The crumbling refuge was a pathetic excuse for sanctuary.
The rusted corrugated iron sheets, their edges jagged and sharp, clanged noisily in the biting wind that whipped through the skeletal remains of what was once a bustling city.
The cold wind stung Ethan's cheeks like tiny needles, and the metallic smell of rust filled his nostrils.
A collection of these rusted sheets and scavenged planks barely held back the howling wind.
Ethan, with Clara clinging to his back like a frightened koala, her small arms squeezing him tightly, surveyed the scene with a grim frown.
His eyes scanned the desolate area, and the sight of the dilapidated structures filled him with a sense of hopelessness.
A handful of survivors huddled around a sputtering fire, the orange - red flames crackling and popping.
Their faces were etched with a mixture of apathy and suspicion, and the flickering light cast eerie shadows on their gaunt features.
They eyed Ethan and Clara with the wary hostility of cornered animals.
Ethan approached cautiously, offering a tentative smile.
His footsteps crunched on the broken debris beneath his feet.
"We're just passing through. Lost our group. Any chance we could share your fire for a bit?"
The response was a grunt from a burly man with a face like a granite statue.
He didn't even bother to look up from the rusted metal can he was picking at.
The others remained silent, their gazes unwavering and cold.
Charity, it seemed, was a currency as extinct as the dinosaurs.
Ethan tried again, offering some of their meager water rations.
Another grunt.
This time, the granite - faced man spat on the ground, a gesture as clear as a verbal slap in the face.
The sound of the spitting was sharp in the otherwise quiet refuge.
Clara whimpered, burying her face in Ethan's back, and he could feel the wetness of her tears on his shoulder.
The message was loud and clear: Get lost.
Discouraged, Ethan retreated, the weight of their precarious situation pressing down on him like a physical burden.
The wind tugged at his ragged cloak, making it flap loudly.
He couldn't protect Clara alone.
He needed allies, resources, something more than this gnawing sense of impending doom.
His thoughts drifted back to Avery, the fiery - haired scavenger with the wrench and the surprisingly kind eyes.
She seemed resourceful, practical, and, most importantly, not entirely heartless.
"Not here, kiddo," he murmured to Clara, his voice tight with frustration.
His breath came out in white puffs in the cold air.
"We need to find some place… better."
He turned back towards the ruins, the wind whipping his ragged cloak around him like a tattered flag.
The ruins loomed large in front of him, their dark shapes menacing.
Hope, however fragile, was all they had left.
He had to gamble on it.
The journey back to Avery's territory was fraught with the same bleakness and danger.
The skeletal buildings seemed to leer down at him, silent witnesses to a world gone mad.
The air was thick with the dust of decay, and the dry, powdery dust tickled his nose and made him want to sneeze.
The silence was punctuated only by the mournful cry of the wind, a long, drawn - out wail, and the distant growl of something unseen, something hungry.
Suddenly, Ethan stopped dead in his tracks.
A cold shiver crawled down his spine, and he felt a sudden chill all over his body.
The world shimmered around him, the colors becoming strangely vibrant, almost hallucinatory.
He saw it then, a flash of the future, a gruesome tableau unfolding before his unseeing eyes: a pack of mutated hounds, their eyes glowing with predatory hunger like fiery coals, descending upon the very refuge he had just left.
He saw the granite - faced man screaming, his bravado melting into abject terror.
He saw the others scattering like cockroaches, their cries echoing in the desolate landscape.
The vision vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Ethan gasping for breath, his heart hammering against his ribs like a drum.
His head throbbed slightly, a sign of the strain of using his "Prophet's Eye".
The "Prophet's Eye," his newfound, unwanted gift, had spoken.
He spun around, adrenaline surging through his veins.
He had to warn them, even if they wouldn't listen.
He had to.
He ran, his lungs burning, his legs pumping like pistons.
The ground beneath his feet was uneven, and he stumbled a few times.
He reached the refuge, bursting through the makeshift entrance, his voice raw with urgency.
"They're coming!" he yelled, "Mutated hounds! Lots of them!"
The response was predictable.
Scoffs, sneers, and a renewed wave of hostility.
"Crazy prophet boy's at it again," the granite - faced man sneered, rolling his eyes.
"Trying to scare us away so he can loot our precious scraps."
Another survivor, a gaunt woman with hollow cheeks, chimed in, "He's probably leading them right to us!"
Ethan felt a surge of frustration, a wave of despair threatening to pull him under.
He could see it coming, the bloody carnage, the desperate screams, but they wouldn't listen.
Then, it began.
A low growl echoed through the ruins, growing louder, closer.
The earth began to tremble, and he could feel the vibrations through his feet.
The survivors froze, their eyes widening with dawning realization.
Too late.
The pack of hounds exploded into the clearing, their mutated forms a grotesque mockery of nature.
They were bigger, faster, stronger than normal hounds, their fur matted and bristling.
The stench of their unwashed bodies filled the air.
Their teeth bared in a terrifying snarl, and the sound sent a shiver down Ethan's spine.
Chaos erupted.
But Ethan was ready.
The Prophet's Eye had not only shown him the attack, but also the best defensive position.
He scrambled up a pile of rubble, Clara still clinging to his back.
The rough edges of the rubble scraped his hands.
He nocked an arrow to his makeshift bow.
He breathed deeply, focusing his attention, ignoring the screams and the snarls.
He released the arrow.
It flew true, piercing the eye of the lead hound.
The beast yelped, collapsing in a twitching heap.
Ethan fired again, and again, each arrow finding its mark with uncanny accuracy.
He moved with a preternatural calm, a strange detachment from the carnage unfolding around him.
The survivors, initially paralyzed by fear, began to rally.
They fought back with whatever weapons they could find, rusty pipes, broken bottles.
The clanging of metal against metal and the smashing of glass filled the air.
Their desperation fueling their rage.
Ethan's unexpected display of skill had, at least temporarily, earned him their grudging respect.
The battle was short, brutal, and messy.
When the dust settled, the ground was littered with the carcasses of the mutated hounds.
The survivors, battered and bruised, stared at Ethan with a mixture of awe and suspicion.
He had saved them, but he had also revealed something extraordinary, something unsettling.
He had seen the future.
As Ethan lowered his bow, a raspy voice spoke from the shadows of a crumbling doorway.
"Impressive," the voice said.
"Very impressive."
An old man emerged, his face obscured by a thick, tangled beard.
He leaned heavily on a gnarled cane, the wood creaking under his weight.
His eyes, however, were sharp and intelligent.
"Who are you?" Ethan asked, his hand still instinctively gripping his bow.
"The name's Victor," the old man replied, his lips curving into a wry smile.
"And you, young man, have a gift. A dangerous gift." He paused, his gaze piercing.
"I can help you hone it. But first, you'll help me." He tapped his cane on the ground.
"I need a certain tool recovered. A rather… important tool. It's said to have a strange energy, a glint that catches the light in a peculiar way." His eyes glinted.
"Think you can handle that, Prophet?"
Ethan hesitated, a flicker of unease in his gut.
He had a feeling this was more than just a simple retrieval mission.
He glanced at Clara, her small hand clutching his shirt.
He had to try.
"What kind of tool?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The old man's smile widened, a hint of something predatory lurking beneath the surface.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.
"Let's just say... it's a tool for shaping the future..."
The wind screamed through the skeletal remains of skyscrapers, a mournful dirge for a world gone silent.
Ethan clutched Clara tighter, the kid's small body a fragile weight against his chest.
Not again, he thought, the memory of his mother a raw, open wound.
This time, he wouldn't fail.
"Let's go make our own luck," he'd said, but the words felt hollow even to him.
Luck was a luxury they couldn't afford in this wasteland.
Only grit and a damn good plan would get them through.
Avery, surprisingly, kept pace.
Her wrench, usually a tool for fixing busted pipes, looked alarmingly effective in her grip.
He'd misjudged her.
Figured she was just another scared survivor, but there was a fire in her eyes – a fragile flame that mirrored his own determination.
His "先知之眼" (Prophet's Eye) – that's what he was calling his newfound ability in his head, sounded way cooler, right?
– flickered.
A rush of images, disjointed and fleeting: a collapsing wall, a pack of those things snarling in the shadows, and...
a flash of metal, glinting in the sun.
Three minutes.
He had three minutes to keep them alive.
"Left!" he barked, yanking Avery and Clara towards a crumbling alleyway.
His hands were firm on their arms.
"Wall's going down ahead!"
Avery didn't question him, just followed.
As they ran, he noticed a flicker of curiosity in her eyes, a small change from the initial disbelief.
Her trust was a surprising weight on his shoulders.
He could practically taste the disbelief she must be swallowing.
Who was this kid, suddenly barking orders like he knew what was coming?
The wall crumbled a heartbeat later, a cloud of dust choking the air.
The dust was thick and powdery, filling their noses and throats.
They scrambled through the debris, just as a pack of Gnashers – the mutated dogs that roamed the ruins – emerged, their eyes burning with a hunger that went beyond simple survival.
Ethan felt that familiar cold dread creep into his stomach, but he pushed it down.
Panic was a death sentence.
He scanned the alley, his Prophet's Eye giving him glimpses: Avery swinging her wrench, connecting with a sickening thud; Clara whimpering, burrowing deeper into his arms.
Wait…the metal flash!
"Behind that dumpster!" he yelled, shoving Avery and Clara towards a rusted metal container.
"Now!"
He risked a glance back.
Two Gnashers were closing in, their fangs bared.
Avery managed to take one down with a lucky hit, but the other was too fast.
It lunged, claws extended...
Thwack!
A crossbow bolt sprouted from the Gnasher's skull.
It dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Standing in the shadows of a ruined building was an old man, his face etched with the harshness of the wasteland.
He held a battered crossbow, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mix of shrewdness and… amusement?
This was Victor.
The crazy old coot that everyone whispered about.
"Well, ain't this a charming little reunion," Victor rasped, his voice like gravel.
"You owe me a bolt, kid."
Ethan didn't have time for pleasantries.
"We need shelter. Now."
Victor chuckled, a dry, humorless sound.
"Shelter, eh? In my neck of the woods? That'll cost ya." He looked at Clara, then at Avery, a calculating glint in his eyes.
"But maybe… maybe we can strike a deal."
He paused, then, almost as an afterthought, "Name's Victor, by the way. And around here, I make the rules."
And so, Ethan, Avery, and Clara find themselves at the mercy of Victor.
Ethan knows Victor has crucial knowledge about survival and weapon - crafting – the kind of stuff that could turn the tide in this wasteland.
But what price will Victor demand?
What secrets is the old man hiding?
And how will Ethan, still grappling with his "Prophet's Eye", navigate this new, dangerous alliance?
I'm already itching to write the next chapter!
Let me know what you think, and we can dial up the heat even more!