The morning broke cold and silver, mist curling through the half-built stronghold like restless breath.
For once, there were no alarms. No claws scraping at the gates.
Only the rhythm of hammers, the crack of axes, and the low murmur of a camp that had finally begun to believe it might survive.
Ethan stood near the western wall, watching three hunting parties form in the courtyard. The survivors moved with quiet purpose — not the panic of prey, but the steady confidence of people who had begun to understand the rules of this new world.
Their armor was mismatched, their weapons scavenged, but their eyes burned with focus.
Marcus led the first team, towering over his Titan Bloods like a walking siege engine. His voice carried across the yard.
"Same plan as before. We hit hard, hit fast. Take what we can carry. Don't get greedy."
The second group formed behind Darren — smaller, quicker, a spear line built for precision rather than brute force. He barely spoke; his orders came through nods and gestures. His people mirrored his calm.
The third was Caleb's. He wore a battered chestplate and carried a two-handed blade too big for most men to lift. He clapped one of his recruits on the back and gave a sharp grin.
"We bring back meat and cores. You'll eat tonight if you swing true."
Ellie stood beside him, checking the harness on her bear before signaling to her husky and Alsatian. They fanned out instinctively, fur rippling with faint elemental energy — ice steaming from their paws where they stepped.
Maya joined her — smaller, quieter, headphones still around her neck though they hadn't worked since day one. Her eyes glowed faintly with the ripple-sense she'd gained at level ten. She could feel vibrations across the ground, hear things most couldn't.
She tilted her head toward Ethan. "No movement yet. The forest's calm."
Ethan nodded. "Keep it that way."
He didn't envy them. Every time someone stepped beyond the walls, they rolled the dice with their lives.
Keith leaned on his staff beside him, grey eyes tracking the departing groups.
"They're starting to act like soldiers," he murmured.
"Or predators," Ethan said quietly. "I'm not sure which one's better."
The gates groaned open. One by one, the parties vanished into the mist — thirty-two fighters in total, almost half their able population.
The stronghold felt emptier the moment they were gone.
---
The Weight of Numbers
By midday, the sound of hammering filled the air again.
Walls rose another few feet, reinforced with scavenged rebar and system-forged stone. Builders shouted orders, breath steaming in the cold. The smell of smoke and damp earth was everywhere.
Ravi sat at the long table in the central hall, ink smeared down the side of his hand.
"Population's ninety-two," he muttered when Ethan approached. "Eight short of the hundred we need. If no one else dies, we've got five days before rationing."
Ethan rubbed a hand across his face. "And the system bonus?"
"Still locked until we hit the milestone. Two hundred and fifty credits once we reach a hundred."
Ravi hesitated. "Assuming the gods keep playing fair."
Ethan gave a dry laugh. "They've never played fair."
---
The Hunt Reports
The afternoon dragged by in a blur of messages flickering through the hunters' shared interface.
[Marcus]: Pack of scaled boars — three kills. No losses. Returning by dusk.
[Darren]: Clearing sector twelve. Cores secured.
[Caleb]: Minor wounds. Three mutants down. Still searching for larger prey.
Every report meant more cores, more credits, more hope.
But every one of them also pushed Ethan further behind.
By now, Marcus was nearing level twenty. Darren and Caleb weren't far behind. Even Ellie's beasts were climbing faster than him.
Ethan checked his own status out of habit.
> [Ethan — Gene Anchor | Level 12 | EP: 230/230 | HP: 210/210]
He'd barely moved since the last hunt.
Support work didn't grant much experience. He could heal, anchor, reinforce — but without the final blow, the System treated him like background noise.
He stared at the glowing lines and felt the familiar ache of inadequacy.
He wasn't weak.
But compared to them, he was standing still while everyone else became something more — monsters in human skin.
---
The Warning
By evening, the mist thickened again.
Builders packed their tools. Fires were lit. The fortress glowed in the half-light — a patchwork of timber and stone bound by the golden shimmer of system reinforcement.
Then the air itself rippled.
A familiar light burned across the sky above the stronghold, clear as lightning:
> Attention, survivors.
In forty-eight hours, your fortresses will be tested.
The beasts evolve.
The strong endure.
The weak perish.
Prepare yourselves.
The words faded, leaving silence — thick, heavy, unbreathing.
Someone whispered, "Forty-eight hours…"
Ravi slammed his notebook shut. "It's coordinated. Every stronghold will be hit at once."
Keith's jaw tightened. "A culling."
Marcus's voice crackled through the communicator rune. "Then we get ready. We still need those extra bodies for the reward. What's the count?"
"Still ninety-two," Ethan replied. "No new arrivals."
"Then keep the beacon on," Marcus growled. "We can't turn people away now."
Keith's tone hardened. "Broadcasting longer won't just draw survivors. Every mutant for miles will see us like a torch in the dark."
Lena's voice joined from the hall, calm but firm. "We need hands, yes. But not if they die before they reach us."
Voices rose — fear and urgency clashing in the cold air.
Ethan let it run for a moment, then raised his voice. "Enough!"
Silence fell.
He met their eyes — tired, frightened, defiant.
"We can't win by hiding. We need more people, more fighters, more builders. The beacon stays on."
He paused. "But only for twenty-four more hours. After that, we seal the gates."
Keith muttered, "You're gambling, boy."
Ethan nodded. "Yeah. But the house already wants us dead."
---
The Night Watch
The stronghold didn't sleep.
Towers half-built. Fires burning low. Mist curling between the walls.
Ethan patrolled with Keith and Aria. The girl's spider lurked nearby, its massive form folded into shadow — long legs gleaming faintly with dew. By the riverbank, Keith's crocodile drifted lazily through the water, scales catching torchlight like shards of glass.
"They're guarding their ground," Keith murmured. "Beasts always sense what's coming before we do."
Aria hugged her arms. "The spider's been restless since sundown."
Ethan frowned. "Why?"
Before Keith could answer, a muffled thump split the night — followed by a strangled shriek.
Aria's eyes widened. "It's in the web!"
They ran.
Through the fog, the spider loomed over its trap, eight eyes glowing blue. Something twisted in the sticky strands — humanoid, distorted, its skin a patchwork of scales and veins.
Aria's voice trembled. "It's caught. What do I do?"
"Hold it!" Ethan shouted. "Don't let her kill it!"
The creature thrashed, snarling, tearing at the silk. The spider clicked in confusion but obeyed, tightening the web without striking.
Ethan stepped closer, pulse hammering. "It's still human… part of it."
Keith's voice was wary. "You think you can reverse it?"
"I have to try."
He raised his hand. Threads of green essence coiled from his fingers, weaving through the air like liquid light. They reached for the mutant's body — touching, binding, pulling.
The corruption pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath its skin — cold, alive.
Ethan gritted his teeth. "Come on…"
The light spread through the web, burning black veins into ash. The creature convulsed once — and screamed. Aria gasped but held steady, her spider shifting uneasily.
Then — stillness.
The web sagged. The shape inside stopped moving.
Ethan's essence drained to nothing; Keith caught him as he staggered.
A cough broke the silence — weak, human, real.
The thing hanging in the web was no longer a mutant.
It was a boy — maybe fifteen, gaunt, trembling, but alive.
Ethan's voice came out hoarse. "You have one minute. The system will ask you to choose. Don't waste it."
The boy blinked, confused. A faint golden glow pulsed over his chest — unseen by anyone else, but Ethan felt it: the System waiting for a choice.
"Choose…?" the boy whispered.
"Your Path," Ethan said softly. "It's your only chance."
Keith crouched beside him. "He's barely conscious."
"He'll make it," Ethan said.
The glow brightened once, then faded. The boy slumped in the web, breathing shallow but steady.
Ethan let out a shaky laugh. "It worked."
Aria exhaled, relief flooding her face. "Who is he?"
Ethan looked at the boy for a long moment. "Doesn't matter yet. He's one of us now."
---
By dawn, Haven had one more survivor.
Population: 93.
The beacon still burned — its faint hum echoing through the mist. More would come. Some would die before reaching the walls. Some would make it through.
And in forty-eight hours, the gods would test them all.
Ethan watched the first light creep over the walls and whispered,
> "Let them come."