As the evening draped the wilderness in a cloak of shadows, Mobius found a secluded spot within the ruins of the settlement. His injured state served as a constant reminder of the challenges that lay ahead, prompting him to address both his physical well-being and the need to sharpen his skills with the rifle.

Seating himself on a weathered remnant of what was once a thriving structure, Mobius inspected the rifle. The wood, though worn, still exuded a rugged resilience. With a determined focus, he dismantled the weapon, examining each part with care. The stolen horse's spirit, a distant memory, cast no shadows on the practical task at hand.

The injured lone explorer began a series of exercises, each movement calculated to both strengthen his body and familiarize himself with the mechanics of the rifle. The evening air was filled with the rhythmic sounds of disassembly, reassembly, and the occasional dry click of the trigger—a dance of preparation in the encroaching shadows.

As the night deepened, Mobius's proficiency with the rifle improved. The stolen horse's sacrifice, a tale etched into the past, found no place in the present as he focused on honing his skills. The echoes of distant memories gave way to the tangible progress of a survivor determined to navigate the moonlit wilderness.

With each practiced motion, Mobius felt a growing sense of self-reliance. The rifle, once a relic of conflict, became an extension of his resolve—a tool to navigate the challenges that awaited beyond the ruins. The evening, now draped in shadows, held no sway over the lone explorer, who continued to train under the watchful gaze of the moon.

As the moon cast its silvery glow upon the ancient ruins, Mobius, though still nursing his injuries, continued his solitary practice with the rifle. The echoes of each movement mingled with the night air, creating a symphony of determination under the celestial canopy.

Seated amidst the crumbling remnants, Mobius acknowledged the persistent ache in his body. The stolen horse's sacrifice, now a distant memory, prompted him to find a reprieve. Nearby, a small fire pit, perhaps a remnant of a past traveler, lay dormant, awaiting the warmth of kindling.

Gathering dry branches and leaves, Mobius sparked a fire, its flames casting dancing shadows across the ruins. As the embers flickered, he unwrapped a makeshift bandage from his injured limbs. The night air carried a cool breeze that, despite the pain, seemed to soothe his weary body.

Taking a moment to tend to his wounds, Mobius used the resources at hand to fashion a poultice. Leaves with healing properties were carefully selected and crushed, their essence mixed into a paste. The injured areas were coated with the herbal concoction, and the bandages reapplied—a simple yet effective remedy drawn from the moonlit wilderness itself.

With the fire crackling beside him, Mobius leaned back against the ruins, his eyes fixed on the celestial expanse above. The rifle, now propped against his side, became a silent sentinel in the night. The stolen horse's spirit, though absent, lingered in the quiet moments, a spectral presence intertwined with the shadows.

As the night unfolded, the soothing warmth of the fire and the gentle breeze worked in tandem with the herbal poultice. Mobius, while still bearing the marks of his encounters, felt a gradual easing of the pain—a small victory in the ongoing battle against the  wilderness.