They had crossed.
Behind them, the bridge groaned—then shattered.
Stone teeth plummeted into the roaring river below. Shrikes screamed as they fell, claws scraping empty air before the current devoured them. Others froze at the ledge, shrieking in confusion and rage.
But the chase was over.
The Tarnak'hul and the trio stood on cracked stone at the far riverbank, steam rising from their shoulders, breath misting in the thick air. The jungle here was quieter. Wilder. Trees leaned overhead like ancient watchers, their roots cracking open pavement laid down by civilizations long dead.
The warlord turned, chest rising and falling beneath his scarred armor. "Is everyone accounted for?"
The Tarnak'hul warriors answered with brief gestures and grunts. Twenty-eight still stood.
The trio checked each other, thrilled and high on adrenaline—nods of silent affirmation.
For a fleeting moment, silence returned. A stillness as heavy as stone.
Then…
The ground trembled.
Not violently. Just a low, ominous throb. Like the world below had shifted in its sleep.
Ethan froze.
A memory surged—too real, too vivid.
The statue. The ruined square. The veiled beast with its many eyes, weeping as it died. And then—
The Devourer.
That was what he'd begun calling it, in the quiet corner of his thoughts.
It hadn't roared. It had screeched—like joy wrapped in murder.
He turned slowly toward the broken skyline on the opposite side of the river.
The ruins there stirred.
Stone cracked.
A buried skyscraper groaned, then burst apart as something massive surged from beneath it. Roots and dust exploded skyward. Steel bent like twine. The land itself ruptured in protest.
And there—it came again.
The Devourer. Clearer now. Horrifyingly distinct.
It towered nearly 60 feet tall—unchanged from memory. A mountain of rippling sinew and spiked limbs. Its skin twitched with unnatural life—teeth along its chest, jaws blooming like tumors on its sides. Each step it took left behind crushed earth and ruptured bone.
Its claws—scythe-like and jagged—carved gashes through steel. Eyes blinked along its flanks, its legs, even inside its stomach maw.
The warlord took a single step back. In awe and fear "By the deepfire have mercy…"
Then came its cry.
Not a scream. Not a roar.
SCREEEEECHH
A dirge made of a thousand screams, woven into a sound that carved itself into the mind and stayed there.
And it charged.
They were not alone.
Other predators had joined the pursuit.
Spinebacks with armored hides. Hookbeaks with cleaver talons. Fanged simians slamming across rubble with bloodshot eyes. Dozens—no, hundreds—drawn by the scent of chaos.
The Devourer struck them like a catapult of living malice. Shrikes exploded on impact. Bones shattered. Bodies hurled skyward like bloodied fireworks. One tried to leap away and was caught mid-air—split into pieces before hitting the ground.
It was not hunting.
It was butchering.
Ethan's stomach churned.
"God," he whispered. "It's enjoying it."
But the world wasn't done breaking.
The river roared again—louder. Angrier.
The second apex rose.
A leviathan of coils and fins—Serpentrix, birthed from the black depths. Fifty feet of bone-plated flesh and triple-hinged jaws. Its scales gleamed with algae and rust. Fins like jagged wings flared from its sides as it surged up the river's surface, lunging toward the Devourer in a cascade of white water.
And it struck.
The Devourer reeled.
The beasts collided with a sound like mountains falling. Fangs met bone, scythes met scale. Blood sprayed in thick bursts as the titans clashed—tearing into one another with primal hatred. Flesh shredded. Water turned red.
And that was only the beginning.
As if summoned by the violence—hundreds of creatures began to pour in from all directions. From the trees. From the ruins. From beneath the very earth.
A war had begun.
Not a battle. Not a hunt.
A war.
Lesser beasts collided in the wake of their kings. Claws tore. Fangs snapped. Gore splattered across ancient stone. The jungle itself convulsed, creatures drawn by bloodlust and madness.
The Tarnak'hul stood frozen—watching the carnage unfold across the broken river.
One of the warriors muttered, "This is not nature. This is punishment."
Sid took a slow step forward. "No… it's balance. Collapsing."
Then came the third.
From above—a shriek tore the sky.
Wings blotted out the sun. Trees bowed beneath the wind. Something massive descended from the clouds—a beast of feathers and scale, eyes blazing like comet fire. It hit the ground with enough force to crack the old stone streets.
Skyrend. Talons longer than spears. A neck coiled like a thunder serpent. It bellowed once, and the world flinched.
The three apex predators met.
The Devourer.
Serpentrix.
Skyrend.
Noise ruled. There was no sky, no ground—only blood and screaming.
They didn't hunt.
They warred.
Skyrend shrieked first—its cry splitting the heavens like thunder made of razors. It dove with wings spread wide, slicing through clouds and air alike. Each beat of its wings tore trees from the ground, hurling them like twigs across the ravaged terrain. It slammed into Serpentrix with the fury of a meteor, beak hammering down like a god's guillotine.
Serpentrix coiled upward with a hiss that rattled the bones of everything nearby. Its tail snapped forward, breaking stone towers like matchsticks. Scales clashed against feathers, talons against fangs. The river turned black with oil-thick blood.
Then the Devourer lunged—like wrath given muscle. Its limbs blurred, slashing bone-scythes into both beasts without care or strategy—just raw violence. Its scream was a symphony of a thousand broken voices, echoing across the ruins like something ancient dying… and enjoying it.
Skyrend retaliated. Its talons found the Devourer's shoulder, piercing deep—only for its leg to be caught in a burst of gnashing mouths along the monster's flank. Flesh tore. Screams collided. Bone cracked like drums of war.
The impact alone shook the jungle. Trees bent. Ruins crumbled. The very air stank of ozone and blood.
Around them, the jungle erupted.
Beasts poured in from every direction—through stone arches, across shattered rooftops, up from burrows clawed into rotted earth. Fanged hounds with melted skin. Insectile crawlers the size of cars. Winged fiends with eyeless faces shrieking in shrill hunger. Some fought for dominance. Others blindly attacked anything that moved.
A horned brute ripped the jaw off a saber-limbed hyena. Acid-spitting reptiles dueled with ape-like monstrosities wielding tree trunks like clubs. The air screamed with growls, screeches, roars—a choir of suffering and bloodlust.
Claws raked across scale. Bone snapped under weight. Guts sprayed in arcs across the broken city floor. Bodies flew. Blood hissed as it splattered against smoldering wreckage.
It wasn't just a battle.
It was a frenzy.
The ground became slick with gore. The sky darkened with dust and wings. Stone towers collapsed as beasts slammed into them, uncaring, driven mad by scent and violence. Feral instincts drowned all reason. Apex predators ruled the center—but on the edges, chaos reigned.
Some creatures didn't even know who they fought. They just bit, tore, screamed—because the world around them demanded it.
Because war had become their instinct.
The thunder of limbs. The crackle of bone. The shriek of ripped flesh. The world was noise.
And above it all—the three titans battled without pause. Every collision sent shockwaves across the battlefield. Skyrend's wings whipped up cyclones. Serpentrix's coils smashed apart bunkers once meant to last centuries. The Devourer hurled a lesser predator into a building, through the wall, and into another beast waiting behind it—like a bowling ball made of meat and hate.
Flesh met fang. Fang met fury. And the jungle bled.
But then… something shifted.
A new presence.
From a moss-swallowed skyway bridge, half-collapsed and covered in green rot, they emerged.
A pack emerged from the undergrowth—dozens strong.
Silent. Coordinated. Eyes glinting like cold lanterns beneath the jungle's breath.
Lizardhounds.
Twisted amalgams of lizard and hound—elongated jaws, lean muscular frames, bone-spurred tails swaying in rhythm. Predators built for pursuit. For death.
But not all were equal.
From within their number, a small cluster stood apart—
Taller. Sharper. Their bodies scarred from battles survived, not avoided. Each moved with a deadly poise—no wasted motion, no twitch without purpose.
The Elites.
Chosen not by rank, but by bloodshed.
Veterans of the hunt. Killers honed by survival.
Even the other hounds kept space around them.
And above them all—on the moss-covered ridge of a collapsed skyway—stood a lone figure. Still. Watching. Commanding.
The Alpha.
Taller than the Elites. Heavier. Its frame was all corded strength and deliberate control. Its hide was darker than the jungle around it—so dark it drank the light. Horns arched from its brow like twisted roots, and its tail dragged a curved, barbed blade behind it like a hooked scythe.
It bore no scars.
Only trophies—etched into its flesh by triumph.
It didn't howl.
It didn't move.
It only watched.
And when its eyes locked across the ruined battleground—locked onto Ethan and his group—the entire pack rippled in anticipation.
A tension born not from hunger, but command.
The jungle fell quiet.
The war behind them raged on…
But something colder had joined the fray.
They didn't rush the battlefield.
They watched.
A beat passed.
Then two hounds growled.
The pack shifted as one.
Muscles tensed.
Eyes narrowed.
They had chosen their quarry.
Ethan gripped his cleaver.
Dianna planted her broadsword into the ground. Steam curled from the blade, still hot from battle.
Sid let out a quiet breath. "This isn't over… is it?"
The warlord bared his teeth. "No."