The velociraptor that had ambushed Traebus a second time slowly dragged itself from the ocean and onto the shoreline, its body aching from the brutal encounter. Every muscle screamed in protest, its lungs burned from near drowning, and yet, it still lived. That so-called prey of his had proven maddeningly resilient, forcing it into a fight for survival that it had barely escaped from—again.


    Saltwater dripped from its mottled scales as it pulled itself onto the damp sand, panting heavily. Its sharp claws scraped against the stone as it took a moment to gather its bearings, eyes darting toward the cliffside where the human had last been seen. It had tracked him for days, endured pain and humiliation, only to be flung from the edge of the world into the sea below. And yet, despite everything, the hunger for vengeance remained.


    For days, it had watched. Stalking from the shadows, observing every strange thing the bipedal prey had done. It had seen him move the very earth beneath his feet, shaping stone as though it were clay. It had watched him call fire from his hands, creating warmth and light that kept lesser predators at bay. It had seen him wield strange tools, things unlike anything that belonged in this world.


    But nothing had been as baffling as what happened near the waterfall.


    The great beast—the monstrous predator of the river—had nearly taken his prey there. A perfect hunt, an inevitable kill. Yet instead of dying, the two legged creature had done something completely unnatural. He had soared through the air, thrown by an invisible force, skipping across the water’s surface like a stone. And instead of accepting death, he had chosen to leap.


    The raptor''s muscles tensed at the memory. It had perched on the rocky cliffs, eyes locked onto the chaos below as the human and the large lizard had vanished over the waterfall’s edge. The monstrous river predator had followed, driven by its fury.


    That should have been the end. But it wasn’t.


    The raptor had lingered at the edge of the cliff, its sharp eyes locked onto the frothing, merciless waters below. The river churned violently, its surface a chaotic dance of foam and debris, swallowing everything unfortunate enough to fall within its grasp. The sheer force of the current, the jagged rocks lurking beneath the rapids—these were deathtraps. No creature, least of all a soft-skinned, two-legged prey, could have survived such a fall.


    And yet, the raptor hesitated.


    Instinct screamed that this was over, that the hunt had reached its natural conclusion. It should have turned away, satisfied with the kill it had not witnessed but knew should have occurred. And yet, something in the back of its mind whispered otherwise. A sensation, an itch just beneath its scales, an unsettling awareness.


    This prey did not behave as prey should. It had never behaved as prey should. And because of that, the raptor knew—somehow, some way—he was still alive.


    It let out a low, frustrated hiss, its claws curling against the stone as it wrestled with the instinctual certainty that its quarry had survived the impossible. Then, without another sound, it turned, slipping away from the cliff’s edge. It would not leap after him. It would not throw itself into the unknown as the prey had.


    Instead, it would find another way down.


    And when it did, the hunt would resume.


    It had followed, but not in the same reckless fashion. Instead of taking the suicidal leap into the unknown, it had spent the next hours picking its way down the cliffside, following narrow ridges and weaving through the jungle to find a way back to the river’s edge. The trail had been washed away, but it did not need tracks to know its prey was still out there. It had survived worse. It would survive this.


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    It lowered its head, eyes narrowing in determination. It would not stop. It would not let this prey slip away again. This was no longer just instinct.


    This was vengeance.


    As the raptor sat on the damp beach, its body still aching from the brutal ordeal, a realization settled in like a slow-burning fire in its mind. Chasing this prey alone had been a mistake. Every instinct had told it that speed, stealth, and precision would be enough. And yet, each time it had pursued the two-legged creature—through dense jungle, over jagged cliffs, across roaring rivers—the hunt had ended in failure.


    It had faced prey that ran, prey that hid, prey that fought back. But this one? This one did none of those things in a way that made sense. It did not just flee—it vanished. It did not just hide—it reshaped its surroundings. It did not just fight—it wielded power.


    This was not normal prey. It was something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something... cunning.


    Its claws flexed against the wet sand, dragging deep lines into the beach as the truth settled over it like a weight. If it kept hunting the way it always had, it would lose. That was unacceptable.


    It needed a new strategy.


    Or perhaps, it needed something more than just strategy.


    It needed help.


    Or a change in tactics.


    Its claws flexed against the wet sand as it weighed its options. No hunt had ever demanded so much of it before. It had taken down swift-footed grazers, challenged armored beasts, even clashed with rivals of its own kind. But nothing compared to this.


    The prey did not behave as prey should. It reshaped the ground, called fire from nowhere, and evaded even the deadliest of predators through sheer audacity. If the raptor continued to hunt the same way it always had, it would lose.


    That was unacceptable.


    The air was thick with jungle scents, the distant calls of other hunters drifting through the trees. Somewhere out there, others of its kind roamed—territorial, aggressive, but bound by the primal laws of dominance. If it found them, if it proved itself, they would follow.


    If not... it would fight them until they did.


    The raptor slowly rose to its feet, shaking off the fatigue weighing it down. It would not make the same mistakes again.


    This hunt was not over.


    The raptor lifted its head, the salty scent of the ocean mixing with the dense, earthy aroma of the jungle beyond. The sand beneath its claws felt alien—too soft, too yielding. It needed solid ground, cover, the dense foliage where it had spent its life mastering the art of the hunt.


    Shaking off the last vestiges of exhaustion, it turned away from the crashing waves and stalked toward the jungle’s edge. The thick undergrowth welcomed it like an old friend, shadows swallowing its sleek form as it melted into the wilderness. Here, in the tangled chaos of ferns and towering trees, it felt right.


    Every step it took was slow, deliberate, each clawed footfall pressing lightly against the damp earth, barely leaving an imprint. The prey it sought had eluded it too many times, slipping away with unnatural cunning, defying every instinct and rule the raptor had ever known. But no longer. It had learned.


    Charging blindly, relying on speed and brute force, had only led to failure. That was the way of lesser hunters, those who relied solely on raw instinct. The bipedal prey was not a creature of instinct alone—it thought, it adapted, and it wielded powers that defied the natural order. To best it, the raptor would have to do the same.


    This was no longer about the chase. It was about the trap. The strategy. The ambush.


    Its eyes flicked from shadow to shadow as it moved through the dense undergrowth, scanning for anything that could give it an advantage. The jungle was alive with possibilities—elevated hunting positions, narrow choke points, places where the prey could be forced into a corner. It needed to think beyond its own claws and fangs. It needed to manipulate the terrain the same way the prey did.


    And most of all, it needed numbers.


    It needed a pack, and the jungle would provide.


    But it would not be easy.


    The raptor knew exactly where it had to go—the one place it despised more than any other. A place where its own kind gathered in numbers, where packs fought and bled for dominance. It had always avoided such places, preferring the solitude of its own hunt, away from the snarling contests for power. But now, that isolation had become a weakness.


    The packs in the deep jungle were brutal, their hierarchies rigid and carved in blood. Strength ruled, and only those who proved themselves could lead. If it wanted allies, it would have to take them. It would have to fight.


    It bared its teeth, the idea filling it with both anticipation and unease. To seek out others meant exposing itself, risking injury or even death. But without a pack, its chances of bringing down the prey that had humiliated it were slim.


    A deep growl rumbled in its throat as it moved deeper into the jungle, its mind already preparing for the battles to come.


    If it wanted to win this hunt, it would have to conquer its own kind first.