Alen ran.
Not out of cowardly. Out of instinct.
The tunnel narrowed with every step. His boots slipped on the wet rock. Air fought to reach his lungs.
Three had entered the mountain. He was first. It was the smart choice.
His trait, Intense Intuition, was an active trait: he could sense it and use it consciously whenever needed. It didn't just amplify his natural instincts—it allowed him to react instantly in combat, anticipate enemy movements, detect hidden traps, and assess risks without thinking.
In that tunnel, its utility became critical. Every fork, every dark passage, was a potential threat, and thanks to his trait, he could choose the right path purely by instinct. He knew which routes would bring him closer to the egg and which would endanger him, moving safely where others would have gotten lost or trapped.
That's why they had advanced quickly.
They emerged from the narrow corridor into a wide cave, high ceilings and uneven walls reflecting light diffusely. Humidity saturated the air, and the constant echo of their steps made every movement feel slower than it was. The three advanced cautiously, aware that any mistake could be fatal.
Alen felt it immediately: a pressure on his chest, that uncomfortable sensation that only appeared when something important was just a few meters away. The egg was close. Every muscle tensed; Intense Intuition vibrated with certainty that something waited there, something that would demand his full attention and reflexes.
And then they appeared.
Two elite ants. Their legs struck the ground with a heavy, measured rhythm. They didn't attack immediately. They assessed. Measured distance, weight, reactions.
Alen didn't hesitate. His instinct screamed: run
The ground vibrated differently as they landed. They didn't attack yet. They evaluated. Measured distance, weight, reactions.
His intuition didn't waver. It didn't whisper. It screamed: run.
He turned and fled without looking back. It wasn't cruelty or indifference; every fiber of his being protested leaving his friends, but he understood with painful clarity: it was his only chance to survive.
He heard his friends shouting his name in rage.
Now he ran alone. The tunnels stretched ahead without apparent logic, but his body knew the way. Not toward the egg: away. Each turn increased the pressure in his head, and the active intuition guiding him whispered that the danger wasn't only behind.
Then his intuition screamed again. Too late.
A strike cut through the air from the right.
A brutal right hook came from the side of the tunnel.
An arm covered in red fibers and gray plates passed inches from his face.
He survived by pure reflex. He dodged backward just in time. The blow hit the wall instead. He lost his balance.
He couldn't recover his stance.
The attacker showed no surprise at the dodge. On the contrary, he struck again.
Marcus stepped forward and launched the claw from his left hand. Precise. Brutal.
The blade sank into his chest.
Air escaped in a dry gasp. Pain was immediate, deep. He clenched his teeth to keep from shouting and returning to the fight. But this one was already lost.
Marcus lunged for his legs. A takedown.
Alen lowered his guard instantly, bracing to absorb the impact, preparing to roll.
Mistake.
It was a feint. Marcus changed the angle at the last second and threw a right hook. The fist hit cleanly on the jaw. His head cracked. He lost his balance.
No pause.
A left high kick exploded against the side of his skull. The blow lifted him off the ground and slammed him into the tunnel wall. His head cracked again.
He fell. Tried to rise. His legs didn't respond.
Marcus advanced slowly. He drew a third claw. Didn't throw it. Placed it against Alen. The pressure was minimal. Enough.
"Don't move."
The voice was low. Controlled. Emotionless.
Marcus watched from above. Steady breathing. Firm stance. Every muscle ready to react. No hurry. No anger. Just a cold gaze.
"Where is the egg?"
Marcus pressed the claw against his neck. Firm, controlled pressure, enough to immobilize without serious harm.
"Where is the egg?" he repeated, watching every reaction.
Alen swallowed hard, his eyes shining with a mix of fear and understanding. He knew there was no room for lies.
"It's… about fifty meters ahead," he finally said, his voice tense. "Through the tunnel to the right. There's a narrow passage that seems like a dead end, but the back wall is an illusion. Through it is a wider chamber… the egg is in that chamber."
Alen kept happily quiet about the two elite monsters.
Marcus held the claw steady, evaluating each word, every subtle gesture.
"Thanks," he said finally. "I hope you understand." He raised his right arm.
"Thanks to you," Alen replied, a satisfied smile forming, remembering what awaited the bastard in the chamber. "Good luck, son of a bi-"
Marcus didn't let him finish. He ended it without mercy—a sharp, calculated strike to the temple. The boy dropped unconscious, with no time to react.
The bracelet glowed red.
Marcus stood, flexing his neck once. Then looked at his right arm.
The gray plates covered it from shoulder to knuckles. Beneath, red fibers pulsed, tense, alive.
The plates fit over the muscle like a natural extension. He kept it that way because it was his strong side. When he focused his trait there, every strike hit heavier, steadier, direct to the point. In tight spaces, there was no room for prolonged exchanges. A single precise blow resolved the fight.
He glanced at the boy lying on the ground.
Briefly, just enough to acknowledge him.
He never liked doing it this way. Never had.
But he needed to reach the top three, needed to get stronger, and if it meant ambushing, striking, torturing, eliminating someone—Marcus was willing.
Though he thought it wouldn't be necessary again.
Last time, he'd been told the egg was in the center. Marcus didn't think it was a lie, but he never found the correct entry. He explored the chamber, touched the rock, measured distances… too many possible paths, too many routes that led nowhere. The center revealed nothing.
When he heard footsteps, he didn't strike immediately. He hid. Waited. And when he emerged, he did so with enough violence to extract real answers.
From the sound of Alen's steps, and the fact that he seemed unconcerned by them, it was clear he ran toward or from something important. Marcus didn't care which.
Now he had a precise course. Marcus turned toward the right-hand tunnel and advanced. He didn't withdraw the claw from Alen. According to survival classes, if something punctures an artery, removing it could cause rapid blood loss. Better to keep it firm until a safe place.
But forty paces in, four wolf-sized ants emerged from the ground, fast and silent. Marcus moved as if he had anticipated it, taking up a combat stance. Then he manipulated the ether toward his right fist, growing fine needles along his knuckles, increasing penetration and striking force.
The first lunged aggressively for his neck. Marcus reacted instantly: his right hand grabbed the ant's jaw, pulling it toward him in a precise arc. When the creature's neck was within reach, he drove his left elbow vertically. The neck was trapped between elbow and wall; pressure exact. One strike, the neck snapped with a crack as the jaws closed uselessly.
The second jumped toward his head. Marcus ducked, calculating its trajectory. With an upward thrust, he flipped it in the air; it landed face down, incapacitated before hitting the ground.
Without pause, the third aimed for his leg, attempting a surprise. Marcus anticipated it: he jumped, connecting a knee to the ant's head. Its jaw scraped his thigh lightly, no deep cut. Unrelenting, he delivered one, then two brutal punches to the cranium, splattering blood across his face.
The fourth attacked from an unexpected angle, scaling the wall and falling on him from above on the right. Marcus blocked with his plated arm; the jaws clamped his forearm but broke nothing. He pushed it back and quickly assessed the remaining two.
This time, he chose to strike first. He drew the third claw and drove it into an ant's head. The blade pierced precisely; the creature died instantly. Without delay, he ran to the second. He jumped to the wall, rebounded, and in a single motion delivered a downward kick to the head. The neck cracked, and Marcus crushed the skull with his fist.
Blood splattered his shirt again.
Marcus stopped. Air still burned his lungs; tension ran through every muscle. He flexed his fingers, and the gray plates of his right arm retracted, undoing the coating. The arm felt lighter, free from the rigidity the focused trait provided.
He calmly wiped the blood from his shirt and face with a quick movement of his hand.
Without hurry, he sat on one of the ant corpses, back against the damp rock wall. He pulled out a piece of fruit and bit it calmly, chewing slowly while surveying the tunnels he had just crossed. Every bite was practical—a small energy recharge before continuing, without indulgence.
His eyes scanned the empty space around. No celebration. No evident relief. Only cold evaluation of the surroundings, silent preparation for what came next.
Coldness, consistency, lethality. These words defined Marcus.