown? Pride swelled inevitable.
"Jin-cheol!"
Tobi's cry jerked his head up. A small black hole stared back—the chest-shot ladle Olrog rising, face warped. And in his grip: a pistol. Crude, but unmistakable modern shape. Last thing expected here.
Before he could react, muzzle flashed.
"Guhk..."
Hammer to the sternum—heavy thump, breath seized. No pain yet. Just ear-ringing ping.
Knees buckled, down he went. Glancing down: fist-sized black hole charred through his Kampoeni tunic. Then fire bloomed everywhere.
"Kehung!"
The ladle Olrog stomped up, snorting triumph. He racked the pistol slide over Jin-cheol's upgaze. Empty casing clinked out. Fumbling a thumb-thick round from his belt, he reloaded.
Single-shot beast, fat caliber. Die to that half-assed popgun? Not a machine gun? Jin-cheol huffed hollow laugh. Dumb to assume no guns with that plant factory. Still, bullshit rule.
Across the clearing, wide-eyed Kampoeni stared. Why not run like he yelled? Terror, shock, grief on puppy faces he'd known days. Beyond them, forest shadows watched.
Lie if unafraid of death. But half-accepted already, despite Kampoeni wonders. Their idyllic bamboo bliss sealed it—underground smart-farms in mother trees, simple folk kind to strangers. Missile hell to fairy-tale drop? Beyond grasp.
Fantasy flick vibe. Logical end: dying hallucination or purgatory preview. All this? Fading summer dream. Explained nothing else.
Yet in fantasy or not, save the kids. Battlefield killer sparing self now found fulfillment protecting warm little lives. Worth the stake—even afterlife illusion or limbo shade.
Primordial dark faced him. Dead comrades, slain foes waited in gloom, beckoning end of reprieve.
"Haa..."
Dry exhale slipped lips. Last breath? Nah. Fuzzballs still watched from death's shadow. Buy their escape. Last gasp? Unleash all.
Inhale began.
That instant, as human Kang Jin-cheol embraced death fully...
His bullet-riddled body awoke in crisis. Ten millennia dormant, nourished and rested these days, it surged toward threshold. Gunshot shock triggered instinctual explosion—millennia-skipping torrent.
"Ngh..."
Meanwhile, the shooter yanked at his chest arrow, grunting. Jin-cheol on knees? Done. No artifact Esai or mighty Olrog survives center-mass slug. This freak? Neither. Case closed.
Bonus grub? Nice mood. If not for the arrow.
"...Huh?"
Then weirdness: the kneeler's hair lengthening whoosh. Finger-joint stubs to arm-long locks instant. Jaw-drop first-sight.
More shock: from those flowing strands, two glaring eyes flashed.
"You..."
Kneeling Jin-cheol's left foot lunged forward. Thud—distant thunder.
"Jin-cheol!"
Worried fuzzballs beamed, calling. He began rising slow, answering.
"Where!"
But the Olrog snapped to, pistol up—brow-shot aim to finish. Jin-cheol's glowing eyes locked the muzzle.
Flash. His head dipped low—bullet grazed scalp, faster than sound.
"Wha—"
Before the Olrog's yelp ended, coiled Jin-cheol sprang like spring. Whip-crack air—then drum-burst.
Whip was fist. Burst? Ladle Olrog's skull.