The jungle hadn’t seen Rell in a while.
At least, not this version.
He stepped out from the grove barefoot, the grass giving way like it *recognized* him. Taller. Broader. Hair thicker, locked and wild like the jungle had woven it itself. Eyes sharper — still tired, still searching — but now held open by resolve.
And no shirt.
“...Why do your pants still fit?” Umbwe had asked that morning, blinking slow.
“Elasticity,” Rell said, deadpan. “Or divine intervention. Take your pick.”
—
The growth spurt was no joke.
He’d gone to bed one night aching in his bones and woke up looking like a jungle demigod.
But the funniest part?
He had no damn clue how old he was anymore.
—
Rell paced around Ko’Mala’s pool, scratching his head.
“Alright so like... my soul was 22 when I died.”
“Correct,” said Umbwe.
“And this body was what, like… 5 or 6 when I woke up in that jungle prison?”
“Yes.”
Stolen story; please report.
“And I’ve been here... what, almost two years?”
Ko’Mala raised one glowing finger. “Twenty-one months, one week, three days.”
Rell groaned. “So I’m either 23… or 7… or 41 if we’re counting stress-induced time skips. I give up.”
“You *look* like 21,” said the owl, perched on a branch nearby.
“And I *feel* like puberty got flashbanged by a god. But thanks.”
He stretched — his spine cracked like tree bark splitting — and slung the worn sash over his shoulder.
“Whatever. Grown or not… I’m ready to see this world.”
—
He turned back to the others — Umbwe, Ko’Mala, Vaelok.
“Thanks for the beatdowns. And the weird advice.”
The owl fluttered to his side.
“Let’s go,” she said. “The nearest town is a day’s flight north. We’ll walk. You need practice.”
“Translation or survival?”
“Both.”
Rell grinned.
“Let’s see if the world’s ready for me.”
—
As he and the owl stepped into the open path beyond the jungle’s edge, the wind caught his hair like a banner.
The sun rose higher — and the jungle, watching from the shadows, whispered:
“He walks.”
And it meant something.