Linoa had fallen into a deep slumber, her wounds slowly knitting beneath a skin gone pale from blood loss and strain. The bruising along her ribs had darkened into ugly bands, but her breathing was steady now—deep enough that it didn't hitch when pain should have pulled her back to wakefulness.
Lucien stayed near her without hovering. He didn't touch. He didn't speak. He simply remained within reach, eyes moving from her face to the perimeter and back again, as if the rhythm of his attention was the only ward he trusted.
Polo and Adlet had shifted roles.
For days, everything they did on this island had been shaped by survival. Every Apex encounter had been a decision made with water, Aura, and injury in mind. Every retreat had been justified.
Now, with Linoa stable and Lucien holding the camp like an anchor, they had room to change the purpose of their movements.
They were no longer scavengers of survival.
They were predators—actively seeking out opponents strong enough to force growth, to carve their weaknesses into something cleaner and more usable.
The rules were simple.
No more running. No more hiding.
They would fight alone, relying only on their own strength. They stayed within range of each other, close enough to intervene if something went wrong, but each battle would be one-on-one.
That was the only way they could grow.
The first days were controlled—measured like training, not like desperation.
Adlet faced four Apexes of Rank 3.
Two Shear Mantises found him near a dry ravine where stone ribs jutted through the soil like old bones. They were huge insects, their forelimbs long and bladed, their movements so fast that the air seemed to tear when they snapped. The first one tried to end it immediately, closing in with a scissoring strike meant for his neck.
Adlet didn't meet the blades head-on.
He kept the Ruby Shell Aura ready, but he didn't raise it until the last heartbeat—until the angle committed, until the mantis had no choice but to follow through. Then he let the shell take the brunt, shifted his weight, and turned the creature's own momentum into an opening. One clean counter. One step that put him outside the second strike. He won by positioning, not by brute force.
The second mantis was smarter. It didn't overcommit. It tested his timing, forcing him to spend Aura on partial defenses that never became full blocks. That fight took longer. It left his shoulders burning and his focus frayed. He had to accept small cuts to save Aura for the moment that mattered.
Then came the Ironhide Monkey.
It cornered him in a grove of twisted roots and shattered stone, its body thick and scarred, its hide dense enough that even heavy hits bounced instead of biting. It fought like it had never learned restraint—charging, pounding, trying to drown him in force.
Adlet tanked what he could with the Ruby Shell, but each impact vibrated through his bones. He learned quickly that "nearly impenetrable" didn't mean invincible—it meant he had to change the target. Angles. Joints. Balance. He took hits he hated, slipped inside the monkey's center of mass, and only when the creature's rhythm finally cracked did he switch to the Scarab Aura and finish it with a strike that left his arm numb.
The Venom Drop Gull was different.
It didn't try to overpower him. It attacked from above, circling beyond reach, then dropping paralytic fluids in thin, glistening arcs meant to trap him in slow death. Adlet couldn't chase it into the air. He couldn't afford to waste Aura on anger.
So he waited.
He watched the pattern of its dives. Counted the seconds between drops. Let the gull believe he was being herded. And when it finally committed low enough to strike with talons, Adlet answered with one precise movement and ended it before the venom could become a cage.
Each battle made him sharper.
Not stronger in some abstract, triumphant way—sharper in the way that mattered: timing, restraint, the ability to spend Aura only when spending it produced something real.
Meanwhile, Polo defeated three Apexes.
One Stonefang Goat and two Feint-Claw Tigers.
What surprised Adlet wasn't Polo's success. It was the way Polo used his tentacles. Adlet had thought of them as tools—extensions for grabbing, pulling, restraining.
They were more than that.
Polo contracted them until the muscle inside them seemed to compress into something denser, then released in rapid, pinpoint strikes. Each blow landed exactly where it needed to land, not where it looked impressive. Even the Stonefang Goat's tough hide began to fail under the repeated, disciplined impacts.
Adlet watched with admiration—and, beneath it, a flicker of envy that he refused to let harden into something uglier.
Polo's control was clean.
And it made Adlet painfully aware of how often he still relied on brute solutions when finesse would cost less.
One day, they ventured farther from the camp to test themselves against stronger Apexes. The terrain opened into a wide valley, rock formations rising like broken teeth, the wind carrying a constant low hum from somewhere deeper in the island.
Adlet felt the shift first.
Not in the ground.
In the air.
A cold, oppressive pressure settled over them, different from the island's usual hostility. It wasn't the feeling of being watched by a predator hidden in brush. It was heavier than that—like the environment itself had tightened.
Polo's expression changed as well. His gaze snapped upward, then swept the ridgelines.
"Adlet…" he muttered, voice low. "Something's wrong."
Before Adlet could answer, a shadow crossed the ground, swallowing the dim light and turning the valley floor into a brief, eerie dusk.
They looked up.
A Voidwing Vulture.
Its wings were vast—at least fifteen meters wide—and its body was cloaked in deep black feathers that seemed to absorb the Stars' glow rather than reflect it. Its red eyes locked onto them with a predatory intelligence that made Adlet's stomach tighten.
The creature's shriek echoed off stone and lingered, vibrating through the air like a warning.
"Rank 4," Polo whispered. Awe edged his voice, but fear lived underneath it. "This is bad."
Adlet clenched his fists.
Black Scarab Aura coated his knuckles—dense, heavy, like his blood had turned to iron.
"I've got this," he said, forcing steadiness into his tone. "Stay back, Polo. This one's mine."
Polo's eyes flicked to Adlet's stance, to the way the Aura sat on him like armor made of intention.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"I'm sure. I need to do this alone." Adlet swallowed, then added the truth Polo didn't want to hear. "Go for cover if it attacks you."
Polo hesitated, then nodded and retreated toward a jagged rock formation. He would watch. He would be close enough to act if Adlet collapsed.
But he would not interfere.
The Voidwing Vulture circled overhead, wings barely moving as it rode the air. Each pass created gusts that shifted loose gravel and made Adlet's hair lift along his neck.
Then it dove.
Adlet switched—Black to Red.
The Turtle Aura surged up, the Ruby Shell forming as a spectral carapace around his torso and shoulders.
The vulture hit like a falling boulder.
Talons scraped across the shell, a violent, shuddering vibration that punched through the defense and into Adlet's ribs. He staggered, boots sliding as stone and dust skated under him.
The shell held.
Barely.
The creature ripped upward again before Adlet could answer, beating its wings once—twice—and returning to its orbit.
It wasn't a clumsy predator.
It was disciplined.
It struck again, and again, each pass different.
Sometimes a full dive that forced Adlet to brace and absorb. Sometimes a shallow cut meant to draw the shell early. Sometimes nothing more than a low sweep of shadow meant to steal his eyes and make him flinch.
After the third pass, Adlet stopped trying to answer.
Not because he wanted to—but because every response cost him more than it cost the vulture to disengage.
The Voidwing stayed high now. Not circling aimlessly, but choosing its angles with care, wings barely moving as it rode invisible currents. It wasn't rushing. It didn't need to.
Each dive came just far enough to force a reaction.
A feint low that made Adlet raise his guard—then nothing.
A shadow passing overhead, close enough to feel pressure in the air—then a sudden pull away.
A scream meant to drag his gaze upward while the next strike cut in from the side.
Red Aura rose again and again. The shell didn't crack, but Adlet felt the cost: the slight delay between thought and manifestation growing heavier, the way his breathing lagged behind his body, the way heat and strain began to pile inside his muscles.
He was being measured.
Tested.
Bled slowly of options.
He tried to reposition toward broken rock where the terrain might limit the vulture's angles. The moment he committed, the Voidwing punished him—a slicing pass, not a full impact, talons cutting just enough to remind him that movement was a weakness.
Pain flared across his shoulder. Warmth followed as blood seeped beneath fabric.
Too slow.
He rolled, dust filling his mouth, and came up coughing, eyes stinging.
The Voidwing landed.
Not close.
Just close enough.
Talons dug into stone. Wings half-spread. Body low.
It didn't attack.
It didn't retreat.
It waited.
Adlet's heartbeat hammered in his ears.
If he stayed grounded, it would keep carving him apart—one pass at a time.
If he raised his defenses again and again, he would drain himself dry.
And if he ran…
He didn't finish the thought.
The vulture's head tilted, eyes locked on him, unblinking.
It knew.
This was the part where prey broke.
Adlet forced his breath to steady.
He couldn't win by absorbing.
He couldn't win by trading.
He needed a way to make the sky matter less.
He switched—Red to Green.
The Bind Lizard Aura manifested along his arm, the sensation like a taut line coiling under his skin, eager and restless. He snapped it upward in a whip-crack, aiming for the vulture's wing joint.
The creature twisted away with insulting ease, but the strike forced it to move.
Information.
He snapped again—wider this time, trying to control space rather than land a perfect hit.
The vulture answered with a sudden dive.
Too fast.
Adlet tried to pull back—
A talon grazed his shoulder again, tearing the cut wider, and the pain made his vision flash white.
He stumbled. Caught himself. Felt Polo's gaze like a weight from the rocks.
Adlet clenched his teeth until his jaw ached.
"Come on," he breathed, not to the vulture— to himself.
He couldn't wait for a perfect opening. There wouldn't be one. Rank 4 didn't offer gifts. It offered problems you survived or you died.
The Voidwing climbed, wings drawing it upward.
Adlet tracked it, calculating distance.
Then he made his choice.
He switched—Green to Black.
The Scarab Aura condensed over his arms and legs, heavy strength settling into his tendons like iron being poured into a mold. He sprinted forward, then leapt.
The jump was high—higher than any leap he'd managed before.
For a heartbeat, he was weightless, thrown into open air with nothing beneath him but the valley's emptiness.
No second jump.
No correction.
Just momentum and the consequences of committing.
The Voidwing shrieked and turned, talons angling for him.
Adlet couldn't steer.
So he didn't try.
He reached.
Not for an attack.
For contact.
His fingers caught the edge of a wing.
Pain lanced through his shoulder as the force tried to tear his arm out of its socket.
His Scarab Aura held—barely.
The vulture beat its wings violently, trying to rip him loose. Air roared past Adlet's ears. The ground spun beneath him. His stomach lurched as the creature climbed and twisted.
He had one thought, sharp and simple:
Don't let go.
He used the moment of tension to do the only thing he could.
He switched—Black to Green.
The Bind Lizard Aura surged back into existence, and this time it wasn't a whip. It was a tether.
It latched—hooking around the vulture's wing structure, giving Adlet something that wasn't just skin and bone to hold. The Aura line tightened, vibrating like a living rope under strain.
Now he had leverage.
The vulture screamed again, thrashing harder, trying to shake him off with violent rolls. Adlet's body swung beneath it, his boots kicking at air, every twist threatening to snap him like a broken tool.
He waited for one roll to carry him upward.
Then he pulled.
Using the tether, he hauled himself closer, inch by inch, until his chest slammed against feathers that felt slick and cold beneath the Stars' dim light.
He released the tether the moment he had real purchase.
Switched—Green to Black.
Scarab strength flooded his grip as he clamped both arms around the creature's back and drove his knees into the base of its wings, anchoring himself with brute force and desperation.
The beast thrashed beneath him, wings flapping violently. But Adlet's grip was unyielding—less because he was winning, and more because letting go meant dying.
His muscles burned. His forearms screamed. His injured shoulder pulsed with every movement, blood warm against his skin, cooling instantly in the wind.
The vulture tried to buck him off by dropping suddenly.
Adlet's stomach rose into his throat as the ground surged closer—then the creature climbed again at the last second, turning the motion into a test of his balance.
He nearly lost it.
Not because his grip failed—
Because his mind did, for a fraction of a second. The sudden drop triggered panic, raw and animal.
He forced it down.
He leaned into the creature's centerline and locked himself there, using Scarab strength to turn his body into an anchor.
Now he needed to finish it.
But there was no clean angle. No easy throat. The vulture's head snapped back and forth, beak and talons searching for him, wings beating in violent bursts that shook his vision.
If he tried to strike and missed, he would lose his balance.
If he waited too long, the vulture would find a way to tear him off.
So he did what he'd learned from every smaller fight:
Don't look for perfect. Look for real.
He shifted his weight forward, inching toward the creature's neck, timing the movement between wingbeats. His hands crawled up feathers, gripping where bone lay beneath.
The vulture's talons lashed backward, slashing blind. One claw caught his calf, tearing fabric and skin. Pain flashed, bright and nauseating, but it didn't stop him.
He reached the throat.
And he struck.
Scarab Aura flared deeper, denser, the Dark Beetle's crushing power pooling into his fist until his knuckles felt like they could crack stone.
He drove it forward into the creature's throat.
The Voidwing's scream broke in half.
Its wings faltered.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the vulture began to fall.
Not gliding.
Falling.
Air roared past them. The valley rushed up in a violent blur. The creature's wings fluttered weakly, trying and failing to reclaim control.
Adlet's body lifted and slammed with each useless beat, as if the air itself was trying to tear him free.
He didn't let go.
He couldn't.
Below, jagged rock rose like teeth.
The rational part of his mind surfaced—brief, cold, precise.
If I hit like this, I die.
He had a choice.
Hold on with Scarab strength and be crushed by impact.
Or switch to the Turtle Aura for survival and risk losing his grip at the worst possible moment.
The world rushed up to meet them.
Wind howled past Adlet's ears, tearing at his grip as the Voidwing's massive body began to fall in earnest. No glide. No control. Just dead weight and gravity dragging them both down.
The ground was too close.
Too fast.
Adlet switched—Black to Red.
The Ruby Shell surged around his torso in a rough, imperfect formation. Not a full defense. Not enough to save him cleanly. Just enough to keep his body from breaking outright.
The Scarab strength bled away with the switch.
His grip loosened.
For a heartbeat, panic flared—raw and sharp—as the vulture's back shifted beneath him and his hands began to slide over feathers slick with blood and dust.
Adlet forced himself down.
Pressed his chest into the creature's spine. Wrapped his arms tighter, relying on weight instead of strength, friction instead of control.
Not fighting the fall.
Enduring it.
They hit.
The impact was catastrophic.
Stone shattered beneath them. Dust and gravel exploded outward as the Voidwing's body absorbed the brunt of the collision, its mass slamming into the ground hard enough to shake the valley.
Pain detonated through Adlet's ribs.
The Ruby Shell fractured instantly, Aura dispersing as his body rebounded once—twice—before settling heavily atop the corpse beneath him.
The world went white.
Then dark.
When sensation returned, it came in fragments.
Heat.
Weight.
The taste of blood and dust.
Adlet lay sprawled across the Voidwing's back, chest pressed to unmoving feathers, limbs locked where they had fallen. His ears rang. His breath came shallow and uneven, each inhale scraping raw pain through his side.
He didn't move.
Didn't dare.
Seconds passed.
Nothing happened.
No tremor beneath him. No sudden surge of motion. No retaliatory strike.
The body under him stayed still.
Too still.
Adlet's fingers twitched.
Slowly—carefully—he lifted his head.
The Voidwing lay broken beneath him, wings twisted at impossible angles, its neck bent wrong, its vast frame finally subject to the ground it had ruled from above.
Dead.
The realization didn't come with triumph.
It came with weight.
A crushing, sinking certainty that pressed into his chest harder than the fall had.
He had survived.
Not because he was stronger.
Not because he was faster.
But because he had endured long enough for the monster to run out of violence.
Adlet let his head fall forward again, forehead resting against black feathers gone cold.
His hands trembled.
His body shook with delayed shock and pain.
But he stayed upright—still standing, still balanced atop the lifeless Apex.
Breathing.
The Sand Graveyard stretched around him in silence.
And for the first time since the hunt began, it did not move to claim him.
He had won.