I slither through the bush just out of sight of the dozen khirig lying in wait.

After they decided to foolishly take on the forces greater than themselves, they had asked me to leave. In no uncertain terms, they made sure I knew I wasn’t welcome… and yet they still held back from attacking, which is better than the rest of the sapients I’ve come across.

Of course, I could hardly do that.

I wasn't about to leave these idiots to get themselves killed because they took on something greater than themselves, but I also didn't want to oppose their wishes immediately. Not when they'd given me the courtesy of direct communication.

Their small hive had been dismantled, and while a couple of the khirig that had seemed reluctant to take on the albanics were now trekking through the forest away with what supplies they could carry, most were ready to fight.

It has been a unique experience actually being spoken to, and I can't say I dislike it, even if these creatures doubt my intentions. It’s a connection. One shared between species completely different from one another. One I’ve been included.

“Four trucks,” a khirig says, running down from the cleft of the hill. It sprints along the side of the road, repeating itself.

One of the khirig hiding in the ditch scrambles to its feet, dashes after her a few steps before diving in besides a few more of the hidden khirig, picking up a rope and covering itself in dirt. In no time, the creature has hidden near as well as the others besides it.

There are seven khirig laying in the mud and undergrowth, yet it is difficult to spot them. Their antlers appear like broken, dead branches or tree roots rising from the ground. Without distorted space to give me a perfect view of every angle, they are hard for even me to distinguish.

The hum of trucks, what they call the mini-trains, soon carries over the hill. They rumble like a large beast’s growl. The khirig I watch over remain silent. Neither a word nor twitch to reveal their presence even as the thick sapient creations roll over the hill and bear down the mountain with speed.

I pass through a couple bends and appear in the upper branches of the trees overlooking the road. I coil around the branch and hang, ready to strike whenever necessary.

The front of the trucks are open, revealing eight albanics in each. All hold weapons — those pellet-flingers I’ve learnt are called guns — but only those at the forefront of each truck appear wary of the forest.

It is clear that despite their overall weakness, they know they have little to worry about from the creatures of this area. My instincts tell me that even if the albanics didn’t have such numerical superiority, then they’d still have the upper hand in strength. Not to mention the khirig only have three guns to share between them.

The more I see, the more I doubt the khirig’s intelligence.

If they go through with this, they are only asking for death. I only hope they come to their senses and allow the trucks to pass by without opposition. That’s the only way to survive. Allow the strong to do what they wish, and never bring attention to yourself.

But they don’t listen to my silent demands.

“Now!” a voice carries through the trees, and immediately, the prone khirig scamper into a run.

The mud clings to them as they run from the road. Ropes bound to their antlers pull taut and snap out of the divots through the road. Long wooden planks riddled with metal spikes spring out from the opposite ditch, pulled by the khirig until they slam into the sides of the trucks.

Gunfire suppresses the sound of screams. A spiked of a log tears through the side of a truck, piercing the arm of an albanic. One of the ropes gets caught in a circular roller beneath the second truck, jerking both the log beneath it with a horrid screech and snapping the khirig on the other end of the rope to a sudden stop. Unlike the rest that safely flee into the cover of trees, this one is quickly riddled with holes.

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Only the front truck avoids the logs crashing into the side. The rest find the nails devastating. They don’t kill the albanics, but instead cripple the trucks. Longs spikes both pierce the trucks and grind through the earth, propping the trucks on one side and scraping them to a halt. The sound of burst air only adds to the cacophony brought upon the logs wedging themselves between truck and earth.

The three rear trucks stop immediately, soldiers rush out and unleash a shower of metal pellets — bullets — into the trees after the khirig. The front truck is slower to stop, having avoided damage from the spike ridden logs, and rolls to a halt further down the road. Before it even stops completely, there are albanics leaping from the back and charging back to assist the broken vehicles.

Suddenly the area is crawling with soldiers, many of them firing their guns wildly into the woods.

And that's when the rest of the khirig strike. The front truck, left with only four soldiers — all of which are too busy watching back where the original attack occurred — is suddenly surrounded by the remaining khirig. They dash out from the trees, a trio of gunshots leave three albanics dead, and the remaining one can’t raise its own gun before a khirig pair tackle it to the ground and begin beating on it.

In only a moment, the truck is moving again, this time with a khirig in control. Picking up one of the albanics weapons, they kill the one unable to defend from the brutal beating. Before the rest of the soldiers can react, the khirig are loaded in the back of the truck and driving into the distance.

Indignant shouts follow them, bullets clanking off the truck, but they’ve already sped far enough away to avoid the worst. The albanics, with their inoperable trucks, cannot follow.

The khirig… won?

I slither through the trees, finding that besides the one unfortunate khirig shot down at the start, the rest have cut their ropes and fled deep into the forest. They are alive.

I speed after the khirig controlled truck, soon finding them having stopped along the side of the road to pick up the khirig that fled at the start. They waste no time to continue on once everyone is inside.

They never even needed me.

I land on the back of the truck and ride it like I did the train. Below, I hear excited chatter only dulled by the loss of one of their own. They achieved success against impossible odds.

Sure they didn’t kill all the albanics, but they’ve come out on top while having clearly the lesser strength, numbers and weapons than their opponents. Something I had assumed couldn’t be done even with all my intelligence.

They killed four to only their one, stole a truck, and left the rest crippled. It is beyond comprehension. They knew what they were doing, and even when things looked good, they didn’t get greedy and try for more lives than they planned. They didn’t take the soldiers head on. Each khirig knew exactly what they had to do, and if a single one hadn’t done their role, none of this would have worked.

It is something I could never see from any non-sapient. No swarm species could do this. They are beyond that. Somehow achieving victory despite lacking in everything I thought important for a fight.

I’ve seen ambush predators before, but all the ambushes give the predator is the surprise over their prey. If they don’t have the strength to take advantage of that surprise, then there is no point to their subtlety. But these khirig barely even fought, and came out on top.

I was prepared to fight the albanics for them. I thought for sure that if I didn’t, these creatures actually willing to speak to me, would be slaughtered. They didn’t need me.

“We move on immediately,” I hear Uncle’s voice below. “I want to strike their camp before word carries back.”

They want to keep going? He sounds so sure it wasn’t just luck that allowed their success. He isn’t surprised at all. Confident that he can do it again.

The truck veers off the road, and slowly makes its way through a narrow clearing of trees through the woods. My ride becomes incredibly bumpy, but I hardly notice.

It is actually possible to fight against the odds. Not only do these khirig believe so, they’ve gone out of their way to prove it. You can battle without direct confrontation to slowly improve your position. You can weaken your enemy, so the next time you clash, your position will be better.

The khirig below had nothing. Now they have a truck full of equipment that belonged to their enemies.

They didn’t give up in the face of near impossible odds.

So what does that say of myself? Am I the fool for having just given up? Am I wrong for having abandoned all consideration for opposing Scia's murderer when these weak, weak creatures can fight back against their own aggressor?

Why did I never even consider avenging Scia?

I simply accepted that she was dead and it was a titan that killed her. Absolutely nothing to be done about it. Her death was simply a natural result of coming across a creature greater than herself. Of my failure to keep her away from the Titan. I did nothing, because there was nothing to be done.

But am I happy with such a response?

Why didn't I even try? Why didn’t I try to bury a spike within those damned claws, or sink my fangs into the lynx’s eyes, or simply take away more of that moss it loved so much it would go out of its way to kill Scia.

I despair having left that lynx unbothered by the suffering it has inflicted.

A chill wind washes away all warmth in the air.

Scia’s death has not yet seen retribution. If these creatures can achieve results with roundabout methods, then I will do the same.