They lay side by side in the makeshift tent, armor half-unstrapped, bedrolls scattered beneath them like afterthoughts. No monsters. No alarms. Just the jungle hum and the slow, tired breathing of three friends finally able to rest."
Ethan broke the silence first.
"…Crazy, right? All that in just one day."
Dianna scoffed softly. "One day feels like a whole damn arc."
"I still remember it," Sid said quietly, "waking up in that white room."
"Hey," Ethan said after a pause. "Do you remember the moment we found each other again?"
Dianna nodded without looking over. "You picked me up and shook me like a sack of potatoes."
"You ruined my dramatic entrance!" Ethan shot back.
"You were crying."
"I WASN'T—" Ethan began, but stopped himself with a sigh. "Okay. Maybe a little."
Sid smiled faintly, his voice soft. "It was a good moment."
"Yeah," Ethan said, staring upward. "The best one since we got here."
The air between them was calm. Not quiet—never truly quiet in this world—but calm. The chirping of insectoid creatures, the faint rustle of leaves, the soft crackle of distant firelight—it all settled around them like a warm breath after battle.
"I thought the cleaver looked like an truck axle at first," Ethan said, staring at the tent roof. "Didn't realize it would… change. Now it looks like it wants to eat souls."
Dianna smirked. "Your cleaver still looks haunted. My sword whispers, you know."
Ethan raised a brow. "Still doing that?"
"Yeah. They start whispering the moment I start to doze off. Real considerate."
Sid, lying back, lifted a hand toward the tent's ceiling, a faint glimmer of silver thread weaving between his fingers. "Mine aren't combat-ready yet. But they're helping with mobility—swinging through terrain, breaking falls. Kind of like… Spider-Man."
Ethan chuckled. "Man, that's metal."
The tent settled into a comfortable silence again. The three of them, still lying close, stared up at the patchy ceiling of stitched tarp and moss.
Then Ethan spoke, quieter this time.
"I thought I'd lost you both, y'know?"
Sid glanced over.
Ethan's voice stayed steady. "We died. We were alone. I thought it was permanent."
They talked. Not about tactics or monsters or evolution mechanics. But about college. About the street food market. About that one time Ethan got food poisoning from discount sushi. About Dianna's near fistfight with a professor. About Sid's midnight walks, when no one knew he was sneaking out to clear his head.
Normal things.
Lost things.
"I still remember that one old man at the shawarma cart," Ethan laughed quietly. "Told me I had 'destruction in my aura' and gave me extra sauce like it was protection."
Dianna snorted. "He probably just felt sorry for your taste buds."
"Or my future enemies."
A pause. Just the three of them breathing in sync with a world they still didn't understand.
Then, one by one, their voices faded. The fire dimmed. Sleep stole them, slow and heavy.
---
The morning came loud.
A shout. Then a war cry. Then the sharp, booming clash of metal against bone.
Ethan didn't wake at first.
He stirred only when the ground beneath him gave a short, vibrating thump—followed by cheers and roaring laughter outside the tent. His eyes cracked open. The fire pit just beyond their camp was already burning bright, its spit loaded with something lean and skinned.
No Sid. No Dianna.
Just him. Alone in their little shelter, the morning sun bleeding through slits in the tent wall.
He groaned and sat up, rubbing the crust from his eyes.
Outside, the camp was in motion.
Dozens of Tarnak'hul warriors—hulking, towering humanoids of twisted heritage and monstrous strength—were already up and sparring. Their guttural war cries echoed through the trees like ritualistic thunder. Some wrestled barehanded. Others swung their brutal, jagged weapons in violent arcs, clashing with earth-splitting force.
And in the middle of them, unmistakable in her sleek but savage armor, was Dianna.
She moved like liquid fury—broad strokes with her broadsword, spinning kicks, and explosive bursts of stamina. A blur of elegance and chaos.
The Tarnak'hul loved it.
They bellowed approval at every blow she landed. Some even stomped and clapped with warrior pride, treating her not as an outsider, but a peer in battle.
Sid, on the other hand, sat alone in the corner of the clearing. Not isolated—just… absorbed.
He knelt near the edge of the old foundation stones, carefully inspecting something in his palm. Small shards of iridescent material, harvested from the corpses of yesterday's monsters. His brow was furrowed, eyes sharp. He wasn't tinkering. He was studying. Planning.
Thinking ten steps ahead, as always.
Ethan stretched and stepped out from the tent. The cool morning breeze hit his face, carrying with it the scent of roasted meat, sweat, and smoke.
The camp was alive.
The Tarnak'hul moved with a brutal kind of purpose. Warriors were sharpening blades with whetstones that hissed like snakes. Others were boiling water, setting up armaments, or cleaning massive cleavers and bone-plated armor. Near the center of it all, a cluster of elites spoke in low tones with the Warlord—massive, horned, and wrapped in layers of ritual cloth and bone rings. They gestured toward a large hide map stretched across a slab of stone.
Scouts returned from the jungle perimeter, carrying skins full of drinking water and wrapped bundles of herbs. Mud clung to their boots, and sweat streaked their ash-toned faces, but their movements were sharp—disciplined.
They crossed the encampment in practiced formation, weaving between sparring warriors and cooking fires, until they reached the center of camp where the warlord stood, flanked by his elites.
Without a word, the lead scout knelt, lowering the heavy bundle of gathered goods. The others followed, setting down tightly bound stalks of crimson-veined leaves, knotted roots with glowing tips, and the glistening water skins still cold from the riverbed.
One of the elites stepped forward, inspecting the herbs with a narrowed gaze. He muttered something in their tongue—sharp syllables laced with approval.
The warlord, towering and still, looked down at the scouts. His massive hand extended, resting briefly on the lead scout's shoulder—a silent commendation.
The scout straightened, then spoke in a low, respectful tone. "Perimeter held. No signs of breach. Strange scent in the wind, but no direct contact."
Another chimed in, unwrapping a bundle to reveal shredded bark glistening with thick sap. "We found this growing near the ridge. The healers might find it useful."
The warlord nodded once.
Sid looked up as Ethan approached, squinting into the light.
"Damn, man—you slept like a boar. It's already afternoon," Sid said dryly, holding up a faintly glowing shard between his fingers. "Pretty sure I've figured out what my first puppet's gonna be."
Ethan smirked. "Look at you—finally putting those creepy threads to work, huh?"
Sid smirked faintly, shrugging. "Yeah. An hour tops."
Ethan chuckled, glancing toward the sparring circle.
"She's out there treating sparring like cardio. Guy's gonna need a new ribcage."
Sid chuckled, then looked around—eyes settling on the order within the camp.
Despite being native to a world steeped in chaos, the Tarnak'hul had built something… solid. Their weapons were sharp. Their meals hot. Their routines tight. Even from a distance, the warlord's gaze carried weight—the kind earned not by title, but by blood and survival.
This wasn't a pack of survivors clinging to scraps.
This was a culture forged by fire.
Ethan slung the cleaver over his shoulder, eyes drifting past the sparring circle, past the haze of sweat and smoke—
—to where Sid sat alone, hunched over something glowing and quiet.
The camp roared behind him.
But he followed the silence.
And focused into what looked like will be the birth of something phenomenal.