From the top of the nearest tree, he caught a glimpse.
Shadows carved against the gloom. Four, five… maybe seven figures. All armed with swords, spears, and shields.
One of them raised his hand, and the group halted.
Absolute silence.
It was clear: they too had sensed Lennon's presence.
His breathing quickened.
The hunting arena allowed no distractions. Here, other prisoners were as dangerous as monsters.
They wore clothes similar to Lennon's, but decorated with improvised accessories, cloaks made of monster hides.
Clear signs they had already survived brutal hunts.
The one at the front, clearly the leader, lifted his chin. His eyes locked on Lennon, perched atop the tree.
A strange silence lingered.
Those men felt something different emanating from him. The gaze of a survivor. Clothes still those of a prisoner, bare feet, dried blood and mud clinging to his skin – marks of someone who had endured a savage fight and was still standing.
The leader narrowed his eyes and broke the silence:
"You're an adapted… from which side?"
The words rang like code. As if there were divisions, factions within that living prison.
Lennon understood immediately. It wasn't just about surviving monsters. There were groups here, sides. Structures.
He drew a deep breath and, without hesitation, leapt from the tree.
The ground shook on impact.
Almost seven meters high, and he landed as if it were nothing.
The other adapteds stepped back, surprised, stunned.
Lennon lifted his gaze straight to the leader.
"What is this… side?"
The group exchanged glances. Some let slip disdainful smirks, others showed genuine surprise. The leader narrowed his eyes, sizing Lennon up from head to toe.
"Then you're a rookie adapted…" – he muttered, almost laughing.
"Here, no one survives alone for long. There are sides. Territories. Their own rules. After all, no one endures being exhausted, fighting alone, and still handing essence fruits to the damned demons."
He lifted his chin, almost solemn:
"We belong to the side of the Journalists of the Abyss. Like you, we forged pacts to survive. And from the looks of you, it doesn't seem like you've been having good times. You can join us."
The words hung in the air like an invisible blade.
Lennon didn't answer right away. His eyes locked on the leader, but his mind raced. This confirmed what he already suspected: that so-called freedom was nothing but bait. Groups formed, factions grew, and prisoners became pawns in a greater game.
"And why would I join you?" – Lennon returned, his voice cold.
Some chuckled under their breath. The leader did not. He stepped forward and stomped his makeshift boot against the dry ground.
"Then you won't last long, brother. Without a side, you're prey. With a side, you hunt with veterans, claim territory, shelter… and most importantly: protection from adapteds who'd love to rob or kill you."
A woman from the group raised a necklace of sharp claws, her gaze hard:
"Being alone is worse than a monster."
Lennon smirked faintly, humorless. He thought of the obvious: there were privileges in joining a group. But also risks.
His rapid growth would draw attention, breed suspicion, maybe betrayal.
He didn't need burdens.
"Better not. I'd rather be worse than a monster." – His voice was steady, without hesitation.
The group froze. Unsure whether to laugh or pity him. The leader's expression shifted. Diplomacy vanished. He raised his sword. The others followed, their weapons aligned – spears, black blades forged from hardened bone.
"Since you won't join, at least hand over what you carry. After all, you'll die and come back to hunt again."
Lennon's hand rested on his sword, still stained with blood and mud. His face, unreadable.
"I'm also very interested in what you're carrying. I bet many monsters suffered on your blades…"
Tension thickened like a weight in the air. The cold seemed to crackle around them, ready to shatter with the first blade raised.
One of the women, fed up, lunged at him, sword in hand:
"Arrogant rookie! I'm a rookie too, and still I know how stupid you are for taking such a stance!"
But before she reached Lennon, her body was already on the ground. Her head vanished as if torn off by the wind. Silence stretched for an eternal second.
Then, from the fallen flesh, four essence fruits and two swords floated, rising into Lennon's hands.
The group recoiled, stunned, terrified.
"That bastard… what kind of power is this?!" – one of them muttered.
"Not even I, as a distinguished adapted, have such an ability! Could he be a veteran in disguise? Impossible! A veteran wouldn't be barefoot, bloodstained, like this!"
Tension erupted.
"Roger, what are you waiting for?!" –;shouted another, brandishing his spear.
"You're a distinguished adapted! Let's finish him, Liza's dead and robbed!"
The leader, Roger, clenched his jaw.
His sword rose slowly, reflecting the meager light.
"Kill him."
They charged together, Roger holding the rear.
The worst choice they could have made.
Lennon's movements were swift, precise, merciless. Each strike fell like a sentence, each step an execution.
Improvised weapons ricocheted, bones shattered, throats opened. One by one, they fell.
At last, Roger lunged with a heavy sword strike.
Lennon blocked effortlessly, slid his blade… and the leader's head toppled, eyes still frozen in disbelief: who the hell was that prisoner?
Silence. Only the cold.
Lennon gathered the fruits and gear, stacking them calmly, planning to inspect later.
When he looked at them, his stomach tightened. They weren't monsters, they were people. Even knowing they would return, the feeling was always final.
Definitive.
He breathed deeply, eyes fixed on the lifeless bodies.
"Feels like I'm losing my sanity…" he thought, as the darkness of the region seemed to watch him in silence.
Lennon sifted through the spoils, separating what would be useful.
He stripped off his tattered clothes and wrapped himself in a black cloak, made of something resembling monster hide – heavy, coarse, but resilient.
He slipped into makeshift boots, stained with dry mud and blood.
He lifted his face forward, eyes steady on the twisted region's darkness.
He adjusted the black cloak on his shoulders. The rough fabric smelled of blood and earth. The bodies at his feet would resurrect, but the resources he now carried were real. Each fruit, each weapon, was a step closer to the power he needed to never retreat again.
His mind, clear and sharp, was already fixed on the next goal: finding the essence stones for the ritual. Everything else – the sides, the territories, the politics of the adapteds – was noise.