Knowing

The runt never saw it coming.

It had been chasing what it believed to be an easy kill—a rabbit that seemed almost too convenient. The small creature darted through the underbrush, weaving between trees with a rhythm that teased the predator along, always just out of reach. It was cocky. Too cocky.

And the reptile was hungry.

Its claws dug into the forest floor with every stride, jaws parting as it closed the final meter. One more lunge, and—

The rabbit stopped.

Dead still.

The reptile skidded to a halt, confused by the sudden surrender. Its nostrils flared. Its tongue flicked. It stepped closer, lowering its head as if to inspect the strange stillness.

Then the rabbit darted.

Right between its legs.

Startled, the beast bent low, craning its neck to peer beneath its own body, eyes straining to find where the prey had gone.

That was when the spear struck.

A sharpened bone spike, thrown with terrifying precision, slipped past the rabbit's horn and into the predator's open mouth. It tore through soft palate and spine in one clean motion, pinning the beast to a tree with a sickening crunch. The impact thudded like a judge's gavel sealing a sentence.

The runt twitched once. Then went still.

Six minutes later, two of its packmates arrived.

One froze at the sight. The other let out a guttural hiss and immediately turned to flee. Together, they moved in practiced formation: one leading, the other flanking diagonally behind to cover escape angles.

They didn't make it far.

Shaun's trap was built with their instincts in mind. He knew how they moved in pairs—tight formations, staggered gait. He set a trip line between two trees at precisely shin-height. When the leader's foot hit the rope, it triggered a buried spear, which launched upward at a calculated thirty-degree angle.

Just high enough to penetrate between rib and lung.

Just fast enough that the creature saw it coming and couldn't stop it.

The spear struck home.

The first reptile dropped with a muffled grunt, legs twitching violently before stilling.

The second staggered in shock and fell into a pair of Wrap Traps. The snares lashed its forelimbs and tail, yanking tight with the strength of steel wire. It flailed, shrieking in confusion—unable to push itself up, its powerful limbs neutralized by careful placement. Even the tail, which could normally anchor and launch it skyward, was bound just below the spine.

It screamed for help.

Back in the glade, the Death Wish leader stood over the paralyzed Thunder Dropper, utterly unmoved by the cries of its kin.

It didn't investigate. It didn't look back.

It turned and fled.

Pack loyalty meant little among Death Wishes. They followed strength, not bonds. This one had gathered its group through conquest—challenging and killing rival alphas, absorbing their survivors. Its underlings bore mismatched scale patterns and hues, proof they weren't siblings but spoils of war.

Now it ran.

But biology was about to betray it.

Shaun had spent hours dissecting young Death Wishes from previous encounters. He had mapped every tendon and bone, every natural flaw masked by their terrifying exterior. Their tails, he discovered, weren't reinforced with proper vertebrae like their necks or limbs. Instead, the tail was a long chain of cartilaginous nodes, held together by flexible tissue. Great for absorbing shock. Terrible for resisting tension.

As the alpha fled, its tail flicked against a trunk—an unconscious motion used for balance and redirection.

It triggered a Wrap Trap.

The trap didn't yank it back immediately—it only caught the last third of its tail. But momentum did the rest. The leader's full sprint created a whiplash of tension. The tailbone popped with a sickening crack, half-detaching in an instant.

The alpha stumbled, howling, blood seeping from its spasming hindquarters.

It had no time to react before its forelimb triggered a second trap. A vine twisted up around the elbow joint and cinched tight. Now it was suspended awkwardly, tail dragging, leg straining, chest heaving. It thrashed in wild panic, knowing something hunted it—something smarter than itself.

Something patient.

Shaun had mapped its movements long before this day. He knew how the leader fought—how it ducked left when angry, how it favored the right paw to pin prey. He'd studied how its head cocked ever so slightly before a tail strike.

But most importantly, he knew how their necks worked.

The necks of Death Wishes were a marvel—interlocking bones built like overlapping armor plates. Flexible but dense, their construction was meant to absorb trauma and prevent decapitation in battle. But that very strength required mobility. When the creature turned its head, the vertebrae spread ever so slightly. A vulnerable seam emerged at the base of the skull.

A seam Shaun had been waiting for.

As the alpha twisted in panic, looking over its shoulder, Shaun dropped from the canopy.

He descended like a final verdict.

The bone tooth-blade in his grip sang as it cleaved through the air. It struck exactly where the spine shifted—right at the softened base where the neck curved. The blade met no resistance. The head tumbled cleanly from the body, hitting the earth with a thud.

Seven bodies lay silent by the end.

The Thunder Dropper. Its pursuers. The alpha.

Shaun hadn't just survived his first hunt since training.

He had dismantled a killing pack that could have massacred an entire village in minutes.

But to him, the true reward wasn't the glory—it was the anatomy.

The Thunder Dropper was the first of its kind he'd ever found. And the adult Death Wishes? He hadn't yet dissected a mature specimen.

Now he had four.

And hours of light left to learn.