Beasts of the Tropics (9)
Sumatran tigers are on the smaller side among tiger species. Even at their heaviest, they barely reach twice the weight of an average adult male. Objectively speaking, then, the tiger awakened beings on this land were easier prey than wild boar awakened beings. The difference in biomass was so vast that speculating on soul differences by species was pointless.
Yet as commodities, tigers were worth far more. Not just due to their rarity, but because Chinese herbalists paid top dollar for their front paws, which had webbing. A precious medicine blending tiger vitality with water essence, they claimed. Most ailments carried heat, so water essence cooled it while tiger essence restored the weakened body—nothing better for a patient, went the pitch from those quack pharmacists.
The Sultana muttered, “That must be today's star.”
Sumatran tigers are an endangered species with low numbers. So the odds of any awakened being besides the one that devoured Hasan Yuswandi getting trapped in our encirclement were slim to none. As far as I knew, the tigers outside national parks numbered fewer than two hundred. That was black market wholesalers' estimates, reliable as official stats.
Still, it wasn't impossible it was some other tiger.
“Any way to confirm?”
“Of course. It couldn't evade the fence cameras. Match the stripes, and we'll know.”
In other words, kill first, check later. When an animal was money from head to tail, guilt didn't matter. In a monopoly, you'd manage the population carefully. But with countless competitors prowling, better to grab what you can before the stock dried up.
A whine echoed from the sky—drones buzzing overhead. Shoulder cams adorned every hunter's shoulder. Footage went to appraisers for awakened being authentication. The Sultana must be a trusted supplier to middlemen and buyers alike.
“One clean shot would be ideal.”
Unlike common boars, tiger pelts fetched premium prices. Auction-only sales, no fixed market rate—a true luxury good. Minimize damage, then. A hole or two could swing the price wildly.
“Heard H&H's prepping .800, .900, and the holy grail: 1.000 Nitro Express. Been ages since they dropped a new caliber.”
Nitro Express was both cartridge and shotgun gauge—no rifles used it.
“One-inch rifle, huh. Even among awakened ability users, few could handle that.”
“Fewer still for hunting. Tempted to try it?”
I had no such maniacal bloodlust, so I gave a noncommittal reply. “A bit, maybe.”
Caliber numbers without millimeters meant inches. So 1.000 Nitro Express meant a one-inch, 2.54cm bullet. The rifle-to-cannon line was usually 20mm; past that, it was no shotgun.
Practicality will be abysmal—some grotesque beast. Still, aesthetics-obsessed hunters would cheer wildly.
Boom!
Far off, beaters tightening the net hurled dynamite now and then to spook the beasts. Amplified song blared from speakers. Confined in tight space, awakened beings sensed each other's mana fields and went berserk. The panic among normal wildlife caught in the frenzy went without saying. The forest boiled with heat.
Crack! Boom! Crack!
Sharpshooters fired, birthing small blood explosions. Kyung-tae could've swept them like a god if serious, but he played nice—supporting cast to the Sultana's star—so she savored her fun.
“Excellent. Perfect.”
How much farther did we butcher our way? There.
The tiger crouched atop a massive awakened tree, hidden in the blind spot of its vast canopy. I admired the feline cunning. It had synced its mana field to the tree's, masking itself, and slathered on thin mud from some puddle to match the light brown trunk. Lush branches and leaves hid the tonal mismatch. No claw marks scarred the bark—it had leaped up in one superhuman burst. Puddles dotting the uneven ground let the small tiger mask prints over short stretches.
After time for a cup of tea, a lead awakened guide sniffed, face hardening.
“Semuanya, tetap waspada. Harimau itu baunya menyengat.”
Krut tensed, translating. “Tiger scent's strong—stay alert, everyone.”
Good nose on that hunter. Harimau—I'd heard it during the ritual. Pawang Harimau, tiger-chasing shaman.
The Sultana asked her hunters, “Drones? Anything?”
Negative. Target had slipped into dense woods, lost the trail.
She shook her head faintly, face joyless, and gestured. The killers advanced turtle-slow at her command. Mosquitoes clung; they just waved them off, silent.
So, how to play this? The camouflage was flawless. Stick to civilian act too long, and we might pass right under its tree. Or others spot it too late, fight at knife range.
Small for a big cat, but a tiger's a tiger. Sultana dying would be a disaster.
It crouched on a limb, staring holes through us. Easy to flush: Pretend ignorance, then lock eyes suddenly. The moment I met its gaze, it'd know it was made—prey revealing itself. I could fire naturally, no suspicion.
Issue: distance. To avoid obvious gawking at the striped kitten's hide, needed 20 meters even generously. Hope the nose guy and pals sniffed it sooner.
Tiger smaller than boars—no guarantee first and second shots hit vitals perfectly. Telekinesis? Too many eyes, cameras.
A busted tiger bolts 80% of the time. Agile beast dropping into our midst? Sharpshooters hesitate—might hit allies. Panic fire from flustered shooters posed bigger risk than paws. And escape meant man-eater prowling near my men's ops base—unacceptable. It'd learn, evolve slyer. Low odds, but could spawn a second Prizrak. That Siberian was still devouring its hunters, building infamy.
Decision made, I spoke casual Korean. “Kyung-tae.”
“Yeah, hyungnim.”
“Don't look. Listen: 11 o'clock, fifty meters. On that light brown awakened tree—our prey's hiding. I'll spook it at twenty. Nail it clean when it jumps. Got it?”
“No sweat, hyungnim. Name's Kim Kyung-tae.”
“Good.”
“Awakened tree—safe?”
“Just mist.”
“Roger. Strays gonna fly with the peanut gallery—cover?”
“I'm good. Bulletproof with telekinesis coat.”
“First shot, then drop. Suyeon-noona too.”
“Got it.”
Suyeon nodded curtly. “Understood.”
Distance to brown tree shrank slow-walking: 45, 30, 25...
Beast tensed in canopy, breath long and thin, presence dead. Hunters passed oblivious below. Pity. What's an alley cat?
Gauging sidelong, I snapped eyes up at the spot, yelling warning.
“Harimau!”
Eye contact—tiger lightning-reacted.
Crack! My first shot grazed its back mid-leap. Fur and blood sprayed. Beast didn't flinch—adrenaline. But before paws hit dirt, second shot from beside me sealed fate. Bullet smashed shoulder joint diagonal, shredding lungs.
Landing leg buckled; body flopped like a mollusk, tumbling meters.
“Gah!” Beater clipped by tiger wailed.
Belated volley: Crack, boom, rat-tat-tat! As predicted, crossfire chased tumbling tiger—ricochets galore, bouncing like water striders. Unlucky wounded piled up, bark exploding everywhere. I was already low, Chunsik shielding me? No—wait, The narrative has a condescending, old-timer vibe, but context is Kyung-tae? Wait, "꼰대" might be slang or misread, but in text it's the old guy? No, earlier it's Kyung-tae. Anyway, crouched protected.
Boom! Muzzle flash from beside. But my hand gripped barrel—aim skyward. Accidental trigger, wide eyes up at me.
I rose only after echoes faded. Lung-shot tiger sprawled, vomiting blood, dying slow.
Sultana stood, scanning annoyed, then smiled eyes at me. “I'll overlook the discourtesy.”
“...Yes.”
Old man never said thanks.
Chaos settled: nine ricochet hits, four deep needing first aid. No vitals or heavy bleeds—no deaths. Embarrassing before a guest, but Sultana didn't rage. Not angerless—culture deemed overt fury vulgar. Public insults unfit for superiors, even to underlings. Silent glare sufficed when they knew their fault.
Soon, hunters washed corpse, matched prints to wanted sheets—cheers. Beaming Krut translated. “It's the one. Stripes and scars match.”
“Good.”
Half-hearted, I frowned at distant woods. Beaters on one flank moved oddly. Not joining—retreating, fanning left-right. Gloomy no matter the angle. Meanwhile, three drones overhead focused cameras here.