Night had fallen, and the jungle was plunged into darkness. Carnivorous animals, accustomed to hunting under the cover of night, began to emerge from their lairs, and strange calls echoed all around.
Owen knew all too well that the Amazon was a hundred times more dangerous at night. All around him, glowing green eyes shimmered in the darkness. Even if he wanted to search for Monica, it was impossible under such conditions. Before complete darkness fell, Owen cut some vines and climbed a tall tree, tying himself in place with the vines. He planned to spend the night like this.
Thinking about everything he had gone through today, wondering what Monica was doing now, Owen quickly drifted off into a dreamless sleep, his body weary from the danger and injuries.
He woke at dawn. The morning light streamed through the forest canopy, and the strange nocturnal sounds had faded. The rainforest once again teemed with life.
Owen climbed down. The ground bore fresh tracks—some animal had clearly passed through in the night.
He couldn't find any water vines nearby, so he gathered dew from leaves instead. After a night's rest, his wound showed signs of improvement. He had no signs of fever—everything seemed to be moving in a good direction.
…
Elsewhere in the rainforest, a deadly chase was underway.
Jackson, the sound technician, was running for his life through the trees, crashing through branches. He looked ragged—his clothes were torn in several places, some strips barely hanging on.
He hadn't eaten all night, and the terrifying jungle noises had kept him awake. His stamina had dropped drastically. As he ran through a swampy depression, he slipped and fell, and this time he no longer had the strength to get up.
Lying face-down, gasping for air, he heard a sound from a nearby thicket. In a flash, he leapt to his feet like a frightened monkey and fled in sheer terror.
Several hundred meters behind him, a one-eyed man crouched and studied the footprints in the dirt, then the broken vines nearby. Rising to his feet, he silently pursued Jackson's trail.
Overhead, a drone captured the entire scene. The host narrated: "Golden Eagle is a master tracker, and last year's game champion. None of his targets have ever survived once he's on their trail…"
Perhaps because he was the reigning champion, the host gave a full background: "Some of you may not know why this one-eyed man is called Golden Eagle. He used to serve in Ukraine's elite 'Golden Eagle' special forces. After the unit was disbanded by the Ukrainian government, he didn't join Russia—he chose to become a freelancer. Later, he joined our game, and in his first appearance, he killed five out of ten contestants and took the championship. He currently has the highest win rate and massive popularity…"
As the host finished his commentary, the screen suddenly switched to another feed—Owen was in a standoff with an Asian man.
In a part of the rainforest, Owen stood alert, staring warily at the stranger before him. The man looked Japanese, and he wielded two katana-like swords, each about a meter long.
The encounter seemed accidental. From their expressions, neither had expected to run into anyone here.
The Japanese man held his blades in reverse grip. Honestly, such long swords were awkward to wield that way, but the doghead tattoo on his arm marked him as another hunter—perhaps he had some special skill.
Owen also held his MK3 in reverse grip, maintaining tight vigilance. The two edged closer, testing each other. The jungle was still quiet in the early morning. Overhead, Owen could hear the hum of a drone, but he didn't dare break focus. Every movie he'd seen told him that any Asian villain was probably a martial arts expert.
In the control room, the host eagerly provided the Japanese contestant's background:
"This Asian contestant goes by the codename 'White Phantom.' He's the heir to an ancient martial arts family. Due to disputes over inheritance, he killed everyone else in his clan. We found him in prison. If he wins the championship, he'll earn his freedom."
As White Phantom's profile rolled out, betting odds in a special gambling hub began to fluctuate. The odds for Owen steadily climbed—clearly, most people weren't betting on him.
In the jungle, Owen and White Phantom closed in on each other. When they reached a critical distance, the Japanese man gave a shout and lunged forward.
The clash of steel echoed through the jungle. Owen and White Phantom exchanged over a dozen blows, neither gaining the upper hand.
After separating briefly, Owen had already formed a general judgment of his opponent's fighting style: one word—speed.
White Phantom was incredibly fast, much faster than the average person. Even for someone with combat training, handling him would be difficult. Once he attacked, his twin blades rained down like a storm, leaving his opponent no time to react. If Owen didn't have his "bullet time," he might've been caught off guard.
They circled each other again. With another battle cry, White Phantom charged. This time, Owen saw even more clearly—once White Phantom moved, all his attacks were offensive. It was obvious his left-hand blade was the primary weapon, while the right mostly served as a distraction.
A flurry of ringing clashes followed—White Phantom attacked thirty-one times, and Owen defended against all thirty-one. On the thirty-second, Owen had fully unraveled his opponent's pattern. He brushed aside the decoy blade with a twist of his wrist, then stepped forward. Thud! The MK3 pierced White Phantom's torso.
White Phantom froze, staring in disbelief at the blade inside him. He couldn't understand how Owen had been faster than him. Summoning all his strength, he attempted one last strike, but Owen merely twisted the knife—ending it all.
He withdrew the blade and stepped back.
White Phantom knelt, eyes wide, his head drooping as life fled from his body.
At that very moment, a data analyst monitoring the broadcast noted a massive wave of tips flooding in for Owen. He rushed to alert Nick—only to find the host wearing a grim expression.
In the betting markets, some cursed their poor judgment. Others complained they hadn't bet more.
Onscreen, Owen picked up the bow. The feed went black again as he took down another drone. His defiance was palpable. Nick's face turned ashen. This unpredictable wild card had just eliminated another hunter. As the assistant looked over at him, Nick snapped in frustration: "His identity—his identity! Who the hell is he?! Why don't we know anything yet?!"
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