Deep in the tangled green sprawl of Mindanao's wilderness, Callum was rethinking every decision he'd made in the last forty-eight hours.
If one were to ask him a week ago whether he could handle the Philippine jungle, Callum—Scottish-born, battle-hardened, and a Ranger-class awakened—would've smirked with that arrogant glint in his eye and muttered something like, "Trees are trees. Creatures die the same."
But now?
Now he was half crawling, half rolling behind a fallen tree, his side scraped raw from the bark, his breath coming in ragged gasps as bullets chewed through the air like wasps on fire.
"Bloody brilliant," he muttered, clutching his bow like it was a teddy bear. "Should've stayed in the hotel. Could've ordered bloody room service."
The original plan had been simple: land in Davao, rest for a day, and then march off into the jungle like some mythic hunter, putting down dark creatures with style and efficiency—just as he had back in the mossy glens of Scotland.
Here, however, things had gone pear-shaped almost immediately.
He hadn't anticipated the rebels.
Real-life Kalashnikov-wielding bandits, armed with high-powered rifles and eyes sharper than the hawks circling above. They'd spotted him not long after he'd loosed a glowing arrow into the eye socket of what looked like a mutated monkey. It collapsed with a thud and a hiss—and within minutes, the forest erupted into chaos.
The rebels didn't stop to ask why a foreigner was in the jungle playing Legolas. They simply opened fire.
"I'm not dying because someone didn't like my archery technique!" Callum growled, rolling again just in time as a burst of gunfire shredded the ferns beside his ear.
For six hours now—six bloody hours—they'd been tracking him through the underbrush, relentless as hounds. He had evaded them only by the grace of his Ranger abilities: keen senses, unmatched stealth in natural terrain, and a stamina that made him feel like a caffeinated mountain goat.
But these rebels… they were pros.
Too good.
They moved in packs, herding him like cattle toward God-knew-what. They shouted in Tagalog and Bisaya, their voices bouncing through the trees like ghosts. Every time he thought he'd broken the pattern, they flanked him. Every time he thought he could breathe, a burst of gunfire would shred the ferns behind him.
He stopped behind a thick cluster of bamboo, chest heaving. Okay. Think. What would a Ranger do?
Answer: not panic.
Another answer: climb.
His eyes scanned the trees above him—thick vines, old branches. Slippery, but strong. He was light on his feet and wiry enough to pull it off.
Well, no use dying with boots on the ground.
Callum scrambled up, using roots and vines like a ladder, silent as a shadow. The jungle stretched wide above him—an endless maze of green. From this height, he saw one of the rebel patrols cutting through the brush below. Five of them, armed and twitchy. They were close. Too close.
He moved higher, crouching on a branch like a jungle cat. His breath slowed. His heartbeat synced with the trees.
One of the rebels walked right beneath him.
Don't look up, don't look up, don't look—
The rebel paused, eyes narrowing.
Callum froze.
A leaf fell.
The man looked up.
A squirrel dropped a nut onto the man's helmet with a perfect plunk.
"Hayop!" the rebel snapped, startled.
Callum didn't breathe until they were gone.
"Thank you, squirrel," he whispered.
He stayed in the trees for another twenty minutes, moving slowly, swinging from limb to limb, Tarzan-style, but with much more profanity and much less grace.
When the jungle grew denser, he finally dropped down onto softer earth. His boots sank slightly into the moss. The air was still. A distant eagle shrieked.
Just as he ducked behind a mossy ridge, sweat dripping into his eyes, a new sound sliced through the cacophony.
Whump. Whump. Whump.
A helicopter.
It was approaching fast, blades chopping the sky like an angry god. Callum's head jerked upward, blinking through the canopy. There it was—grey, military, no insignia. And it was lowering altitude.
"Oh, come on—" he didn't even finish the curse before the forest ahead erupted.
Gunfire from the sky poured down indiscriminately, tearing through the treetops, shattering branches like toothpicks, and sending flocks of birds screaming into the horizon. Whoever the military was after, they weren't particularly concerned about collateral damage.
Which included him.
"Brilliant," Callum muttered, voice tight with panic. "Absolutely bloody brilliant. First the rebels, now the cavalry."
But then… he paused.
If the rebels were smart—and they clearly were—they'd scatter under military fire. And that… might just be the window he needed.
Crouching low, heart pounding in his chest, he sprinted sideways through the undergrowth, using the chaos of the rotor wash and the gunfire to mask his movement. Leaves slashed across his cheeks. The air stank of gunpowder and burning wood.
He could hear screaming now. A rebel, maybe two, caught in the open.
Part of him wanted to help. But the rest of him, the one with a brain and a healthy instinct for survival, screamed louder.
This wasn't a battle he could win. Not today.
He slid behind a thick tree trunk, ducked, and activated his final skill—a movement boost called Phantom Step that let him blur for ten seconds. Ten precious seconds of silence, speed, and near invisibility.
He was gone before the rebel scout five feet away even turned his head.
He found a narrow stream and followed it, hoping it would lead somewhere that wasn't certain death.
As night fell, he climbed into a tree and curled himself into the crook of two branches. No fire. No tent. Just a bundle of leaves for a pillow and a dagger under his armpit.
He looked up at the sky. Through the thick canopy, a few stars blinked down like confused fireflies.
"Well done, Callum," he whispered to himself. "You survived a day in the jungle being hunted by armed lunatics.
He sighed and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he'd keep moving.