Jack's stomach churned with a mix of hunger and anxiety. He had spent days preparing for this moment, refining his tools, studying the movements of the animals, and practicing his technique. But now, standing in the freezing winds of the Ice Age, facing his next hunt, doubt gnawed at him. Could he really do this again? Could he kill with purpose, not just desperation?
Dawn was breaking over the endless white expanse as Jack crouched near a rocky outcrop, his spear gripped tightly in his hands. He had chosen this spot carefully—downwind from a well-trodden path where animals frequently passed. The cold bit into his fingers, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the distant shapes moving through the snow.
A herd of steppe bison was making its way toward him, their massive forms lumbering forward as they searched for patches of exposed grass. Their thick coats were covered in frost, their breath visible in the icy air. Jack's heart pounded. He had no bow, no long-range weapon—this had to be done up close.
He steadied himself as the herd moved nearer. The wind shifted slightly, and a large male at the front raised its head, nostrils flaring. Jack held his breath, praying the beast wouldn't catch his scent. Seconds stretched into eternity before the bison relaxed, lowering its head once more. Jack knew this was his chance.
Muscles coiled, he sprang forward, thrusting his spear toward the bison's flank. The tip struck deep, and the animal let out a bellowing cry, kicking wildly as it tried to shake off the pain. The herd panicked, stampeding away and sending snow flying in all directions. Jack barely had time to react before the wounded bison charged.
Diving to the side, he narrowly avoided being trampled. He scrambled to his feet just as the beast stumbled, blood pouring from its wound. It was weak but still dangerous. Jack gritted his teeth and rushed forward, driving his spear into its neck with all his strength. The bison let out one final, shuddering breath before collapsing.
Jack fell to his knees beside the fallen creature, his chest heaving. The adrenaline coursing through his veins left him dizzy. He had done it. He had taken down a beast of the Ice Age—not by luck, but through skill and determination.
But there was no time to celebrate. He needed to work fast before scavengers arrived. Using his flint knife, he began the laborious task of butchering the carcass. He cut deep, separating the thick hide from the meat. He knew every part had value—the fur would keep him warm, the bones could be turned into weapons and tools, the sinew would serve as binding material.
As he worked, he thought of how far he had come. Just weeks ago, he had been a man of the modern world, relying on technology for everything. Now, he was surviving in a world that demanded resilience, skill, and strength. And he was proving that he had all three.
By the time the sun had risen fully, Jack had gathered as much as he could carry. With one last glance at the fallen bison, he whispered a quiet word of thanks, then turned and began the long journey back to his shelter. His body was sore, his hands stained with blood, but he felt something new stirring within him—a sense of belonging to this world, a warrior's pride.
Jack was no longer just a lost man in time. He was a hunter of the Ice Age.