A few months had passed, several days and nights since I emerged from that egg and ventured beyond the cave where I had been born.

Those months had turned into a whirlwind of brutal and constant learning, during which I not only learned to hunt much more efficiently but also to control my body better, to exploit it to the limit to catch my prey more easily, primarily hares and birds.

Now I could move with a fluidity and agility that my self of a few months ago could only have dreamed of. I no longer tripped over my own tail or fell backward when flailing one of my paws in the air. My movements, previously clumsy and uncontrollable spasms, had been refined as the days passed, and I had learned to roar with great force.

I quickly learned that I had the capacity to be faster and stronger than almost all the animals on that mountain and I had to learn to gauge my own strength to avoid hurting myself. Every wound, every slip, every blow, was a lesson that had taught me, the hard way, to restrain myself.

Those rocks I had used as shelter on my first night outside had become a small resting spot. I had thought several times about returning to sleep in the cave, but when I went back a few days after leaving, I realized that my size had increased too much and I could no longer enter.

Tch, it's not like I need to go back, honestly.

Although I admit I would have liked to take a piece of my egg with me; after all, it was the only thing that was truly mine.

Apart from that, the rest of the time I spent exploring, searching for new areas to hunt or investigate that new world. I learned something about the movement of the sun and the patterns of the prey: the mountain rabbits that came out at dusk and the birds that slept nested among the mossy rocks.

The act of hunting had been transformed. At first, it was just a search for food every time hunger struck me again. Now, it was strategy. I waited, hidden among the ferns, my dark, polished scales blending with the shadow of the rocks. I used the wind to cover my scent. I had discovered that my roar, that loud sound that resonated in my chest, could not only slightly frighten the other animals. But also, after a little practice, it allowed me to stun my prey for a few seconds. A dull sound of air and fury was enough to paralyze a hare just long enough to reach it in a leap.

I had perfected the use of my body. The tail had become a perfect counterbalance in fast runs, an essential counterweight in sharp turns. My teeth, capable of snapping wood with one bite, helped me to eat without wasting anything.

But, despite all my progress, there was a constant frustration, a glass wall that was impossible for me to break through.

Flight.

Every so often, I'd shake off the slump and try again at sunset. I would climb to a small, safe height near my shelter. I'd spread my wings. They were an assembly of light bones and taut membranes, beautiful in the dying light, tinged with a faint crimson color. I flapped them. Once, twice, three times. The movement felt right, but the result was always the same: a failed jump, a loss of balance, and a humiliating and noisy landing.

I could feel the muscles, tense, sore. I could understand how I was supposed to do it after observing the birds with great care. It was something I could do almost instinctively. I knew the theory. But my body still couldn't put it into practice. My body weight was too much. My wings, though getting larger, were still just a promise, not a tool I could use for the moment. And that's when I'd get the slump and stop trying, until I cheered up again and we repeated that loop over and over.

So, for the moment, the cold and damp ground remained my territory by default.

And so the weeks passed, with my body growing more and more. Every day, my claws were harder, the scales thicker, and my snout longer.

And with the growth came an increasingly voracious appetite.

The roar of my stomach was no longer a simple reminder; it was almost like a warning siren, which had even managed to frighten me while I slept. A mountain rabbit that once sufficed for an entire day was now consumed in a single bite, leaving a feeling of crumbs in a bottomless pit. I needed more. Much more.

I need something bigger... but not bigger than me, I don't think I'm that crazy.

My first target was a bear. I had seen it days before, a stocky brown specimen, fishing in the river that stretched along the foot of the mountain.

I approached, moving with caution and stealth. I felt powerful, agile, and the adrenaline was already running through my veins, anticipating the fight. My mind calculated the force with which the bear could attack me, its reaction speed...

It was then that a second bear accidentally appeared on the scene, a little smaller and with much darker fur. It looked like they would pass each other, so I waited until they separated. It was then that the smaller bear attacked the larger one. I will only say that after watching that battle, it became abundantly clear to me that for the moment, it would be best to avoid any bears in the area, for my health.

Even if I defeat it, the fight would drag on too long. I would end up hurt... That would be very annoying.

The risk of becoming vulnerable, of being hunted while I healed my wounds, was too great.

I'm very sorry, Mr. Bear, but for now our paths will not cross.

The bear was ruled out.

I kept exploring, pushing the limits of my known territory so far, descending even further down the forested slope, where the trees became denser and the sunlight was broken as it passed through the branches of the trees.

And then, I found it.

A wild boar. It was huge, with tusks that promised danger, but its body was slow, its fur worn. It moved with difficulty, perhaps due to its age or maybe some disease. It was alone. It was perfect, large, but not lethal.

I waited until the boar was distracted, rooting among the roots of an oak. There was no need to roar to stun it; speed was my best weapon. I lunged, covering the distance in a blink.

The impact was dry. The fight was over in a flash and my prey had fallen with a dull thud to the ground. The ecstasy of that filled me completely; it was the first time I had hunted something so big and I certainly couldn't help but feel like the king of that mountain. Encouraged by that, I planned to try one of the bears the following week; maybe I had overestimated them too much. I felt, indisputably...

The king of the mountain, yes, that is me.

The roar of my own stomach brought me back to reality; I had already hunted my food and it was time to taste the flavor of victory.

And it was then that I felt it.