"Alright," Zane muttered, fingers tightening around the broken fence post, "Ten minutes. Just ten. Not like that's the average lifespan of a terrified, unard level-one nobody or anything."
The Thornhide snarled, scraping its claws against the stone like it was sharpening them—for him.
"Oh yeah, that's not ominous at all."
> [Quest Tir: 9:45]
Zane's eyes darted across the ruined outpost. Smoke. Torn tents. Scorch marks from the last battle between Aeloria and Alverath.
"There has to be sothing I can use... anything. Fire, sparks, hell, even a barrel I can roll at this thing."
He sprinted toward a half-burned wagon, narrowly dodging a flying claw that split the ground where he'd stood.
"Okay! That's closer than I like! That's way closer than I like!"
The Thornhide barreled after him. Zane yanked a cracked lantern from the wagon's side—bone-dry.
"Of course it's empty," he growled. "Why wouldn't it be?"
> [System Suggestion: Improvised Weapons Increase Survival Odds]
Zane threw up his hands. "Oh, thanks! Super helpful, mysterious floating text box! Got any matches? A taser? A giant ch suit, maybe?!"
No response.
Figures.
He dove into the wreckage and landed hard on his side, skidding near a scorched soldier's pack. Still zipped. "Co on, co on... be generous, dead guy."
He yanked it open—rations, cloth, a cracked crystal vial, and... yes.
"Yes! Flint and steel!" Zane whooped, then imdiately clamped his mouth shut as the Thornhide's roar drew closer. "Quiet celebration. Quiet celebration."
> [Quest Tir: 7:58]
Zane grabbed the driest cloth he could find, tied it around the broken post like a makeshift torch, then struck the flint. Sparks flew—once, twice—then finally caught.
The cloth flared to life. Flickering, weak, but burning.
"Alright !!"
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