Something shot from the underbrush behind Nemo and slammed into his shoulder.
The impact lifted him off the ground and hurled him into the jungle. Leaves whipped past. He crashed hard against the earth, tumbling and gasping, the wind knocked from his lungs. His shoulder screamed in agony. It wasn't a normal pain—it was raw and searing, primal. A spike had torn into his flesh. He grunted, unable to form a proper scream, his body convulsing.
Then came another whistle. Another impact.
This time the spike struck his leg.
His scream turned into a choked cry. Blood poured from his calf where the thorn had pierced through. Nemo's hands trembled as they gripped the wound. He could see the jagged green spine protruding out the back of his leg.
Pain blurred his vision, but adrenaline surged. He wasn't thinking. He couldn't. But something inside him refused to die here. His muscles clenched. His heartbeat roared in his ears.
Another whistle. He dove to the ground.
Too slow. The thorn grazed the side of his scalp. Warm blood flowed down his face, dripping into his eye.
The pain receded into the background. His senses flared open. The rustling leaves. The faint scrape of movement. It was there. He could follow it. The shooter wasn't fast. Not fast enough.
Another shot came, and this time Nemo was ready. He rolled aside and felt the thump as the spike embedded into the soft earth behind him. He was tracking it now, his ears tuned to every sound. His instincts screamed for him to survive.
One more spike hissed through the air. It nicked his arm, but he kept going, ignoring the sting. He had no idea what this thing was or what it wanted, but staying put was death.
He ran.
Or limped, rather. His leg burned with each step. He didn't care. They hadn't gone far from the group, and someone—anyone—had to be nearby. Maybe Raven's people. Maybe Solomon.
The creature behind him was still moving, but slowly. He could hear it slithering through the forest, slower than he expected. That was good. He'd outrun it.
He kept going, biting down on his pain, using trees to brace his steps. The blood from his leg left a trail behind him, thick and dark. The thorn kept digging deeper into his flesh with every movement, but if he stopped now, it would catch him. And then he'd be done.
Nemo stumbled and fell, hitting the earth hard.
His body screamed for rest. His lungs couldn't pull enough air. He gritted his teeth and looked at his leg. The blood flow was slowing, but it was a mess. Still, his mind was clear.
He turned and crawled back along the blood trail, eyes scanning above. He spotted a thick branch low enough and dragged himself up onto it, biting back a yell as his shoulder throbbed.
He collapsed on the branch, his whole body pulsing with pain.
Then the jungle fell silent.
His breathing slowed. His body thought the danger was gone. That the worst had passed. But he knew better. His mind was clearer than it had ever been.
A rustling came. Louder now. Nearer.
He looked down and saw something moving through the brush, twisting and sliding across the ground. A long, sinuous form.
Nemo didn't hesitate.
He threw himself off the branch.
He landed on the creature, arms wrapping around where a neck might have been. His legs clamped down hard around its midsection. The creature thrashed immediately, but Nemo held firm. He couldn't afford to lose his grip.
Then, without thinking, he gave in.
To hunger.
It flooded him. A wave of feral craving, stronger than before. His mind clouded over. His thoughts slipped away. The ache that had dulled into the background now flared white-hot and took over completely.
He was starving.
Not the normal kind. Not the dull gnawing in the gut. This was deeper, darker, and rooted in something else entirely. It wasn't food he wanted—it was sustenance. Life. Energy.
His grip tightened until the plant creature writhed harder. Its leafy body cracked. He could feel it shiver beneath his grip. The scent of chlorophyll and earthy sap filled the air.
Nemo struck.
He bit down hard where he instinctively knew the creature's energy pulsed strongest. Not nerves, but something like them. A fluid burst across his tongue. Bitter. Alkaline.
The creature shrieked in some alien, silent way and flailed, trying to throw him off.
But Nemo dug in deeper.
His jaw crushed through fibrous layers, his teeth tearing at the thick inner membrane. A yellow fluid sprayed out, coating his face, but he didn't stop.
It writhed, twisted, and slammed into trees—but he held on.
He felt the wriggling body slow. The spasms lessened. Only the flower head twitched now, and Nemo saw the thorny stamens retract and extend, firing blindly into the trees.
With the main body paralyzed, Nemo moved.
He tore the petals off the flower one by one, chewing and swallowing. The texture was thick and rubbery, but the taste barely registered. All that mattered was the hunger. He didn't even care that the thing could still move its head. It couldn't reach him. Couldn't stop him.
Then the body.
Nemo flipped the plant over and clawed into the thicker midsection. He could feel clusters inside. When his hands touched something dense—dense like flesh, like organs—he bit. Fluid spurted. The creature jolted but didn't fight.
Another bite. Another.
He found the core. A thick, pulsing knot of energy.
He crushed it between his teeth.
The plant shivered, convulsed once more, then stilled completely.
It was dead.
But Nemo didn't stop.
He kept going, ripping what was edible from the corpse. Roots, stalks, and dense storage bulbs buried inside the creature's coiled body. Everything with any hint of vitality, he ate.
His rational mind flickered back only once, whispering that maybe a knife would be helpful next time. Then it disappeared again.
Eventually, there was nothing left worth eating. He even gnawed on a thorn out of habit before realizing it was just cellulose and bitterness. He spat it out. It made a decent toothpick.
Slowly, clarity returned.
His hands were slick with sap and blood. His wounds were coated in yellow fluid, and somehow they had stopped bleeding. His body still ached, but the worst of the pain had dulled. The creature's fluids were medicinal, it seemed. Or maybe it was part of his ability—part of the hunger root.
He stood, breath shaky.
And he understood now.
This wasn't a random attack. This was a test. One Solomon had set up.
He started walking back.
His limp was heavy, but his thoughts were heavier. At first, he wanted to scream at Solomon. How could he throw him into that? Just to see what he'd do?
But then he remembered where he was. Who he was becoming.
He wasn't a citizen anymore. He was becoming one of Atlantis's shields.
This world wasn't about comfort. It was about survival. Responsibility. Strength.
And if he was going to choose his own path in that world, he needed power. Not borrowed, but his own. Solomon hadn't just tested him—he had given him a chance to awaken.
By the time Nemo limped back into the clearing, he had made peace with it.
Solomon was standing near the spot where the blood trail began, arms crossed. He looked up with that same unreadable smile.
"Not bad, hungry man," he said. "Let's give the others a little more time. Maybe they'll come back on their own."
Nemo nodded and sat down, groaning as his body protested. He leaned back against a thick tree trunk and tilted his head to the canopy above.
Sunlight pierced through the dense leaves in golden shafts. The jungle no longer looked sinister. Now it looked alive. Vibrant.
Dangerous, yes—but also beautiful.
He let out a slow breath.
Solomon sat beside him.
"Beauty can be dangerous," he said. "And peace can be a lie. But if you start fearing everything beautiful, if you treat every quiet moment as a trap, you'll burn out before you begin. Learn to see the danger—but also the worth."
They both stared upward in silence.
Nemo finally turned toward him.
"I understand why you did it," he said. "But I didn't like it. It hurt. I almost died."
"I know."
"I need to know it's worth it."
Solomon was quiet for a long time.
Then he spoke.