I am a Primitive Man

As the sun dipped below the horizon, faint flickers of firelight illuminated a spot some distance from the bamboo forest.

The Bear Tribe, laden with their bountiful harvest, sat gathered around the fires. Several clay pots bubbled with boiling water, inside which large, roughly cut chunks of bamboo shoots—peeled with crude tools—were cooking.

Some, too impatient to wait, had already begun eating the raw bamboo shoots, just as they used to before they had clay pots.

The tribe’s chief, however, refrained from eating raw food. He sat patiently, waiting for the water in the pots to boil thoroughly.

Since acquiring clay pots, the Bear Tribe’s chief—like most tribes fortunate enough to own such vessels—had developed the habit of cooking certain foods before consuming them.

The chief and a few others occasionally cast wary glances toward the pitch-black bamboo forest in the distance as they waited for the bamboo shoots to cook.

Within that forest dwelled a fearsome creature—the black-and-white bear.

Unlike the gray bears that sometimes wandered near their settlement, these black-and-white bears were less aggressive and not as overtly violent.

But that didn’t mean they were to be taken lightly.

When these seemingly docile creatures went mad, they became even more terrifying than the gray bears that occasionally plagued the tribe.

Once, during this very season, some members of the Bear Tribe had been digging for bamboo shoots when someone killed a black-and-white bear cub, intending to roast it.

That person never got the chance.

Before he could even light the fire, an enraged adult black-and-white bear arrived, its fury manifesting in brutal violence.

It swiped the man to the ground with terrifying force and devoured half of his head.

Two other tribe members, unfortunate enough to be nearby, were also killed in the rampage.

From that day on, the Bear Tribe learned a hard lesson—black-and-white bears were not to be trifled with.

Ever since, when harvesting bamboo shoots, they took care not to venture too deep into the forest.

And they made sure to steer clear whenever they encountered black-and-white bears—especially the round, clumsy cubs.

Those seemingly harmless creatures had a way of bringing about the deadliest disasters.

But this time was different.

The Bear Tribe’s chief had come here not just to collect bamboo shoots but with an even bolder objective—stealing a black-and-white bear cub.

Normally, they would never take such a risk.

When food was abundant and other prey easier to hunt, there was no reason to provoke these creatures.

Why risk death fighting a bear when you could chase down herbivores instead?

But things had changed.

They had grown accustomed to salt.

And to trade for more, they were willing to take the risk…

As night descended and the flames flickered in the wind, the Bear Tribe’s chief finished his tasteless, saltless boiled bamboo shoots.

He turned his gaze toward the dark expanse of the bamboo forest, clenched his fist, and silently calculated his approach—what to do when they encountered a black-and-white bear cub.

The morning sun filtered through the canopy, casting a luminous glow upon the bamboo leaves.

Deep within the forest, where a thick layer of dried bamboo leaves had accumulated over the years, members of the Bear Tribe cautiously made their way forward, their steps muffled by the forest floor.

Now and then, one would crouch down, using their digging tools to unearth the tender tips of young bamboo shoots emerging from the soil…

In the Distance, A Rolling Surprise.

Far ahead, the chief of the Bear Tribe walked at the front of the group, holding a long weapon in his hands. He continuously swept it through the dry underbrush, creating a rustling noise that echoed through the bamboo forest.

With every sweep of his weapon, small creatures slithered away into the distance—snakes, the silent inhabitants of the bamboo grove.

Someone in the tribe discovered this trick over the years of foraging for bamboo shoots. Ever since then, the practice of "beating the grass to startle the snakes" has become a survival skill passed down through generations.

As they advanced cautiously, the chief and his group kept scanning their surroundings, hoping to spot a black-and-white bear.

By this point, the Bear Tribe members had split into two groups.

The fastest seven, including the chief, were tasked with locating and capturing a black-and-white bear cub. The rest, who weren’t as swift, remained at the outer edges of the forest, focused on digging up bamboo shoots.

To prevent endangering the others during their escape, should they succeed in capturing a cub, the chief had led his small team in a wide arc around the outskirts of the forest before venturing deeper inside.

Death had a way of teaching painful lessons—lessons that people tended to remember.

If the Bear Tribe hadn’t suffered casualties to black-and-white bear attacks in the past, the chief might never have thought of such a cautious strategy.

After another round of searching, the chief pulled apart a few bamboo stalks and glanced at the sun’s position. With a hint of regret, he called for his group to turn back.

They had a long way to go before reuniting with the rest of the tribe outside the forest. They wouldn’t make it before nightfall if they didn't leave now.

Just as they neared the edge of the bamboo grove, a sudden rustling sound came from a nearby slope.

The chief instinctively looked up—just in time to see a black-and-white furball rolling down the incline, crushing dry bamboo leaves beneath it.

Before he could even react, the small round creature tumbled to his feet.

The plump little body bounced twice upon hitting the ground and, without hesitation, clung onto the chief’s leg.

Then, as if testing a new kind of bamboo, the cub stuck out its tongue and gave its leg an experimental lick.

Finding this oddly-colored "bamboo" saltier and tastier than usual, it went in for a second lick.

"#$%…!"

The chief, caught between shock and excitement, snapped out of his daze. Without wasting another second, he bent down, scooped up the cub—just about to go for a third lick—and bolted.

Years of harvesting bamboo shoots had taught him one crucial fact:

Adult black-and-white bears were never far from their cubs.

The rest of the group didn’t need instructions—they turned and ran alongside their chief at full speed.

Not long after they disappeared into the forest, another rustling noise came from the same slope.

A much larger black-and-white furball tumbled down.

Unlike the cub, this one took its time. It rolled twice, then clumsily got to its feet.

Oblivious to the fact that its troublesome offspring had just been stolen, the bear looked around absentmindedly, scanning its surroundings with a leisurely air.

Then, as if realizing something was amiss, it began searching for its little one—unaware of how far it had already gone…