After almost ten minutes of frantic swimming, Alexandre and Marlon finally managed to claw their way back to the front group. Both were panting, arms burning, legs heavy, barely holding it together after pushing themselves to the breaking point just to close the gap that chaos had opened up.
Marlon's chest was heaving as he shot Alexandre a wild-eyed look. "What the hell just happened back there? I swear to God, it was like some fucking terror hit me, then nothing… like I blacked out for a second."
Alexandre pressed his lips together, searching for something to say. Truth was, he barely understood it himself, but Marlon deserved at least a straight attempt.
"I wish I knew," he said finally. "It's like… I don't know, mass hysteria or something. Like after swimming for too long out here, your mind just snaps if you're a Hunter. I had no idea before we set out, but the one thing I know for sure is that it's tied to the Z Virus."
Marlon's expression went tense. "Seriously? You're telling me this is normal?"
It was difficult to do while swimming, but Alexandre tried to shrug. "Like I said, this is new to me, too. Almost knocked me out, but I managed to snap out of it at the last second. We both survived."
Marlon glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting the ocean itself to reach up and drag him under. His voice dropped lower. "You think it could happen again?"
"No idea. Your guess is as good as mine. Just stay sharp." Alexandre grinned sarcastically. "But come on, man! I never imagined a huge lump of shit like you could be so terrified of a little cold water!"
Marlon looked at him, deadpan, then burst out laughing. He shouted up at the sky, "It's me, Marlon! I survived that shit! I'm gonna win this fucking challenge, climb the podium, and get filthy rich in this death trap! You hear me, assholes!?"
Marlon's wild bravado seemed to cut through the oppressive atmosphere, making Alexandre grin even more widely. But despite the banter, Alexandre and Marlon both knew better than to take things lightly. They swam closely together, watching each other carefully. If that panic came again, they'd need to drag each other through it. Even Alexandre wasn't sure he could keep his composure on his own a second time.
With this in mind, Alexandre quickly glanced backward, assessing the damage caused by the earlier crisis. The sight was chilling.
The once-massive group was now more like a scattering of wreckage. More than half the candidates were gone, already picked up by the rescue rafts, pulled out of the water like stunned and drowned rats. Those still fighting forward had nothing left—they moved like ghosts, faces blank and drained, arms just barely pulling their bodies onward.
And then, as if things weren't bad enough, Jack Blades kicked it up another gear. The speed he set was pure insanity—close to nine kilometers an hour, a speed usually reserved for Olympic-level swimmers.
Everyone grasped the gravity of the new situation at once. Yet nobody uttered a word of complaint. Nobody had the breath for it, or the courage.
Another half-hour at that pace. It felt endless. Alexandre could see Marlon starting to fall apart. Every stroke was slower than the last while his breathing grew ragged and his eyes lost focus.
Then, just as they were creeping up on the two-hour mark, Alexandre felt it again: the chill, the tightness, creeping into his mind and bones. Not just exhaustion, something colder—a cold, creeping unease from the deep that no adrenaline or physical exertion could shake off.
He recognized it immediately. The abyssal hysteria was back, slithering its way through his mind—insidious, deadly, and even hungrier than before.