John stared silently at the burly man standing before him. At the man's feet lay two corpses—one decapitated, its severed head dangling from the man's hand.
John recognized them—Mr. and Mrs. Campbell. They were among the few friends he had. Last year, John had personally rescued the Campbell family of three from river pirates, and the families had remained close ever since—especially little Ina, who often sent him small gifts.
This year, they'd said they were coming to visit him during the holidays. He never imagined that their reunion would be like this.
Across from him stood a hunter, a man with a sick smile and a butcher's grip. He was a sadistic killer, having volunteered for the killing game himself. Every time he killed someone, he would butcher their body into pieces—earning him the nickname "The Dismemberer."
Now, The Dismemberer found himself intrigued by John. Though John was older, he looked strong—precisely the kind of physique The Dismemberer enjoyed hacking apart. Women and children were too soft—no fun at all.
John's expression didn't change. His gaze swept over the Campbells' mutilated corpses. They were gone, but Ina might still be alive. He had to find her.
In that moment, John made a decision: to become who he truly was again—just like when he had rescued the Campbells from the pirates last year. John didn't glorify violence, but he had his principles. And when violence was necessary, killing became as natural as breathing.
He pulled out a red headband and tied it solemnly around his forehead.
The Dismemberer's grin began to fade. He was shocked to realize that from the moment John tied that headband, his whole aura changed. Those deep-set eyes now radiated a chilling indifference toward life.
The Dismemberer suddenly felt something absurd—like he was the prey.
Unable to bear the oppressive tension, The Dismemberer charged. He hurled his hand axe with his left hand, aiming for John's chest, while drawing a spike with his right.
John broke into a sprint—first steady, then faster and faster. In a flash, he sidestepped the axe and lunged forward, tackling the hunter to the ground.
Branches snapped. Dirt and leaves flew.
In an instant, the frantic motion froze into absolute stillness.
A moment later, a figure rose to his feet—it was old John. On the ground lay the lifeless body of The Dismemberer, an old military knife buried to the hilt in his eye socket. John pulled out the blade, wiped it clean on the corpse, and slipped it back into the sheath on his belt.
The Campbells were dead. He had to find Ina.
The drone filming him watched as John walked deeper into the jungle, vanishing seamlessly into the foliage like a ghost.
Nick was on the verge of a breakdown. First a woman, now an old man—taking out hunters as if it were nothing. Was it that this year's hunters were too weak, or the prey too strong?
Just then, his assistant burst into the room.
"I found it! I found it—"
Seeing Nick's stormy expression, the assistant hesitated, but then spoke in a low voice: "I've dug up their backgrounds."
Nick didn't object, so the assistant continued: "I reviewed all the prey's data. Three of them stood out. The first man is Steve Owen—former LAPD. The woman's name is Monica Weiss—FBI tactical unit. And the old man…"
The assistant trailed off. Nick snapped impatiently, "What about the old man? Another cop?"
"No," the assistant said. "Worse. Way worse."
Seeing Nick's face darken even more, the assistant hurriedly finished: "His name is John Rambo. Green Beret. Vietnam War veteran. Congressional Medal of Honor recipient. In other words… he's a war hero."
Nick felt like he'd just eaten dirt. They'd randomly pulled an old man into the game—and he turned out to be a decorated Vietnam vet. A battle-hardened legend. But still—he was old…
…
John's fight was just one among many scenes of slaughter playing out across the rainforest. Not every prey had the ability to turn the tables. Most were just ordinary people—paralyzed by fear the moment they saw a hunter, killed before they could even scream.
In one area, a woman covered in blood stumbled through the jungle, tripping over vines and branches, collecting fresh bruises with every fall.
"Help, help~~~"
She cried out as she ran, sounding like death was right behind her.
Behind a tree, a man peeked cautiously from behind the trunk. Seeing the woman, he hesitated—but eventually called out: "Over here! Come this way!"
The panicked woman, like a headless chicken, turned toward the voice. When she saw the man, her eyes lit up with hope, and she stumbled toward him.
He stepped out to meet her. He was tall and strong-looking, holding a tree branch like a weapon. He knew exactly what was happening—he'd hidden in a bush once and watched a hunter butcher a "prey" like him. But he wasn't afraid. He was a fitness instructor and self-defense coach. He didn't think the hunters were anything special. The people who died simply lacked the courage to fight back.
"Help me, please!"
The woman stumbled into him, panic thick in her voice. She ducked behind him as if seeking protection.
He comforted her, scanning the surroundings warily. "Who's chasing you? How many of them?"
She didn't reply. As he was about to turn around—
Agony pierced his back.
"No one's chasing me."
The woman's voice had changed—calm and cold. Her trembling had vanished. In her hand was a knife buried deep into his back. Not done, she yanked it out and stabbed again.
"You—"
He tried to speak, but collapsed.
In the broadcast room, a round of applause erupted. Nick spoke into the mic: "Oh-ho! A perfect kill. That woman is called Kristina. Of course, that's just a codename. In reality, she's a Mossad operative—an expert in disguise."
On-screen, Kristina was cutting off the man's ear. Her face bore none of her earlier fear.
…
Elsewhere, Owen was moving silently through the jungle. Every step was deliberate. He'd walk a few paces, then stop to observe. The forest, apart from insect chirps and bird calls, seemed quiet—but danger lurked everywhere.
He kissed the photo inside his necklace, then tucked it back into his shirt.
Darling, I'll find you. Wait for me.
Owen crouched, one knee on the ground like a hunting beast, watching everything. He moved with such care that even the birds remained undisturbed.
Suddenly, a jolt of intuition hit him—a sense of danger. He didn't know where it came from, but this instinct had saved him many times.
Without hesitation, he dove to the side—just as something sliced through the air where he'd been.
Rolling to his feet, he raised the bow, instantly zeroed in on the source, and loosed an arrow.
A cry rang out as a figure tumbled from the treetops and crashed to the ground.
Owen approached. The arrow was still lodged in the attacker's body. Nearby lay a crossbow—the weapon the man had used in his ambush.
______
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