They buried the bodies in silence.
Well, not really buried. The ground was too thick with root-webs and stone for that. So they used the jagged end of a crate lid and dug shallow pits. Gerrard went into one. The boy who got swallowed didn't even leave enough behind to bury.
The girl with the fire ability—S-tier, someone said—scorched the area afterward, to mask the smell. The air stank like charcoal and raw meat.
Nobody talked much after that.
They were still shell-shocked. Still waiting for someone to explain the rules, or announce the simulation was over, or that a rescue team was on the way.
It wasn't.
And everyone knew it.
The sun was still high when the survivors circled up near the edge of the clearing.
Thirteen of them remained.
They sat on crates, broken branches, or the moss itself. Some still trembled. One guy looked like he was about to bolt into the trees and just keep running.
Yuren sat near the edge, away from the fire pit someone had managed to build with a spark power and dry leaves. His D-rank glyph still hovered faintly over his head. He tried not to look at anyone too long.
His eyes kept drifting toward Denzel.
The guy was a wall of muscle and ego, pacing as he spoke to the group like a general prepping a war room.
"We don't have a base. We don't have weapons. We've got no water—unless one of you got a filtration ability and didn't speak up. So what we do have is a bunch of scared people waiting to get eaten."
"Which means we need roles. A chain of command. People who defend, people who gather, and people who don't get in the damn way."
He looked straight at Yuren as he said that last part.
Yuren didn't rise to it. He kept his face still. His eyes drifted to Denzel's glowing B—still visible above his head. He imagined what it'd feel like to punch through a tree. To run without slowing down. To lift something that weighed more than a car.
Not yet.
Not yet.
"I'm not saying we crown anyone king," Denzel continued, "but unless one of you has leadership experience or wants to die, I'm taking command until someone stronger shows up next month."
Murmurs. Some agreeing. Some not.
Then Chloe stepped forward.
"I'm not taking orders from a guy who celebrates being stronger than people he hasn't even helped."
Her voice wasn't loud. But it carried.
"I've got an S-rank. You've got a B. You want a chain of command? Then it starts with whoever's keeping people alive."
Denzel laughed. "You think spikes are gonna matter when a wyvern drops from the sky? You gonna talk it to death?"
"I've already saved three of you," she said flatly. "How many have you saved?"
The group went still.
Even the trees seemed to hush for a second.
Denzel's jaw tensed. His arms flexed. But he didn't push it. Not yet.
A girl near Yuren whispered, "She's right."
Yuren watched the firelight flicker across their faces. He didn't speak. Just listened.
A split was forming.
The group didn't trust Denzel. But they feared him.
They didn't fear Chloe. But they trusted her.
And fear had a shorter half-life than trust out here.
Later, as the sun dipped toward the treetops, smaller groups began forming.
Five people joined Chloe near the wreckage of a broken supply crate. They started building makeshift lean-tos with branches and tarp.
Four others followed Denzel into the trees to look for food or weapons. Yuren quietly followed that group—just close enough to stay with them, just far enough to be overlooked.
Denzel was strong.
He lifted a dead log the size of a motorcycle and moved it without strain.
He joked loudly. Took charge. Gave orders like he was born to it.
The others laughed nervously and obeyed.
Yuren helped without drawing attention. Moved leaves. Pointed out dry roots. Even caught a glimpse of a large rodent—bigger than a dog—slithering through the underbrush, and warned them before it got too close.
Denzel clapped him on the back. "Maybe you're not totally useless, huh?"
Yuren gave a quiet smile.
Three hours.
That's how long he'd been within range.
No notification would tell him when the replication succeeded.
But it had started.
That night, Yuren sat by a fading campfire, alone.
His hands were sore. His back ached. His brain was still catching up to the fact that this wasn't going to stop.
They were here.
For real.
And tomorrow would be worse.
He looked up through the tree canopy.
No stars. No moon.
Just black.
Ten days. One power.
And this one?
He'd earn it.
The jungle at night didn't quiet down.
It got louder.
The buzz of insects became a chorus of grinding clicks and rattles. Leaves rustled constantly, but never from the wind. Things moved out there—things bigger than they had any right to be.
Most of the group had huddled beneath makeshift shelters — if you could call four sticks and a plastic tarp a "shelter." The fire was low, more smoke than flame. No one knew if it would attract or scare off predators.
Yuren lay with his back to a crate, eyes half-closed but fully alert.
Trace Sense pulsed softly in his chest like a second heartbeat. Every time he focused, the dark around him lit up with thin, glowing tracks — footprints, claw marks, tail drags, fading in and out like afterimages.
Most belonged to the group.
But not all.
He felt it before he saw it.
The lightest pressure. A new trail. Thick, heavy, almost… stalking. Four-point gait. Low to the ground.
He opened his eyes fully.
Not human.
It had circled the camp once already.
His pulse quickened.
Yuren stood up quietly and stepped toward Chloe's shelter. She was sitting cross-legged with her eyes open — not asleep. Her firelit face turned toward him immediately.
"What is it?"
"I think we're being watched," he whispered. "Trace lines — thick, heavy. Same one came through twice. Circling."
She stood in a heartbeat, already reaching for a sharpened metal rod she'd shaped earlier with her S-tier ability.
"How far?"
Yuren pointed past the trees. "Six, maybe seven meters. Still close."
She didn't hesitate. "Wake them up."
Ten minutes later, most of the camp was on its feet, armed with whatever they had: broken crate boards, sharpened branches, or powers they barely understood.
Denzel looked annoyed. "You better be right, tracker boy."
"I am," Yuren said, not backing down.
He pointed. "There. Something big. Low center of gravity. It's watching from the tree line."
Denzel cracked his neck. "I'll flush it out."
"No," Chloe snapped. "That's what it wants. You break rank, we lose the perimeter."
They were tense. Frayed. On edge.
Then the brush moved.
Soft. Subtle.
Yuren squinted.
It wasn't one set of tracks anymore.
Three.
All different sizes. Closing in from different directions.
"They're surrounding us," he said. "Left, back, and high right."
Someone panicked and ran.
Bad move.
From the dark, one of them lunged.
A scaled blur. Huge, fast, and quiet—far too quiet for something that size. It moved like a Komodo dragon on steroids, but longer. Its teeth gleamed. Its eyes reflected red.
It grabbed the runner by the back and yanked him into the brush like a doll.
The scream didn't last long.
Then the second came from the opposite side. A roar this time. Pure challenge.
Denzel didn't wait.
He roared back, sprinting forward and body-slamming the beast so hard it skidded ten feet back, crashing into a tree with a dull crack.
Everyone froze.
The thing got up, shaking off dust.
Denzel cracked his knuckles.
"Oh, yeah. B-rank, bitch."
Then it charged him.
Yuren backed away from the chaos, eyes flicking across the ground. Trails danced in his vision—twisting, converging, reacting. He could feel the beasts adjusting their angles of attack.
They were communicating.
This wasn't some mindless charge.
They were planning.
And now?
They were adapting.
He shouted over the din. "Two more incoming! Right and rear!"
The group pivoted, some raising hands, others powering up. Chloe drove her spike-rod into the ground and summoned a ring of iron stakes, forming a rough barrier on one side.
The second beast slammed into it at full speed and let out a shriek — impaled through the ribs. It thrashed wildly, trying to tear free.
The third creature, smaller than the others, darted around the outside and headed straight for the injured, disoriented members at the back.
Yuren ran without thinking.
He reached the back of the group, eyes flashing with trace lines. He grabbed the nearest rock and threw it just ahead of the beast's charge.
It wasn't strong. It wasn't impressive.
But it was enough to catch its eye.
The thing veered toward him.
Shit.
He tried to dodge, but it clipped him — claws tearing across his arm. He hit the dirt hard, bleeding.
Someone behind him screamed.
Then fire erupted — a blast of it from one of the younger survivors.
The beast lit up in seconds, shrieking, spinning, dying.
Yuren lay there, clutching his arm, heart slamming against his ribs.
He looked up through sweat and smoke at the younger girl who had cast the flame.
She was shaking. Crying.
He nodded once.
Then passed out.