Esta historia de ciencia ficción militar y horror corporal es un cambio de ritmo brutal y refrescante. Shakal es un personaje imponente, y el concepto de convertir a los "perdedores" en nuevos obstáculos para el nivel 3 le da una continuidad muy siniestra al torneo.
Aquí tienes la traducción al inglés, manteniendo la terminología técnica (Tesla, terminal, bio-metric) y el tono clínico y frío del narrador:
Luxor Paradise: Apex Hunt - Chapter 4: The Snow Bitch
Canyon of Despair is the name the locals gave it. Created for copper extraction, it is a sheer precipice. Below, not a single gram of vegetation exists; there is nothing but supply crates protected by specialized seals, providing those who attempt these levels with food rations, bandages, painkillers, and adrenaline shots. The transport user strips off her chest and back protection, leaving only her pneumatic-grade boots—which allow for sustained running—and greaves repurposed from survival gear, bullet-resistant and with resistance-boosting assisted by Tesla batteries. The patent for this product alone made the scientist who developed it a millionaire; however, he does not leave my side. He seeks what I seek, what everyone seeks. Now, cybernetic implants must be fitted into her joints; otherwise, the boots and other protections are dead weight. One of them points to several connection nodes.
"Mrs. Shakal, why do you have implants?" For a moment, I worry she might be using some sort of assistance or is connected to a satellite feed. "This is not part of our contract."
"Zakroy svoy rot!" (Shut your mouth!) None of the translators look at me. "I brought them in preparation for level seven. I knew you would give it to me; no one here is as good as I am. Mikaer told me he passed the normal level seven. If I surpass this one, I will be better, and I will be able to humiliate him as he deserves."
"He and you violated the confidentiality agreement. You will be fined half a million dollars." So, that Ukrainian arms dealer can't keep his mouth shut either... that means his next visit might be his last. "It would be a gesture of support in your contract and the esteem in which you are held."
"Trus (Coward), fine, I'll pay, sobaka (dog)! Give me the terminal." I confirm the money transfer. That communication will be the last one to leave the canyon; the jamming system will prevent any wireless signals from being sent, except mine. "...I'm ready. I want my visor!"
"If there is any issue, press one of the rescue buttons. A helicopter will attempt to extract you; I just need you to reach a high-altitude zone."
She doesn't respond. At least I've given the instructions.
She doesn't sweat as she enters—admirable for someone in their forties after eliminating at least forty zombies that weren't even hers to deal with. The ravine is unique; it has many ledges but also plenty of caves. That is where most of the assets are deployed. Food is dropped in three zones within the two-kilometer span of the canyon. The conditions for winning are to eliminate one hundred targets, press the distress button, and have us pull her out. The tunnels release level-seven enemies.
Cameras are everywhere, and the only prize is getting out alive.
"Contact, multiple hostiles at right!"
The voice makes her let out a cry of joy. She readies a pair of tungsten alloy axes with electrically charged blades; the wounds they inflict are deep and cauterized, making it impossible for tendons or muscle strips to move. She also has crossbows, scimitars, and spears, all made of ultra-modern materials. One of her enemies falls from one of the walls; she decapitates it with a single stroke of her right blade. In a display of euphoria, she runs toward the body and drops onto it, crushing it.
"Odno!" (One!) ...I hope she can continue like this.
She is happy before the falling bodies. It reminds me of the Founder, and also of my first specimens. They were trying everything, so I had no choice but to do the same. The formula wasn't perfect; tissue regeneration always comes at the cost of losing cells in another area. Proteins couldn't be redistributed that easily.
I poured the formula into my food. I had managed to cultivate amino acids that would keep me alive while my project worked. I locked myself in the blast room; every cubicle had one if you wanted to work with dangerous material or commit suicide. When they arrived, their eyes were bloodshot from the atrocities they had committed—malnourished. They could only think that I had food, and yes, it was there. A few loaves of bread, some bottles of water, fruit in my refrigerators. They left nothing. Two days later, with my nutrient bowl nearly empty amidst excrement and urine, I began to hear the screams of agony. Their bodies were changing, their brains were dying. Who would win the race?
A week later, the end-of-month review arrived. Our financier saw my proposal in the emails; with it, we would make money while the research progressed, using the subjects considered "failures" to generate more profit. Half a week later, they came to rescue me. Two months later, the area he used for kidnapping brilliant minds would become the first hunting zone.
"You have reached the halfway point of your challenge. Do you wish to go to the rest zone?"
"Niet!" (No!) Her voice denotes exhaustion; it is the response I expected. She believes they are all slow—stronger, but slow. That doesn't happen with Formula Two. Those with the condition and the desire can recover certain functions along with a brutal instinct.
I hear her scream in pain for the first time, but she recovers. She takes a bite to the biceps, yet the entity is hurled away. She uses a sort of adhered mesh to protect her. "Bitch!" Even with those advantages, the attack is just beginning. Many of those hidden began throwing rocks at her. She—despite dodging most—took several hits; one grazed her forehead. She looks like a Viking with blonde hair and a war cry in her throat.
She hesitates. No one could remain unfazed. These beings don't crawl; they walk fast, they hold stones and sticks. The ones with teeth don't just lunge; they would rather lose a hand or an arm than be deprived of a bite. They have ambition—something no one accounts for until this moment. She extracts an ampoule and consumes it; according to the sensors, it's cocaine, ecstasy, and adrenaline. It's a mercenary drug; it gives euphoria and strength for minutes, but the bleeding eyes, bursting capillaries, and even muscle tears from overusing the body make it a complicated choice.
Her movements, though agile, are erratic. She has managed to eliminate seventy enemies, but I trust my creations. I see her eyes widen as several bodies fly toward her. She repels two, but the rest come from behind and manage to wound her. She shakes them off, but not fast enough. The remaining beasts use the broken forearms of their companions to pierce her belly. However, the drug won't let her die; she keeps fighting. She has the button thirty meters away, but she won't go. Her body functions by the drug, not by reasoning. Little by little, the attack slows down; her vital signs do the same.
Hemoglobin level: Low Health: Critical condition Activation of protection field...
A silver sphere deploys from her weapon stash, envelops her, and solidifies. Later, a helicopter will fly in for her. The surface is very resistant, but they no longer attack it. The game is over. The statistics are public:
Battle duration: 3:10:50 h
Enemies eliminated: 80
Remaining to pass level: 20
Special level: ...Failure!
Note: Mrs. Shakal's condition is critical. She will be treated and sent back to her country of origin.
No one pays attention; they know she won't live. I check the statistics of the rest. The two level-five prize winners agree to be rescheduled in six months, but they want the same challenge as the Russian woman. What people.
"What is the patient's status?" The helicopter is on screen.
"Sir, the target has moved from guest to resident..." What is the procedure?
"Take the body to the decontamination area. Feed it. Wait for new orders."
I think she would be a good addition to level three. The "Snow Bitch"... yes, that would be a good battle name. I return, leaning on Linnet's arm—the only one who knows how much this wears me out.