Owen had been forced into action by the circumstances, launching his attack in haste. As a result, his initial downward strike didn't achieve much.
The kukri-wielding man backed off two steps, narrowly avoiding the blow. But once Owen landed, his follow-up strikes came fast and fierce.
The man swung his kukri downward, but Owen dodged to the side. A flash of pain followed—several shallow wounds now marked his own body.
But the kukri man was quickly overwhelmed. In the blink of an eye, Owen severed the tendons in his knife arm and slashed at both his abdomen and thigh. The man collapsed to the ground.
Owen had no intention of killing him, so his strikes were all cuts, not stabs.
Right now, what he wanted more than anything was to understand what was really going on.
Pressing the MK3 knife against the man's throat, Owen growled, "Tell me—who are you people?"
The kukri man looked panicked at first. But when he heard the question, he blinked in surprise, then looked at Owen's arm. A moment later, he asked incredulously, "You're not a hunter? You're one of the prey?"
"Hunter? Prey?"
Owen's expression shifted, and the kukri man suddenly chuckled. Then he glanced up at the drone overhead.
In the broadcasting room, the host's excited voice echoed: "Did you see that? This guy's a pro! The 'prey' we stumbled upon turns out to be a master with a blade! Did you catch those moves? He subdued a hunter with ease…"
"What the hell is going on here?"
Back under the tree, Owen pressed again. Seeing the man still had the nerve to smile, Owen revealed his darker side. The knife suddenly plunged into the man's shoulder blade. But Owen didn't pull it out—instead, he slowly twisted it inside the wound.
"Ahhh!"
The kukri man screamed in agony, begging for mercy.
"I'll talk! I'll talk! Please stop—"
Owen stopped. The man didn't dare resist anymore and began spilling everything.
"This is a killing game—a global live-stream for murder enthusiasts. The organizers picked 12 professional hunters and 12 regular people. The regulars are called prey. Hunters chase the prey, and they're also allowed to kill each other. Every time a hunter kills an opponent, they cut off the left ear as a trophy. In the end, the hunter with the most ears wins a million-dollar reward…"
After hearing all this, Owen finally understood why that archer had tried to kill them for no reason. They had unknowingly become someone's prey.
Owen was furious. He twisted the knife again, and the man howled in pain.
"How do I get out of here?"
"I don't know! I don't know! Even if you kill me, I don't know! This is my first time. Only the organizers know that—"
The man howled and defended himself, gesturing toward the drone in the sky.
Owen looked up at the drone. On-screen, the host was still clicking his tongue in amazement. A close-up of Owen filled the broadcast. To be fair, this "prey" had proven to be quite the surprise.
Many viewers, upon witnessing Owen's cold and decisive demeanor, now showed strong interest.
"How do I tell who's a hunter and who's prey?"
Each of Owen's questions hit the mark. The kukri man was already nearing his breaking point. The pain had nearly made him pass out, but not quite. His voice trembled.
"Hunters… have a tattoo on their arm…"
Owen immediately rolled up the man's sleeve—and his eyes sharpened. He never expected to see such a familiar tattoo here. On the man's forearm was a snarling dog's head.
This tattoo—Owen knew it all too well. Memories surged of that town outside Bratislava, Slovakia… and that grotesque, skin-crawling hostel.
He remembered those horrific scenes inside the hostel, the floor littered with dismembered bodies. In that moment, Owen's entire presence turned icy. For scum like this, there was only one response: kill.
Thud.
The kukri man tried to speak again—but the MK3 had already driven straight through his chin and into his brain. His expression froze in place. Neither he nor the TV viewers could understand why Owen had killed him so suddenly, mid-conversation.
"Looks like our little friend is a real savage…"
The host was still trying to joke, but Owen had already taken two steps forward, picked up the archer's bow, and loosed an arrow skyward. A moment later—black screen. The drone feed cut out, and the host's half-formed sentence died in his throat.
Owen had destroyed the drone with a single arrow.
The viewers watching the broadcast were electrified. Wolves hunting sheep was nothing new. But a sheep killing a wolf? That was a headline. This unexpected little "sheep" had the air of a wolf—decisive, ruthless, and clean in execution. No one watching believed this man had never killed before.
In the control room, the assistant stared at the endless stream of live comments on the screen, stunned. Eventually, he ran over to the host.
"Nick, a lot of viewers are asking for us to enable a tipping feature for the prey. They want to give this guy more attention…"
Prey had always existed merely to highlight the strength of the hunters. No one had ever considered that a prey could win the spotlight.
"Tell the tech team to make it happen. Also, start digging into this guy's identity. I have a feeling… he's not ordinary."
Nick was growing uneasy. Owen's performance gave him a sense that things were slipping out of control.
…
By the rushing riverbank, Monica lay unconscious, the water lapping against her body.
From a distance, a black caiman had spotted her—an easy target—and silently slid into the river, swimming toward her. But just before it could reach her, a little girl ran forward and dragged Monica's body into the woods. The caiman, having lost its prize, turned away and swam in another direction.
Deeper in the forest, Monica slowly regained consciousness. Above her, branches and a dimming sky filled her vision.
"You're awake."
A clear, young girl's voice came from behind her. Monica sat up and saw a young girl. Her memories returned—she remembered being separated from Owen in the river, hitting her head on a rock, and nothing after that.
"You saved me?"
The girl nodded. The forest darkened a bit more. Strange animal calls echoed from within—the nocturnal predators were awakening. The little girl looked nervous and edged closer to Monica.
As they exchanged questions and answers, Monica began to understand both her own situation and the girl's.
The girl's name was Ina. She was a tourist visiting the Amazon—and she had another identity. She was the central figure from the kidnapping case Martin had mentioned last year, when river pirates abducted several people. She and her parents had returned this year to thank their savior, Old John—but were kidnapped again by a different group.
This time, it wasn't river pirates. They had fallen into the killing game. Her parents had been separated from her during the chaos. She didn't know if they were alive. Monica was the person she had rescued by the riverbank.
"Thank you for saving me. But how did you know I wasn't with the people trying to kill you?"
Monica voiced her lingering doubt. Ina replied, "Because you don't have the dog tattoo on your arm."
Hearing the words "dog tattoo," Monica was struck by the memory of that hellish trip to Slovakia. To confirm, she picked up a stick and drew a rough image of the symbol on the ground from memory.
"Was it this?"
Ina looked at the drawing, then nodded firmly.
In that instant, a fire ignited in Monica's eyes.
______
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