The cultists, driven by a potent cocktail of fanaticism and the Overseer's increasingly unhinged promises of eternal bliss (which Michael suspected involved an eternity of chanting and swamp stew), remained stubbornly persistent in their pursuit. But Michael was adapting, his privileged upbringing being rapidly replaced by a pragmatic ruthlessness. He began to view their hunt not as a desperate flight but as a strategic game of predator and prey, with the entirety of Lian Yu as his hunting grounds. He learned to exploit the island's treacherous terrain, leading his pursuers into dense mangrove swamps where the mud sucked at their feet with malevolent glee, or across precarious rope bridges that looked suspiciously like they'd been chewed on by particularly enthusiastic termites.
Once, while being pursued by a particularly large and surprisingly agile cultist wielding a rather nasty-looking crossbow, Michael had ducked behind a massive banyan tree. As the cultist peered around, Michael had unleashed a sudden burst of energy, not at the cultist himself, but at a nearby branch laden with particularly ripe and pungent fruit. The resulting cascade of rotten fruit had struck the cultist squarely in the face, momentarily blinding and disorienting him. "Eat this, disciple of doom!" Michael had hissed before making his escape. Later, having captured a less-than-enthusiastic cultist who seemed more concerned with complaining about the lack of decent coffee than with spiritual enlightenment, Michael had offered a twisted deal. "Tell me their plans, their weaknesses," he'd said, his voice low and devoid of emotion, "and I'll… ensure your swift departure from this earthly realm. Think of it as early retirement." The cultist, surprisingly amenable to this proposition, had spilled the beans with remarkable speed. As Michael prepared to uphold his end of the bargain, he'd muttered, a grim smile playing on his lips, "Well, that was surprisingly easy. Clearly, not everyone here is a fan of the Overseer's management style."