Ezra sat on the rocky outcrop, the setting sun casting long shadows over the barren landscape. His left sleeve hung empty, the wound bound tightly with crude cloth. The gangrene had crept too far, too fast, leaving him no choice but to amputate. The blade he'd used still lay nearby, caked in dried blood and dust. He stared at it, hollow-eyed, the weight of survival settling heavy in his chest.

Adjusting to life with one arm was a bitter pill. His rifle felt unwieldy, his pack heavier, his pace slower. Simple tasks—tying a knot, eating, loading his gun—became grueling tests of patience. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let the loss undo him. In this hostile world, there was no room for despair.

He turned to his map, gripping the charcoal stub awkwardly. The riches promised beneath the soil still called to him. One arm or not, Ezra wasn’t done yet. Survival was an old dance, and he was still very-much on his feet.