Ever since the idea of teaching the ape-men to make fire took shape,
all time not spent observing them was devoted to thinking through ways to make fire.

On the dried riverbed, blazing sunlight poured down across jagged gravel.
The air was scorching and still.

The host was half-kneeling on a patch of shallow sand,
one foot pinning down a wooden stick,
one hand gripping a stone he had picked up earlier,
trying to strike the stick until it broke.

“Thud! Thud! Thud!”

The blows were dull and irregular.

Soris watched in utter boredom,
until one strike—

Snap!

A tiny yet piercing spark burst forth at the instant stone struck stone,
then vanished in the air.

A spark?

He jolted, and the sequence of what had just happened replayed at once.

That stone… pyrite?
Or some impure ore mixed with sulfur?

The gaze swept the surroundings—the exposed layers of broken stone along the riverbed
could indeed contain materials capable of striking sparks.

Thoughts churned in an instant.

If sustained friction could be kept against this kind of ore…
as long as there were dry wood shavings as tinder…
maybe—this could be the point of entry.

But reality quickly doused that heat.

He ultimately couldn’t control this body.

If they could… strike like this…
perhaps they really could strike sparks.

A sigh—even so, the ideal striking rhythm began to simulate on its own.

One strike. Two strikes—
force, angle, rhythm.

The simulated process flowed frame by frame through the mind, like an animation.

Next moment, he sensed something amiss.

The strikes of the stone in the host’s hand began to grow steadier,
the point of impact gradually shifting toward the position just conceived—

…How could this be?

The gaze narrowed, reinforcing the image of that motion once more—
heavier, a little lower, a change of angle.

Gradually, the host’s movements began to align.

I… can control it?

Not daring to settle on a conclusion too quickly,
consciousness snapped into focus, replaying the striking process once more, in detail.

The third strike came down hard, stone fragments scattering.

A faint light flickered,
and from between the wood shavings rose a thread of smoke, almost imperceptible.

Soris held his breath.

That was… fire.

But before any joy could surface, the host’s body suddenly stiffened.

That tiny red point seemed like the omen of some misfortune.

The next second, he screamed,
flinging his hands as the wooden stick was thrown away.

“No—don’t run!”

Soris shouted anxiously,
yet it was like a fist sinking into cotton—completely ineffective.

The host broke into a frantic run, screaming as he ran,
charging toward distant companions.

There was nothing to do but watch as the scene lurched and shook,
an inexpressible sense of frustration welling up.

It seemed control had its limits…
but it was still a substantial gain.

The conditions had to be clarified first… how should they be tested?

A deep breath.
Emotions gradually settled.
Plan formulation began.

After some time, the host managed to stop panicking.

Soris did not press on.
Rather, he observed the fluctuations of emotion, quietly waiting for fear to subside.

Only when low fruit trees swaying in the wind caught the eye in the distance
did a single thought get implanted at the back of the mind—

Go there. Pick it up.

The host hesitated for a moment, then finally walked toward the fruit tree.

Carefully, a fallen fruit was picked up and bitten into.

The sound of chewing rose close to the ear.

Soris recorded the outcome in mind.

As expected, suggestion was only effective when the host was calm.

With that conclusion reached, he waited quietly for the next opportunity—
the day they would return to the riverbed.

After all, patience was all that remained.

A few days later, the opportunity finally arrived.

This time, Soris introduced a new prompt—
a piece of leftover meat in hand.

The meat, stained with dried, hardened blood,
was held in a rough hand.

Sunlight poured down onto the cracked ground, scorching and oppressive.

The host set the meat aside and began repeatedly striking the overlong wooden stick in hand.

Soris focused his intent, guiding each strike slightly toward the edge of the stick.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

The rhythm was steady and dense.

As stone and stick collided again and again,
dry wood shavings gradually gathered into a small pile.

Waiting patiently until the shavings had accumulated enough,
Soris applied the final trace of guidance—

causing the strike to shift slightly off center,
the stone striking the rock on the ground.

Crack!

Sparks flickered, igniting a small trace of red-orange flame,
creeping quietly among the wood shavings.

Startled once again, the host jerked backward sharply,
flinging the wooden stick from his hand,
the whole body springing as if in a jump, about to flee the scene.

From deep within consciousness, Soris clung tightly to his attention.

—The meat! The meat is still there!

Amid the panic, the host’s steps faltered,
seized by a surge of primal instinct,
his gaze turning toward the meat left beside the sparks.

The flame had already gone out,
leaving only white smoke circling between stone and stick.

He approached with caution,
then bent down warily to pick up the meat.

The side closest to the fire had already changed color,
turning from fresh red to the gray-white of cooked meat, marked with charring.

A thin wisp of smoke rose slowly from the surface of the meat.

After a brief moment of hesitation,
as if by instinct,
he put the meat into his mouth.

The next instant—

“Urgh!”

A cry burst from the throat, carrying surprise and delight.

Soris’ eyes widened slightly,
as if he, too, could sense the taste of cooked meat at the tip of the tongue.

Hahaha—success!

Heartfelt laughter rose within the mind.

Not for fire,
not for meat,
but for that long-absent surge of fervor—

A surge of exhilaration at finally breaking through the impasse,
sending even consciousness into a tremor.

Next comes the moment of witnessing
whether fire can truly endure within the tribe itself.