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The journey takes longer than Rozell's expectation. Even when his muscles have screeched and paused every so often, the light is still out of reach. Wispy roots clasp Rozell's face and scratch his furred skin, tearing through his healing wounds from the encounter with the hunters. The small hole doesn't allow much air to relieve his breathing, and it becomes harder to advance.

Drained is the best word he can relate to.

The higher the tunnel stretches out, the narrower it becomes. Rozell's heart still prances in his chest whenever a snapping branch or the clink of silver resounds from above. His blurry eyes picture a bloodlust man peeking through the hole, with the snout of his weapon aimed toward Rozell. It adds more fuel to Rozell's limbs, for they zoom forward twice quicker to escape this unfortunate position.

Once Rozell inhales the sulky smell of snow and the stinky dead leaves, he heaves himself out of the hole. A cold mist blocks away from the sun's friendly reaches. Wherever he snaps his neck to, a sea of roots or a pile of brown debris stare at him like enemies lying low. The giant trees, along with the huge shadows stirring awake on the branches, tower over him like thrones to the ruling beasts of the forest.

Ignoring the pricks that stick to his skin and the trickling blood from his wounds, Rozell clambers down the hills and heads to the setting sun. Not even the calming mist can lull him into another nap. But once the shadows on the trees let out a furious roar, Rozell madly dashes out of the territory.

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A silver here, a silver there. A noose on the branch and everywhere.

During his trip back to the cottage, dusk has swept over the land and turns the malformed beast back to its human form. With his sweaty skin blistering red, Rozell treads down the uneven landscape much weaker than his grandpa does. The sight of the blatant traps on the trees and bushes makes his stomach twist even worse.

Are those Oxen and his fellow hunters' doing?

Yet, how can they think so differently from Ren? How could she even save the creature she's supposed to chop into pieces?

Throughout his journey, Rozell gets to pocket some berries and eatable leaves so Grandpa won't scold him with another earful of grumbles.

After all, Rozell should've helped Grandpa fix his broken mirror and the wooden plank. Or he could've tried to fill the empty boxes in Grandpa's storage. But instead, he has to roam around in the form of a hunted beast.

Can I convince Grandpa that hunting for berries in winter has gone harder over the years, with the number of animals growing instead of shrinking?

The hair on his skin prickles up. He inches away from the traps while staying alert for those scattered on the ground. But with an eerie blackness slowly swallowing up the purplish-orange sky, Rozell gets blinder with every count.

After enduring the stings on his body and the tremor in his stomach, the sight of his cozy cottage relieves him. But as he treads closer, his nose crinkles in anxiety at the nine figures loitering around the place as if it's a drinking bar. Grandpa is not among them, and the door is still locked.

What on Borealm is going on?

"Cottage Boy," a cheery voice greets him, followed by friendly pats on his drenched back. The other visitors snap their heads to Rozell, but he quickly avoids them by turning to his guest. "Where have you been all day? Why returning so late?"

Rozell hopes a snowstorm would visit the area soon since he can't hide his jumpiness any longer. He rubs his cold hands quickly, forcing a polite smile. "Out to get these." The berries he had gathered earlier are now crushed in his palm, tainting it with mixed colors. "Er..."

"A rough day, eh?" Oxen pats him a few more times as he heaves his sack higher on his back. Faint traces of blood stains the surface, making Rozell chill in his sweater. "Sorry, we have to crash at your place so late. Some of us are too frostbitten to return to the village." He points at two of his comrades, who are wearing Grandma's knitted blankets with steaming mugs in their shaky palms. "Your grandpa is generous enough to help us."

Rozell swallows his guilt. His eyes wander around the rowdy guests until a golden-haired huntress hurries over to her husband. "How long are we going to stay? We shouldn't bother the old man to feed us." She tugs at his gloves but pauses once she raises an eyebrow at Rozell. "Are you—"

"We won't be staying too long, Cottage Boy," Oxen cuts in with an uneasy grin on his face. Glancing at his jeering friends, he gulps down tensely.

"What's with all these whispering around?" When a pair of limp arms slither down the couple's shoulders, thunder echoes in Rozell's heart. Mr. Clam's aging face pokes out between the two. Either one of them is yet to answer when his innocent, pigeon-like eyes rest on Rozell. "Who is our new company?"

Good, he doesn't remember me from Opus' funeral. Or from that misunderstanding incident decades ago.

"Rozell, the grandson." Oxen shrugs out of his senior's arm. "He's back after hunting for berries and leaves all day."

A look of suspicion passes Mr. Clam's face briefly, turning his lips into a judging frown. "But there are many berries around the cottage. Why spend all day on them?"

Rozell's heartbeat lurches in his chest, ready to skitter away like prey. "I had to search for mint too. We're running out of stock for everything, even herbs." He tugs down his sweater to cover the physical reminders of his adventures, pleading to the moon to hide as long as these sniffing hounds are still around.

The expert hunter's frown never ceases. "Hmph, still an errand boy. You haven't changed one bit from the moment I shoved you back here after tricking us back then."

"No need to be so hard on the poor kid, Mr. Clam. He's still a boy." Even Oxen's grin can't hide his doubts. Fiddling with his heavy sack, he turns to his grumpy old senior. "Do you think he can join us? He has lived here for a long time; he can show us around. He might know a thing or two about that beast."

A cough chokes Rozell's throat that he can't breathe properly. Is Oxen begging Mr. Clam to drag him into the hunt?

The hunt for himself?

"I don't think he should," Ren chimes in from Oxen's side, her eagle-sharp eyes piercing Rozell with searching intensity. Her frantic fingers show how the image of the escaping Day-Lynx still plagues her mind, just like Rozell's. "Isn't he busy enough to help his grandpa around?"

"Just let the boy decide on his own, shall we?" Mr. Clam shoves his bare hands into his coat. "We're searching for the lynx with dead creatures on its back. Mountkirk has a business to settle down with it."

The arriving night hides Rozell's sour grimace. Shouldn't it be 'I'—referring to the old man—instead of 'Mountkirk'? "Wait, has it attacked Mountkirk or something?" Even in such a mixed state, his pretense slips out as easy as truth on any other day.

"No. But it's why we're tracking it down." Mr. Clam fishes out a blade similar to the one that had stabbed the bird, him, and Opus to dead. He plays it as if it carries no weight or threat at all. "It's too threatening to live near Mountkirk. What if it decides to attack humans? One of our fellows even died yesterday during the hunt. We need to end this before someone else gets hurt."

The anger in Rozell's blood surges like an ocean wave, but his brain keeps it at bay. Protecting his alter-ego will only make Mr. Clam's assumptions about him get wilder. Or worse, he'll soon smell something is off.

"Stop twisting your kunai, Mr. Clam. We should call it a day," Ren urges, glaring at the older man like he's just a tree standing in her way. It earns her an evened glare. "We're all tired. Save your bargain for another day." She sneers, glancing at her cowering husband.

But neither have responded when the cottage door flips open, revealing Grandpa and trays of scented plates on his arms. As the hunters snatch their portions like unfed hyenas, his eyes meet Rozell's, and the warmth in it melts into a puddle of disappointment.

Rozell accepts the mental punch quietly. He slumps into his home after he bids his companions a hushed farewell and a lie to let them know about his final decision.

Hell, Death might've been cussing him already for ever considering to hunt himself down, after the second life it had granted him.

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Total Word Count: 19,925