By thirteen, the jungle belonged to me.
Every branch knew my weight. Every trail, my scent. The birds stopped calling when I moved. The baboons hid in silence. The wolves circled wide.
The jungle still wanted me dead. But it couldn't have me.
I was faster than the cats. Stronger than the pigs. Meaner than the snakes.
I had teeth now. Made of stone and fire and will.
They feared me. All of them.
I didn't walk the jungle.
I ruled it.
Not like a king.
Kings sit on thrones.
Bark orders. Drink wine.
I hunted. I bled. I burned.
I was their god.
But gods grow hungry.
And the jungle was getting small.
There was nothing left to learn here. Nothing left to hunt that could teach me more. I had stalked every shadow, devoured every predator, eaten the hearts of beasts and taken their strength.
I needed more.
I needed new prey.
New power.
But I was trapped.
By the sea.
Endless. Everywhere.
Touching sky.
Trapping me.
It circled like a beast with no face, no body, just endless roar and hunger. The ocean didn't fear me. It didn't see me.
It swallowed me.
No claws. No teeth.
Just cold, crushing silence.
I could kill everything else. But not that.
Not yet.
I stood on the shore most mornings, the tide licking at my toes like a mockery. The waves always came. Always went. Took everything with them.
I watched the sun rise.
And I remembered something.
When I died, I came back with the sun.
Always.
When it rose, I rose.
So I watched it. Every morning. Eyes locked on the place it climbed out of the sea.
I didn't know what was out there.
But I knew something was.
Because I felt it.
Like a pulse in my bones.
Calling.
So I decided.
If the sun rose in the east, I would go east.
That was where my prey waited.
That was where I would find something stronger than me.
Something worth killing.
Something worth becoming.
I dove in the next day.
The sea was cold. Wet. Strong.
I wasn't.
Not yet.
The first time, I drowned in minutes. Swallowed a lungful of salt and kicked until my eyes rolled back.
Dark.
Then light.
Back on the shore. Coughing up seaweed and screaming curses at the water.
Didn't matter.
Tried again.
And again.
And again.
Each time I went a little farther. Swam a little longer. Kicked harder. Held my breath deeper.
The ocean beat me down, but I came back.
It tore my muscles, froze my blood, broke my bones.
Didn't matter.
I couldn't kill it.
But I could learn it.
Understand my new enemy.
For weeks, I tested it. Watched the waves. Learned how they rose and fell, how they broke on the rocks, how they pulled things down.
I threw bones in to see where they drifted.
Studied how long it took for birds to disappear when they dove too deep.
I sat with my eyes half closed and listened. Learned its rhythm. Its anger. It's moods. Its hunger.
Then I built.
Not much at first. Just a board of wood with vines lashed to either side.
It sank in seconds.
I rebuilt it.
Again.
And again.
For months I made things. Rafts. Pontoons. Buoys. Floaters. All kinds of stupid shapes.
Most sank. Some burned. A few just flipped over and left me floating like a drowned monkey.
But I kept going.
The ocean could kill me. That meant I had to be able to kill it.
It became my prey.
And like any prey, I had to understand it before I could win.
I built better. Used hollow logs. Used tar from tree sap. Found ways to seal wood with heated resin and ash.
Learned what floated. What didn't.
Made tools to shape the hull. Even carved fire pits into the deck with a clay chimney to let out smoke and not burn the whole thing down.
The ocean watched.
I let it.
The first time my raft made it past the breakers, I laughed. Screamed into the wind.
The ocean didn't like that.
A wave caught me and shattered the raft to pieces. Threw me into a reef and split my skull on coral.
Dark.
Then light.
Back on shore. Blood still warm in my ears.
Didn't matter.
I remembered everything.
So I built again.
Each failure taught me something.
Don't use bark for rope. Don't cook too close to dry wood. Don't lash joints too tight or they snap.
Always leave room for water.
Never stop bailing.
Eventually, I made something that floated for a full day.
I caught fish. Ate them raw on deck. Kept a fire burning low, just to remind the sea I still had fire.
Then a storm came.
Waves like mountains. Wind like a thousand screaming monkeys.
My raft shattered again.
I died.
Again.
And again.
But every time, I built it stronger.
Wider hull. Covered top. Reinforced beams. Rope made of braided snakegut.
Added oar holes. A place to store meat. A wind-veil… something like a sail, but built of stitched hide.
Took me five years.
But I made it.
A vessel the sea couldn't break.
Sealed, balanced, curved to ride the waves instead of fight them.
I could cook on it. Sleep in it. Store water in carved gourds that I kept below deck, wrapped in leather.
I even built a spear rack.
Because when I found what lay beyond the waves, I wanted to be ready to kill it.
The day finally came.
The sky was clear. The tide was full.
The fire in my chest burned hotter than ever. Like something inside me knew.
I dragged the boat to the water.
Checked the lashings.
Tapped the hull.
It rang like bone.
Sea-tight.
Storm-proof.
Ready.
Built to carry one god across the throat of the world.
I looked back at the jungle one last time.
All of it.
My kingdom. My crucible. My grave and my cradle.
Trees bent in the wind. Leaves rustled. Birds cried out.
And then… it answered me.
Not with fear.
Not with hate.
But reverence.
The trees bowed. The wind howled my name, though I had none.
The jungle roared.
And I roared back.
Throat raw. Fists clenched.
Not goodbye.
A promise.
I will kill what waits beyond the sea.
Then I climbed aboard.
And set sail toward the place where the sun rises.