Episode 1 - Drought (2)
In the palm of my hand gleamed a black stone the size of a fist, smooth and potato-like. The Red Face tribe had treated it as the mark of their alpha. That's why their leader always carried it—and when I became their alpha, he had pried it from the corpse of the previous one and offered it to me like a crown.
And I knew exactly what this stone was.
Obsidian. Volcanic glass formed when silica-rich lava from an eruption cools almost instantly. It must have broken off from somewhere in the vast volcanic region that would one day be called the Ngorongoro. But its true value wasn't in its appearance.
Obsidian sharpens itself just by breaking. And not just sharp—its conchoidal fractures are unbelievably keen. If you flake it right, you get cutting power no crude stone edge could match.
In simple terms, it was a Stone Age strategic resource.
The moment I saw it, a scene flashed through my mind. Just before I became this... me. In that cave, the black stone tool Park Professor had handed me. It was definitely a crude obsidian tool, its edge repeatedly resharpened.
The instant I took it, I was reborn here, in this body.
And the bones in the cave: proto-human remains and Megantereon fossils. And the rough obsidian tool Park Professor had given me.
"...That was me, wasn't it."
Realizing that, an uncanny calm settled in my chest. It felt like scattered puzzle pieces snapping into place.
The proto-human bones I'd seen in the cave. The Megantereon bones beside them. And the rough obsidian tool Park Professor had handed me.
I stared at the obsidian for a moment, then grabbed a wildebeest horn from the nearby pile and a stone that fit my hand. Without hesitation, I struck.
Crack, crack, crack.
With each blow, the obsidian split and reshaped. Each hard strike left a shell-like pattern as sharp flakes sheared off. After some time, a fairly crude stone tool took shape in my hand.
If anyone named it, it'd probably be called an "obsidian chopper."
"...This is the limit with these hands, huh."
At least my thumbs bent inward, making this possible. Otherwise, I couldn't have managed even this. The gleaming tool was a bit different in shape, but similar to the one I'd seen in the cave.
'No caves around here that I've seen.'
Given how the fossils were buried in guano, it was probably still a cave now. But with the different vegetation and terrain, I had no way to pinpoint its location. All I knew was that somewhere in what would become Tanzania's jungles, that cave existed.
"Chief, what's that?"
Caesar had sidled up, eyeing the obsidian chopper in my hand. He'd just buried Ace's arm, apparently—dirt still dusted his hands and forearms.
"Good stuff."
I answered simply and tested it by lightly slicing a nearby tough leaf with the sharpest edge. It parted smoothly, without a hint of resistance.
'...Mess this up, and it'll slice me too.'
The obsidian tool was terrifyingly sharp. With this, I could make things we hadn't before—and seize a moment's opportunity.
I gripped the chopper tight and met Caesar's eyes.
"Gather everyone."
As the whole tribe gathered around the campfire, I cut straight to it.
"The water's drying up."
Unease rippled through them instantly. They'd chosen this spot as home precisely because the water never ran dry. No water meant no more living here.
"And it's back."
This time, a cold silence fell. Lingering terror gripped everyone—especially the new ones from the Red Face tribe, who'd seen it first. It wasn't just a big, vicious beast. A single sweep near the nest had turned the whole group into a trembling wreck. It was disaster incarnate.
The fear crawling down my own spine wasn't theirs alone. Just thinking of it chilled my nape: long saber fangs, massive forepaws, and speed unbelievable for that bulk. Head-on, we had no chance.
"So we prepare."
"Prepare?"
"Yeah. Prepare."
No running away blindly, no staying put forever. Only one option: prepare for both.
Stock food to flee anytime, defend so it couldn't approach freely. Hard to do both at once, but not impossible. If rain came, we'd hold; if not, we'd go.
"Females, make grass baskets. I'll show you how. Gather as many fruits as you can, dig up edible roots too."
Crude, fragile grass baskets were better than nothing. They could hold food and more.
"Males, split into two groups. One gathers food—mushrooms, bugs, small game, whatever. But don't just pile it; spread it near the fire to dry. Make it last before it rots."
I paused, glancing at the darkness beyond the nest.
"The other gathers stones, pulls thorny bushes, thick branches too. We'll narrow the entrance, wall off the outside."
"Wall it off... so it can't get in?"
A trembling voice asked.
"Not completely, but we can hold it for a bit."
That bit would let us rain stones from above. Or burn it. At least inflict serious wounds.
Then the Old One spoke—the elder who'd come down from the trees after ages.
"...What if the water dries completely?"
"We leave."
"If it eats most of us?"
"Still leave."
"If you die, Chief?"
I couldn't answer right away. But I shook my head and replied.
"You all go without me."
He nodded slowly.
"Got it."
Then climbed back up. I watched him go, then continued.
"Listen up."
They held their breath.
"We stay only while water remains and it can't touch us easily."
No water, no life. Defense too hard, no life. So leave.
I slowly raised the obsidian chopper. Its black edge glinted coldly in the firelight.
"Water gone, we leave. It comes, we hold. Can't hold, grab everything and go."
I'd die, no doubt. The tool from the cave had heavy use marks, but obsidian wears fast. Could be weeks, months—or sooner.
Didn't matter. I'd do all I could until then.
I sliced tall grass and started teaching the females to weave baskets. Luckily, their dexterity beat mine. First tries were loose and crooked, but soon they shaped up. Holes wide, uneven, but good enough to hold things.
Males hustled nonstop, hunting and gathering edibles. Prey not eaten fresh got smoked and dried; marrow-rich shins saved whole. Marrow trapped in bone, baked yellow outside and buried cool, lasted weeks—a prime preserve.
Tree fruits and mushrooms roasted dry. Tasteless, but storable.
My obsidian chopper shone in all this. Tough fibers or sinew sliced smooth alike.
Thus, as thorns walled the nest, preserved meat and food piled up—and mocking it all—we were slowly hunted.
"...A young one's been taken."
"Wouldn't listen, wandered off alone..."
Just now, a juvenile got snatched. I didn't see it—the thing always bolted when I neared. We inferred from blood pools and shed fur.
A mere month passed, yet this made ten losses.
It no longer charged boldly like day one. With Megantereon's stealth, it lurked in brush, picking off loners or stragglers slyly.
I'd hammered "always in groups," but tension wore thin; gaps formed. It struck those split-second lapses like a ghost.
That was the predator's true terror: blood-draining attrition.
Thorn barriers checked night raids, but daytime foraging tossed us into its hunting ground as meat lumps.
And the real chokehold was worse.
"Chief, can't drink anymore..."
A young male pointed to water leaf-ladled from the stream. Green moss bubbled, fishy stench wafted. A sip brought bitter-sweet rot filling my mouth.
I spat and asked.
"All like this?"
"Most. Smells from the water."
The stream never flowed much—just enough for dry season. But this drought pushed it over: flow slowed, animal waste built up.
'Should've tried pottery.'
No clay found till now. Pots could've boiled it safe. Too late for regrets.
Undrinkable water turned all eyes to me. Time to choose.
"...Pack the food. We're leaving. Abandon this forest, this nest."
It was the only path left to me.