The Cipher Woods were quiet—too quiet. The air hung thick with the scent of damp moss and wild growth, heavy with humidity that clung to the skin. Low-hanging branches twisted through the underbrush, casting jagged shadows across the forest floor. Ryan, sixteen, moved like a shadow himself, his lean frame slipping silently through the thickets. Dirt streaked his face, smudged across sharp cheekbones, blending with sweat that plastered his dark hair to his forehead. His gray eyes, sharp and restless, scanned every angle, catching flickers of movement. His clothes—torn shirt, patched trousers—were crusted with mud, the fabric stiff from hours trudging through the damp earth. He smelled of sweat and forest, his breath a faint cloud in the cool air.
Crouched behind a broken tree stump, Ryan gripped his bow, a Void-forged weapon he'd paid dearly for—five days of training sacrificed for its existence. His fingers trembled slightly on the string, not from fear but from the raw edge of focus. His quiver, slung across his back, held seven arrows, each one another costly trade. His longsword, also Void-made, hung at his hip, its hilt worn from relentless practice. Every piece of gear was a calculated loss, a gamble he'd made to survive out here.
"Fwoosh." A sharp hiss sliced the air, followed by a piercing shriek. Ryan's arrow struck nothing but leaves, embedding in a tree with a dull "thunk". A wild hen, small and twitchy, vanished into the brush, its wings a blur. "Damn it," he muttered, his voice low, annoyance flashing across his dirt-smeared face. He'd wasted ten arrows on that one, each shot sailing wide or grazing uselessly. The hen was quick, not smart, but relentless enough to make his archery look pathetic. He crouched lower, retrieving what arrows he could. Three were bent, useless. He cursed under his breath, shoving them into his Void storage—limitless, weightless, his one real advantage.
His archery was rough, inconsistent. In the Void, he'd reached a functional novice level, but out here—wind shifting, distances unclear, nerves tight—it was a different game. He didn't care much. The bow was a backup, not his focus. His sword was his real weapon, and his sonar-like sense, still crude, was his edge. He pushed deeper into the woods, boots squelching in the mud. This outer zone was safe, relatively speaking—low-tier wildlife, beginner-level threats. He'd be fine, as long as he didn't get cocky.
Three days until the Void's penalty lifted, letting him train again. Extracting the bow had cost him five days of training, leaving him one measly hour in the Void this week—one training day. It stung, but he needed the weapon. His next extraction was already planned: a lightweight leather cuirass, flexible and Void-made, just enough to keep a blade from splitting his ribs. Another week of lost training, but worth it. The Void's storage was his lifeline—swords, bows, arrows, stashed indefinitely, called forth when needed. One extraction per week, that was the rule. He had to plan around it.
The brush rustled ahead. Another hen burst out, wings flapping wildly. Ryan didn't aim, just reacted. His bow twanged, the arrow slicing through the air. "Thunk." The hen rolled, twitching once before going still. He stepped forward, breathing slow. His sonar sense had caught it—the faint shift of air, the rustle of feathers. It wasn't perfect, and the strain hit like a migraine blooming behind his eyes, but it had timed the shot. He bagged the bird, quick and mechanical. Two more fell the same way before the mental ache forced him to let the sense fade. It was an edge, and it would sharpen with time.
The forest changed as he moved deeper. Trees loomed taller, their canopies choking out the light. The air grew colder, the paths less clear. Ryan's senses prickled, his sonar pulsing faintly. Then, the ground trembled beneath his boots. He froze. From between the trunks lumbered a creature, half-covered in moss and scratches, but very much alive—a wild bull, a low-tier monster. Its hide was thick as armor, its hooves heavy, rage burning in its steaming eyes. Ryan's hand twitched toward his bow, then loosened. No shot would pierce that hide. Not with this bow.
He dropped into a crouch, heart thudding. His mind raced. This wasn't beginner territory anymore. He'd crossed into the intelligent beast zone, a careless slip. His pulse spiked, but a reckless grin crept across his dirt-streaked face. "Alright, you ugly bastard," he whispered, his voice a mix of dread and thrill. If anyone saw him now—filthy, smirking like a lunatic—they'd think he'd lost it. He couldn't outrun the bull; it was too fast, too relentless. The Void was locked for three days—no escape. Leading it toward the house was suicide; it'd destroy everything. Sword. Seven arrows. His sonar. That was all he had. He didn't care about playing it safe. He'd trained for this.
The bull snorted, pawed the earth, and charged. Ryan bolted, weaving through trees, the ground shaking as the bull bulldozed everything—saplings snapped, bushes flattened. He yanked an arrow from storage mid-stride, fired blindly over his shoulder. It glanced off the bull's flank, useless. "Fuck!" he spat, firing two more, wasting shots to gain distance. His sonar pinged—trees to his right, a clearing ahead. He veered left, forcing the bull to turn, buying seconds. His legs burned, his lungs screamed, but he felt alive, the threat of death a twisted thrill. "Hah!" he laughed, wild and breathless, slashing at the bull with his longsword when it got too close. The blade scraped its hide, leaving shallow cuts that only enraged it further. "Tough fucker," he panted, his grin faltering but not gone. Dirt coated his hands, his sword slick with sweat and grime.
Voices—rough, jeering laughter, a sharp cry of pain—cut through the chaos. His sonar caught it first: a clearing, thirty yards out, filled with people. Ryan burst through a thicket, vaulted a rickety wooden fence, and landed hard, his knees scraping raw in the dirt, blood mixing with the mud caking his legs. His face was a mess—grime, sweat, a fresh cut across his cheek from a stray branch. He caught himself, panting, and took in the scene: a bandit camp. Tents, crates, a smoldering fire pit. Men in tattered leather armor, some laughing, others shouting. In the center, a group circled a kid—sixteen, maybe—sprawled in the dirt, his face bloody, one cheek smeared with mud, a split lip oozing red. A burly bandit with a scarred lip loomed over him, boot raised. "Stay down, you thieving little shit," the bandit growled, kicking him hard in the ribs. The kid groaned, curling tighter.
Ryan didn't care. He wasn't here to save anyone. The camp was a means to an end—a way to lose the bull. He was selfish, same as anyone out here, looking out for number one. The bandits noticed him, their laughter dying. "Who's this dumbass?" one barked, a wiry guy with a rusted dagger, stepping toward him. Another, a stocky thug with a club, grinned. "Fresh meat."
Ryan's eyes narrowed, his hand on his sword. "Back off," he said, voice low, dangerous. He didn't care about their numbers—low-level scum, barely a threat. The wiry guy lunged, dagger flashing. Ryan moved on instinct, his blade slicing clean through the bandit's arm. Blood sprayed, and the man screamed, collapsing. Another charged, club raised. Ryan sidestepped, his sword arcing up, cutting the man's throat in one fluid motion. He dropped, gurgling. Ryan didn't blink. They were in his way, and he cut through them like paper, his Void-trained reflexes sharp and merciless. He didn't notice the kid in the dirt, didn't care to. Survival was all that mattered.
A deafening "crash" shattered the moment. The fence exploded, wood splintering as the bull barreled through, its eyes wild, foam dripping from its snout. The bandits froze, their bravado gone. "What the fuck?" one yelled, stumbling back. Chaos erupted—men scattered, grabbing weapons, shouting. The bull tore through the camp, toppling tents, smashing crates, embers flying from the fire pit. Ryan didn't wait. He sprinted through the madness, his sonar pinging—footsteps behind, the bull to his left, an open path ahead.
He ran, weaving through the chaos, his boots pounding the earth. The bull's roars mixed with the bandits' screams, a symphony of destruction. He vaulted another fence, landing in the trees, his breath ragged but steady. Then, movement—someone running parallel, twenty feet away. Ryan's eyes flicked over, meeting another pair: sharp, calculating, belonging to the kid from the camp. His face was a mess—blood and dirt caked together, one eye half-swollen, but he was moving, fast despite the beating. Their gazes locked for a split second, no warmth, just mutual recognition: two selfish bastards running for their lives.
"Max," the kid said, his voice hoarse, barely audible over their pounding footsteps. "Thanks."
Ryan snorted, not slowing. "Didn't do it for you," he said, his tone flat, almost cold. He hadn't noticed Max in the chaos—hadn't cared to. They were both here for themselves, nothing more.
Max kept pace, wincing but stubborn. "Whatever, man. I'm alive."
Ryan didn't respond. The bull's bellows faded behind them, the bandits' shouts growing distant. The woods swallowed them, the silence returning, broken only by their heavy breaths and the crunch of leaves underfoot. Six months to the academy. Three days to the Void. And now, maybe, another loner who'd rather survive than trust. Ryan didn't care about Max, and Max didn't care about him. But for now, they ran together, two dirty, battered kids carving their own paths through the chaos, eyes on nothing but the next step.