Episode 1 - Forged for Survival (Part 1)
“How far along is the excavation?”
At Professor Park’s question, the researcher immediately flipped through the binder.
“We’ve confirmed four so far. The rest are still in progress.”
“Dating samples?”
“We’ve separated all the surrounding sediment layers, wood fragments found with them, and some animal bones. Sealed them immediately to minimize contamination risk.”
“Good. We can’t draw conclusions from just one. Check for repeating structures first.”
“Yes, sir.”
Professor Park nodded and approached the edge of the excavation pit. There, curled peacefully on its side in a comfortable position, lay a skeleton.
“…Same as the one from the cave.”
He knew it the instant he saw it. Perfectly the same species as the proto-human fossil discovered inside the Fossil Cave.
And beside the skeleton, neatly arranged stones caught his eye. These weren’t from the grave’s covering stones. No one could mistake them—they were intentionally chipped, in a form even more primitive than Oldowan tools.
“Grave goods too… This is definitely a burial.”
A discovery that would upend the academic world.
“Dating samples?”
Professor Park’s question drew an immediate reply from the researcher.
“Sediment around the grave, accompanying wood fragments, and some animal bones—we’ve already isolated them. Packaged to minimize contamination.”
“Good. Confirm if all the other graves share the same structure. One isn’t enough.”
“Yes, sir.”
Professor Park slowly scanned the surroundings. Stone mounds stretched out nearby. Several were visible at a glance. Including traces protruding from soil and weeds a bit farther off, there were over a dozen graves in all.
The mere sight stirred something deep in his heart, like a bell tolling.
That was when it happened.
“Wh-what!? Why is this here?!”
A near-screeching cry erupted from one side of the dig site.
Professor Park whipped around reflexively.
“What’s going on!”
The source was another excavation pit, where a researcher had just lifted the cover stone and was brushing dirt from inside with a soft brush.
One researcher stood there, pointing at something with a dirt-caked gloved hand, trembling violently. A camera clutched in his other hand fired off shutter clicks in a frenzy.
“Hey! What’d you find?!”
At Professor Park’s shout, the researcher fought to steady his quivering voice before finally speaking.
“A bo—”
“Bo-?”
“A bola…!! There’s a bola buried here!!!”
A discovery to set the world ablaze.
The first crisis after I became alpha was the food shortage.
At first glance, the jungle seemed overflowing with food. Fruits, leaves, insects, small creatures scurrying everywhere.
But that was only surface-deep.
Many of the plants and bugs here were poisonous. My past-life studies in paleoanthropology gave me a rough idea of proto-human diets. But that shallow knowledge didn’t guarantee the safety of the fruits right in front of me.
All I had was the primal rule: avoid anything with a foul smell or garish colors.
And in this place, that rough guess was the difference between life and death.
Not long after we buried Mother, in fact, one young juvenile snatched a vividly colored caterpillar. It spent half a day foaming at the mouth and rolling in agony. It survived, luckily, but after that, the group started handing every caught insect to the elders for inspection.
The problem was, we couldn’t just stop eating.
The dry season was well underway—no fruits ripening, edible leaves scarce. Without stumbling on a bird nest or scavenging rotten carrion, there was no way to fill our bellies.
And I wasn’t alone anymore.
Damn it.
Before, hunger meant fending only for myself. But now? As alpha, their hunger was my burden.
A group of nearly fifty required massive amounts of food daily.
Normally, we’d roam the jungle all day, scattering and regrouping to forage. But even that was tough now.
Terror from the Megantereon attack days ago still hung thick over the entire group.
They grew anxious at the slightest separation from the pack. Individuals who’d normally fan out for fruits, dig for bugs, or stalk small game now huddled so close their fur brushed.
A tight clump like that made opportunistic hunts even harder, and fruits vanished in seconds.
The harder foraging got, the deeper the hunger gnawed.
We need meat. But…
Herbivores we could eat were faster, sharper senses than us. Our claws and nails were blunt, canines short.
Our limits: hurling stones from trees, mobbing in groups, stealing predators’ scraps.
That’s why I was tearing plant fibers with these clumsy fingers, twisting them into a long cord.
“Ungh.”
A sharp fiber pricked my hand mid-slip, but I couldn’t stop. This was the best tool this body could make and use.
After several failed attempts, I held it: three stones tied to cords.
Good thing I didn’t forget how to make it.
Back in experimental archaeology, I’d wondered if I’d ever use one. Who knew it’d find a purpose here?
I gripped one stone, snapped my wrist to whirl it a few times, then flung my arm.
It veered off my intended path. Precisely: rotation unraveled on release, thunked into a nearby trunk, and flopped limply.
“……”
I stared silently for a moment. Then picked it up again.
Yeah. It’d be weirder if it worked first try.
I remembered: the bola’s structure, principles, usage.
The problem was this body.
Knowing and doing were worlds apart.
These hands weren’t long and dexterous like a human’s. Fingers short and thick, wrist angles tricky to finesse. Strength control, effortless before, now felt alien.
I gripped a stone again, whirled slowly. Round and round.
More stable than before. I released—
The bola shot wildly, tangled around my ankle.
“Wak!”
Thud. Face-first into the dirt.
Silence hung briefly.
Then a distant juvenile watching me piped up: “Kik?”
As if asking why the alpha had tripped alone and lay there.
“…Quiet.”
It couldn’t understand me, of course, but embarrassment made me mutter as I rose, spitting soil from my mouth. I snatched the bola again.
Threw it over and over. First, rotation failed. Next, stones clacked and knotted. Then it whipped back, smacking my back.
Abysmal.
But with each failure, I started getting the feel.
Power wasn’t key. Not brute force—release at the right moment to sustain spin. Not aiming dead-on, but arcing ahead of a fleeing target, spreading wide.
Grasping that, it began to take shape.
I practiced on nearby bushes and fallen branches.
Whirl. Whoosh. Snap!
Stones spread, ensnaring the bush.
Got it.
Not perfect, but now it flew where I aimed.
Would it work on real prey? I stood, bola in hand.
Far off, two young males rummaged for food. I called them.
“You two. Follow.”
“Why, boss?”
“Get you meat.”
That word lit their eyes. Days without proper meat—they didn’t question, just trailed me.
Our camp sat at the jungle-savanna border. Plenty of trees, nearby water. Stones ideal for tools.
Decent spot overall. But the real draw?
A stream crossing the area. It never dried even in drought, drawing thirsty beasts steadily.
From small grazers to hefty ones—they all had to pass near here to drink.
Predators too, of course. Hunters flock where prey gathers.
But it wasn’t all bad. Short of tree-climbing ambush masters like the Megantereon, few predators could easily target us.
Most threatened on ground but couldn’t climb to drag us down.
Risky, yes—but opportunities abounded. We couldn’t leave.
I led toward the stream. Early dry season, but sun already scorched; patches of earth cracked dry.
Rustling grass fled tiny lizards and bugs.
One trailing young male growled low: “Where going?”
“Quiet.”
I snapped back, raising a hand to halt them.
A bit farther, the streambank appeared. Low shrubs, scattered trees—clear tracks of passing beasts: prints, trampled grass, mud-hoof marks.
I crouched, scanning the ground.
Lots of traffic, as expected.
We hunted drinkers with stones or stole predators’ leavings. Usually old males’ job.
As I edged from cover—
Rustle.
Something rustled. A small antelope eased toward the bank.
Normally, only snag these speedsters if they wandered deep into jungle.
I eyed my bola. Glanced at the two staring blankly behind me.
They watched the contraption warily, curiously. Made sense—looked like weird stones tied together.
“I throw first.”
“Throw?”
“When it staggers, rush. Grab, knock down.”
They blinked confusedly, then nodded.
As I moved—
Rustle.
Grass parted slowly. Antelope emerged, neck stretched, sniffing air. Ears perked, black eyes darting.
That sensitivity’s why we can’t catch ‘em normally.
I held my breath, regripping the bola. The males instinctively crouched too—they sensed prey.
One step. Another. Cautiously to the bank.
It dipped to drink.
Not yet. At that angle, bola might snag horn or neck first.
One shot.
Shallow breath. Heart raced.
Calm. Closer. Just a bit more.
Antelope lifted head mid-drink, ears twitching, sniffing. Body tensed faintly—sensed wrongness.
It’ll bolt.
Instinct screamed. And it did: twisted, coiling forelegs.
Now.
I whirled the bola. Whirl. Whirl whirl. Whirl whirl whirl.
Stones circled air. Cords taut. Vibration hummed up my wrist.
As it leaped, I swung wide.
Whoosh!
Bola skimmed low and fast. First stone grazed foreleg. Second dove under opposite. Third swung wide, encircling.
Snap!
Twisted cords bound legs in a flash—antelope lurched wildly.
“Got it!!”
I surged out; the males snapped to, charging.
Antelope shrieked, thrashing. Struggled to free bound legs, but balance gone.
One latched onto torso. Other raised his stone tool.
Thunk!
Dull crack—head snapped. It staggered, flailed, then collapsed sideways.
I jammed my tucked-away stone into its throat.
Hot blood soaked my hand.
Dead.
“……”
I panted raggedly, eyes flicking between the fallen antelope and the bola on its legs.
Really… it worked.