Teng crouched in the underbrush, fighting stick held at the ready, eyes scanning the looming pines. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, no movement in the corner of his eyes, no sounds but that of the wind. Prickly thorns barbed his shoulders and thighs like stinging wasps, but the young man paid them no mind as he advanced toward the moss and root-covered cave entrance right below the rising slope.

Opening himself up to the wind, Teng was enveloped by impressions. He smelled the pungent, fishy, almost rotten odor mixed with wet fur, and a musky, earthy aftertaste – an image of the gigantic creature flashed through his mind. Brown, lumbering, thick like three pine trunks side by side– a bear. But there were more than one. Two Cubs, a third of their mother's size, munched on fish scraps by their mother's side, tearing off skin, slurping, ripping without concern.

The young man chewed his lip, swore, and slowly backed away from the cave. It was not against the spirits to kill a beast with younglings, as long as they were old enough to fend for themselves, and yet he'd come to realize over the two years of training to become a full-fledged hunter that it was not something he could or ever would do.

His father had often told him that holding onto a weakness in a world of strengths would punish him one day. However, something about killing a beast with offspring didn't sit right with him. Teng didn't have any problems killing beasts; he was very good at it, and he was one of the best, so he was told by the older hunters. But in a world where there were no lines, this is where he drew one.

Instead, Teng traveled east, crossing over the large river that tore through the valley like an open wound and split into smaller gashes. At a particular glade, where the grass was low and a glimmering snake of water coiled, a fat deer stood sipping, ears twitching.

The young man had the wind blowing against him and was careful not to step on any thin branches or leaves as he neared. Once close enough, Teng raised his fighting stick and circulated essence for a blue flash. With a swift motion, the fighting stick flew from his hand, making a beautiful arc over the stream, piercing straight through the deer's head.

The deer hadn't even seen what was coming before it toppled.

Blood pooled on the grassy ground where flowers dotted in blue and white as Teng approached his kill. He sat down before it, pulling down its eyelids. "Rest now, little fellow," he whispered softly. "Return to the forest spirit's arms and feel no pain. Your strength will live on in me."

Teng bowed, retrieved his fighting spear, and hoisted the deer over one shoulder before making his way home.

As he entered the village, he spoke to some friends along the way. Ever the slacker, Uncle Bato rested in the shade under the hemlock and flung a greeting in his usual manner, a wave and a grunt. He had not gotten any younger, the wrinkles deepening over his weathered face.

Some of the boys his age, who had not returned with a predator during the journey to manhood, were working on the making of new huts. They called out as he walked by, jesting about when he would hunt some real prey. He laughed and told them a deer was as good as any kill and would feed the village just as well as a tiger. Of course, this was a lie; tigers held much more essence and were far bigger.

The burly man, whom Teng knew as Farn, sat working in an open space near his large hut, partly his home and partly a kill house. The older man, nearing his sixties, gestured at a pile of carcasses as he saw him. Teng put the deer's body on top the pile and walked over to the retired hunter.

“A deer again?” Farn expertly used his cleaver to cut into the elk. Rivulets of blood pooled on the already stained ground, the scent rich and sweet.

"It's hard to carry anything larger on my own."

The man put away his cleaver for a moment and squinted up at him.

Teng shrugged, deciding not to mention the bear or her cubs. “The wet season comes. Too much meat will spoil, will it not?”

"In that, you are right, at least." Sighing, Farn dried his hands on a piece of fur made just for that purpose and stood. He pointed at various meats placed neatly on a clean fur mat near his hut. "Help me get those up now that you're here, will you."

Teng helped the older man string up the meats to dry in the sun and wind. They had been emptied of blood and chopped evenly apart, which would help them preserve them better.

Once done, Teng left the village and traversed the trail up to his cliff. Sometime later, on the flat patch of stone, where his only companion was the blue sky, Teng procured his striped pouch and grabbed his bones and feathers. They were much the same since two years ago, unweathered by the passage of time, pristine, almost divine in how Teng perceived them.

He'd not come further in all this time, and it vexed him to no one. He was much better at controlling blue flash, and his ability to perceive the impressions of the wind had improved, as was his ability to shift between the two, but he'd come no further. Only his body, ingested with far more essence than before, had improved by leaps and bounds.

Nonetheless, he still studied his treasures, left behind by his benefactor, the blue bird, every day without stopping. He'd asked around the village if there was more to the essence they all possessed, but neither the grandpas, grandmas, nor hunters seemed to know. Ultimately, he'd given up, succumbing to the fact these feathers and bones were special.

As he was immersed in the wind, faint impressions of smoke, fire, and blood tugged him out of his peaceful state. Looking further, he discerned shouts and violence and felt anger, frustration, and fear. A faint outline of the village appeared in his mind, silhouettes of people he knew running around, one lying down, still, another pressing a hand to his chest, groaning.

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Teng shot to his feet. Something is attacking the village? How? The young man descended the cliff, almost falling in haste. As he neared the village, he beheld the smoke and fire from the middle of the camp. All the villagers were gathered at the center, where the sleeping guardian should have jutted out in its eternal slumber. But there was nothing there, just a hole.

He found his father, grabbing the man and turning him around. “What happened?”

Hunter Tang, now slightly grayer in his hair, like the spots on a quoll, had his mouth wide open, blank eyes staring at the hole. “They took it, the sleeping guardian.”

“Who?”

“Outsiders. We saw tracks long ago, we should have suspected. They took it, set fire to a few huts, then fled."

Teng shook his father. "Let's go then. Get it back.”

“It happened so quickly. I–”

"Father, get a grip on yourself; let's gather the hunters and go!"

"You don't get it, do you?" His father finally looked at him. Teng had never seen such fear from the man whose strength and fearlessness he'd admired since a child.

"Get what?" demanded Teng.

"We're doomed. Without the guardian, we will be overrun by beasts."

“We fight beasts all the time.”

Hunter Tang chuckled without mirth. "You've never been outside the valley, so you don't know what a true beast is. What we have here are just animals."

Teng had a bad feeling in his stomach that only grew. “True beasts?"

"In the outside valley, we aren't the hunters but the prey. The sleeping guardian has ever protected this valley; no strong beast comes here. Even that black wolf is like a cub compared to what lies beyond."

"The more reason to go, is it not?"

Hunter Tang shook his head. "They were strong, the outsiders. Pako tried to stop them. He took one punch and look at him now. Bato intervene after Pako was hurt, and he's no longer breathing."

Teng followed his father's gaze to Hunter Pako. The man, similarly aged as his father, lay crumpled against the side of one hut. His breath was uneven and wheezy, blood escaping through pale lips. Teng observed his caved-in torso with rising dread. He then looked at the still form of the slacker he'd grown to like, face down in the ground, blood pooling like when Farn had dissected the elk just earlier that day. Teng never thought a human could bleed so much.

He paled and turned to his father. "Just a punch?"

Hunter Tang nodded grimly. "The outside world's bigger than you can imagine."

After bringing Pako to Grandma Pana and burying Uncle Bato, the hunters and elders gathered in the hut of power, a spacious, worn place where all severe talk was held.

Ralo, Delia's father, raised his voice over the murmurs. "We've got to act. Without the sleeping guardian, strong beasts will come to the valley. It won't take long until they find our village."

"Can we move the village?" asked an elder woman, her hair a wild tangle like a bird's nest. Teng couldn't recall her name. There were too many faces in a village of four hundred.

"Move where?" grunted Dang, pacing the dirt floor, his twisted staff thudding with each step.

“The mountain?” suggested one of the hunters.

Farn scoffed, his clothes streaked with dried blood from butchering. “With the rains coming? And the cold after that? It'll be too hard. And the food—are we dragging it all up there?"

"We could build defenses," Ralo said, glancing around. “The men are strong. A few weeks' work, it could be done."

"Wood, stone, what good will that do…" Dang muttered, still pacing, his eyes distant, breath ragged. A few elders guided him to sit, his hands shaking as he settled.

"We don't have a choice," Ralo pressed. A few hunters, grandfathers, and grandmothers shouted in agreement.

Before he knew it, Teng found himself stepping forward. "Can't we just get the bone back?"

"Hush, boy," an elder waved him off.

“Boy?” Teng's voice rose. “I made the journey. I've hunted in the valley.

His father gripped his shoulder, but Teng pulled free, catching the stares of the elders. "I'm as good a hunter as any man. What gives you the right to call me boy?"

"You are a hunter," Another elder conceded. "But you are young and know little of the world. See the sense in this. Let us older folk discuss the matter."

Hunter Tang finally pulled Teng back, but he broke away from his father and stormed out the hut.. His father tried to stop him, but he ignored it.

Teng returned to his hut, packing supplies and grabbing his fighting stick. His mother was not there, probably with some of the other villagers and helping dose the fire to save what was inside the smoldering huts. Just as he was about to leave, he felt eyes upon him and turned. Delia stood there, some ways off, looking at him.

“Where are you going?”

In two years, she'd grown into quite a woman. Tall, wide hips, firm waist, like a tree that wouldn't bend to the wind. Her lips were full, her face warm, and she had those eyes that sucked him in and him forget what to say.

"They won’t go after them,” he said with an edge to his voice.

“Ah, so you will do it?” Delia laughed with incredulity. “Alone?”

“Delia, this is no jest. I'll try to hunt them dow, if it's impossible so get it back I'll retreat."

The young woman walked over, placing a hand on his shoulder. "The elders have lived long lives; they must know what's best. You know I'll always support you, but this is folly. You'll die.”

“You know my promise,” Teng said, looking into her eyes. “I must try.”

“Don't be stupid.”

Teng looked at her, then leaned in and kissed her. She tensed, then relaxed and kissed him back. It was for a single moment, but all thoughts of anything other than Delia drained away. The world was a happy, troubleless place.

As they broke, she looked at him with surprise, but not unfriendliness. Teng had wanted to do that for a long time and never dared until now. He knew he might never have the chance again.

“I'm sorry, Delia.”

He turned and ran out of the village, hearing her shouts from behind.

He would get the sleeping guardian back – even if he died in his attempt.