Year: 2327 — Time: 9:17 UTC
Three months before the escape.
"Predators who live by blood will one day be hunted by an even greater predator. That predator may be their past, their present, or something that emerges beyond themselves altogether." — Yu Wo
What would you call the true nature of man?
Yes, I am asking you. Don't be confused. Listen—
If the universe began in chaos, then humans, being part of that same universe, carry chaos inside them. That is why people show greed, jealousy, anger, and vengeance — the wild, messy sides of human nature.
But the universe didn't remain in chaos forever. As it expanded, it revealed beauty and order: stars, galaxies, balance. Humanity is no different. Though our bodies age and decay at some point, our minds and experiences keep expanding. We invent morals and values to guide us, shaping life for the better, reaching toward something close to perfection.
And yet—when life pushes us to the brink, those morals collapse. Survival, fear, and anger, etc, take over. We return to our basic instincts.
That is the nature of man: not purely chaos, not purely order, but the endless struggle between the two. We are beings caught in that tension—always striving to rise above, yet never fully able to leave behind where we came from.
This story begins with a man falling headfirst.
His name is Malik Haruna—a man in his early thirties, long white braids streaming in the wind, copper-brown skin, hazel-brown eyes sharp with focus, about six feet tall, dressed in a vest, jacket, and loose buttons.
If you were listening, you might assume, Ah, so it's him. After all, it is a story, and he is falling headfirst. You might wonder: Did he fall by mistake? Was he pushed? Did he jump?
But if you've read the first two chapters, you already know—the ladder is impossible. And if you did not and thought he jumped to his doom, you're wrong.
If you are still wondering, the true nature of man—well he is ever expanding, yet always clinging tightly to his origin. That is humanity. It is you, your friend, your brother, your sister, every individual you've ever crossed paths with, or ever will. Chaos is always with man, in countless shapes and forms, silent, waiting.
But this man—Malik Haruna—was something different. Born from chaos, raised in darkness, yet calm as the silent sea. He had reached the pinnacle of man. Call him the middleman. The first true man, maybe. He had fully accepted both chaos and calm. He accepted everything for what it was, what it should be, and what it was not.
So why was he falling? Look carefully. Look up.
From the top of a ruined concrete building, several stories high—perhaps once ten or fifteen floors. With the roof long gone, its true height is impossible to tell.
So maybe not exactly from the very top.
The multistory building was a shell of what it had once been. It had withstood bombardments during the invasion and centuries of decay, yet it still clung stubbornly to the earth, refusing to die.
The floors sagged, too weak to bear much weight. The walls are slowly surrendering to creeping vines.
Do you recall this place? Wait. Let it sink in. If you're thinking of Amara and the others, you're right on the money.
It is the same hunting terrain where the first runners found themselves.
The building stood as a mute witness while the scene unfolded. The whole environment seemed to watch eagerly, anticipating the outcome.
A gust of wind tugged at Malik's braids, slapped against his jacket, trying to throw him off course. He did not flinch.
He was a master of the Hand of the Wind technique, a martial art that bent air itself to his will. He had also used an assassin's method called the Void to boost his presence. In doing so, he invited an attack.
The Void was absolute spatial deception. It allowed the user to manipulate the perceived flow of space and light so that they "blended" into the background—not by literal invisibility, but by bending attention and visual cues until the assassin became effectively unseen.
But this time, Malik had used the Void differently. Instead of vanishing, he made himself more visible. It was possible only because he combined it with the martial discipline he had learned from Yu Wo.
He was a veteran forged by his own choices. His arms spread wide, hands open, ready to embrace danger. This was no accident. His fall was meticulously planned—a scheme to ensnare his target.
"Control your bloodlust," he reminded himself. His jaw was loose, his face calm, his mind clear. "They can sense it."
That lesson had been branded into his flesh during the invasion. Once, he had let his bloodlust run wild, and the Vexari had tracked him through it, anticipating his every move. He had almost died. The Vexari sensed emotional resonance; the intent to kill was no exception.
The heart of the Vexari Command Guard carried the malice of a predator. But Malik's was greater still. From that day on, he wrapped the storm inside him in silence, unleashing it only when the battle demanded it.
Halfway through his fall, a shadow streaked across his peripheral vision—
A Starter Hunter lunged, twin daggers flashing like serpent fangs. He sprang from a lower floor of the opposite building, cutting diagonally upward to reach his prey.
At that exact moment, a massive concrete block, its rebar rusted, plunged from a higher level of the same building Malik had leapt from. Someone had timed its fall to coincide perfectly with Malik's descent.
The hunter thought he had cornered his prey. Midair, unable to maneuver, Malik was trapped. The hunter glanced briefly at the descending block, believing it would change nothing. He would cut Malik down before the slab could reach them both.
Malik's boot struck the concrete with surgical precision. To onlookers, it might have seemed like a soft landing, but in truth, he had shifted his weight at the exact moment the hunter closed in. With wind guiding the slab and gravity at his command, he increased its descent.
The hunter was caught beneath it.
He couldn't dodge. He couldn't slash it apart. His position made it impossible.
The impact shook the ruins. Concrete and flesh slammed into the ground with a thunderous roar. Dust exploded outward. The earth cracked like brittle bone. Tentacles writhed beneath the crushing slab.
The concrete couldn't pierce the Vexari's armor, but Malik wasn't surprised. The hunter was still pinned.
He landed atop the slab, arms resting on his knees. Flipping his braids back from his face, he looked down at the struggling alien, a cruel smile tugging at his lips.
"Which one of us is prey now?" he muttered.
He leapt down.
His fists fell like a storm. A relentless barrage of strikes hammered into the hunter's head until green glycerin blood pooled beneath them, until its skull was mangled beyond recognition.
The hunter was prey.
Malik Haruna had always been a predator forged by choice.
But before that, he had been a son.
His father was a broad man, back crisscrossed with scars, machete in one hand, a rifle slung across his shoulder. He was a land guard in northern Ghana—half-soldier, half-gangster, enforcing territory in endless disputes. Malik, still a boy, had walked at his father's side through dust and blood, learning the harsh rhythms of that life.
One day, a tribal war broke out. Malik watched his father cut down in the chaos, hacked apart by men just as brutal as him. At thirteen, Malik lost the only family he had.
He ran.
Not from fear—but for a different future. His father had wanted him to inherit the gang. Malik wanted something else.
He smuggled himself north, sleeping in trucks and begging strangers for scraps of food and coins. His dream was Europe, though the world itself was tearing itself apart.
By the time he reached Egypt, the Middle East was embroiled in war.
Not religion—resources. Oil. AI reactors. Power grids. Trade routes.
Turkey and Egypt clashed over the Mediterranean. Saudi Arabia and Iran tore at each other over energy corridors. Israel and Jordan collapsed into proxy wars. Cyberterrorism was its own battlefield, AI programs hijacking drones, factories, and power grids. Leaders fell like dominoes, cut down by assassins.
It was called the War of Assassins. Nations used killers to do what armies could not.
In Cairo's chaos, Malik—fifteen years old—met an assassin.
The blade should have ended him. The man was a silent embodiment, a knife sliding from his sleeve. But when their eyes met, the assassin paused.
"You have the gaze of a survivor," he said. "One day, you'll become a predator."
And so Malik was taken in.
For seven years, he trained in secret under his master, code-named Red Tiger. Malik progressed faster than his peers; his talent was undeniable. He survived missions that broke men twice his age. He mastered not just the art of killing, but all seven secret techniques of the school.
When the time came, he killed his master and his peers.
Not for ambition. Not for pride. But because they reveled in cruelty, in suffering. Malik refused to be that kind of predator.
From then on, he sold his blade to governments, corporations, and warlords. He refused jobs that targeted innocents. Sometimes, he turned his knives against those who hired him.
The world named him the White Wolf, for the unusual color of his hair and the wolf tattoos running down his left arm. A bounty worth millions hung over his head—for destroying the very school that had once sheltered him.
The Turkish government wanted him dead. Assassins across the world wanted his title as the strongest and most dangerous assassin in the world.
Many tried. All failed.
Malik had become the only one to master all seven secret techniques, the sole heir to their deadly legacy.
Until Beijing.
A faction of the Chinese government hired him to kill Yu Wo, a monk accused of manipulating youth with dangerous ideas.
Malik accepted.
He tracked Yu Wo to a monastery in the Wudang Mountains. But he did not find a conspirator.
He found a monk.
Yu Wo's body flowed like water, every gesture balanced by decades of mastery. Tai Chi, Xingyi, Bagua, Shaolin, and other hidden arts—all whispered through his movement. His eyes were still pools, calm and immeasurable.
Malik struck first, using Rhythm Echo.
It was one of the school's deadliest techniques—an auditory-psychic jolt triggered by a single precise sound — a clap, a stomp, a chime — that overwhelms a victim's attention. It causes a sudden shutdown of external stimuli and leaves the target disoriented and vulnerable.
But Yu Wo broke free. It was the first time anyone had escaped it.
They fought, yet Yu Wo never attacked. His defense was fluid, impenetrable, but free of malice. Malik had spent his life in war; he could read a person's character in a single exchange of blows. And Yu Wo was a man of integrity.
Malik lowered his blades, bowed deeply, and asked forgiveness.
The government had deceived him.
It was a time when assassins killed good men at the whim of corrupt leaders. Malik had nearly made the same mistake.
Yu Wo forgave him. "You carry skill," he said. "You carry stillness. A little discipline will make you unstoppable."
Malik frowned. "You would train me? Even though I tried to kill you?"
Yu Wo's eyes softened. "I only train those with goodness in their heart—not for the work they do. And you have goodness, despite your life."
For two years, Malik trained under him. Not just martial arts, but restraint.
He already knew the breathing disciplines of assassins, and with Yu Wo's teaching, he devoured technique after technique. Tai Chi's softness. Xingyi's directness. Bagua's circles. The hidden layers of Shaolin and others.
Yu Wo tried to teach him the way of a monk. For a time, Malik believed he could change. But the world was too broken. Leaders rose like tyrants. Blood-drenched ideals.
One night, Yu Wo told him:
"You are not meant to stay here. Your path is one of shadow. But remember this: predators who live by blood will one day be hunted by greater predators."
Those words branded themselves into Malik's heart.
He bowed deeply and left.
Years later, the Vexari came.
Malik did not run. He hunted.
They were the greatest prey he had ever faced—fast, strong, armored beyond belief. They were not men. But Malik thought of Yu Wo, who was even stronger.
For the first time, Malik let loose. Completely.
He hunted them without restraint. Soldier after soldier. Commander after commander.
Rumors spread among the Vexari: of humans who moved like them, who fought like them, sometimes better. They whispered of Malik but also of others across the world, preys who turned soldiers into prey.
But eventually, even he was caught. Hunted. Captured.
Not before he had slain more than two dozen Vexari soldiers and command guards alike.
Thirty Minutes Earlier
When the runners woke in the hunting terrain, they scattered immediately. None hesitated. These were not novices—they were experienced runners.
Aria and Thomas found themselves in the ruins of a collapsed mall. Shattered pillars, twisted steel, and broken glass surrounded them. The ceiling had caved in long ago, letting shafts of pale light stream through, illuminating thick clouds of dust.
Through that dust, another figure emerged.
Malik.
For a heartbeat, they all froze. Each thought the shape behind the haze was alien. But then they felt it—the energy.
Not alien.
Human.
It was unmistakable.
Ki.
The ability to sense and channel the flow of energy—the subtle awareness of intent, tension, and vitality. To read the movement of others. To redirect it. To strike with precision.
Although Ki was one of Malik's secret techniques, many martial schools taught its basics.
Aria had learned it directly from Malik. Thomas already knew how to use it.
Their senses confirmed the truth, and relief washed over them.
When the dust finally settled, they smiled.
The three had been close ever since arriving at the ranch. Malik had been drawn to Thomas from the start—sensing not only his strength, but the promise of a worthy sparring partner. Aria, however, had grown close to Thomas in another way. He had saved her life during her first hunt, and soon after, the two had entered a relationship.
Malik and Thomas had both arrived at the ranch four months earlier. Aria had arrived two months later.
From then on, she trained under Malik. Thomas was strong, skilled, but his techniques required raw strength that Aria didn't have. Malik, on the other hand, was a jack of all trades—the perfect teacher for her survival.
Malik broke the silence first.
"So, what are you two doing here?"
"Resting," Thomas replied with a smirk. "We sensed no hunters nearby, and this place seemed like a decent spot. You should try it sometime, instead of chasing them down all the time, to cure your boredom."
Malik's tone was calm but serious. "Things won't always be this easy." His gaze drifted toward the open window, where a faint breeze stirred the dust. "Training against weaker hunters now will prepare me for the real threats. My instincts tell me there are stronger ones out there—ones that haven't even stepped into the hunting grounds yet. The ones I fought during the invasion were weaker than this. And my master's death…"
His words trailed. His expression hardened.
"He was strong. Stronger than these hunters. Stronger than anyone I have ever faced. Killing him wouldn't have been easy. Which means he was probably killed by something even stronger. That makes me uneasy. There's a hierarchy at work here. And I don't plan to find out the hard way."
He gave a faint shrug. "But yes… boredom is definitely part of it."
Thomas chuckled. "Alright, I trust your instincts. I can't imagine anyone stronger than you. But if your master was that strong, I'd better start working on myself too."
"I hope you do," Malik said evenly. "Things might get worse soon. I can feel something watching us. Maybe from the ship that circles above. Its Ki is powerful—very powerful."
Thomas's jaw tightened. "Yes. Just its Ki alone sends shivers down my spine."
Aria crossed her arms. "Don't forget about me. I'm still learning, but I feel myself getting stronger every day. I can't always rely on you two to bail me out."
"There you go," Malik said with a playful smirk. "My favorite student. I'll come at you harder next time." He reached to pat her head.
Aria dodged, scowling. "Are you trying to kill me? Your training's brutal enough! Any tougher, and I won't recover before the next hunt." She kicked at him, but Malik slid out of range effortlessly.
Thomas laughed. "So what brought you here? I've never seen you run from a fight."
"I want to try something new," Malik replied. "Test their bodies. Their armor."
"Haven't you already tried? Nothing seems to break them besides martial techniques," Thomas said.
Malik's eyes narrowed slightly. "Their weapons are bound to them. I tried to use one, but it wouldn't cut its master. It's like the weapon itself is alive. I even tried one of my techniques on it—no use."
The technique he had used was called Weapon Synapse — The memory of weapons. When this stance is engaged, the assassin gains instant mastery over any weapon they hold. A foreign blade sings in their hands like an old companion. A staff, chain, or spear moves as though it had been practiced for decades.
He paused, then continued. "I want to test a concrete block. Regular swords bounce off. Knives are no better. Even high-caliber bullets can't pierce their armor. They absorb impact. Even martial arts alone struggle to break through, unless they make contact with their body. But they won't just stand still for me to test it. I'll have to catch one off guard."
"Did you lead one here?" Thomas asked.
"More like he followed me," Malik said. "He's been tailing me for a while, waiting for the right moment to strike. So… want to help me bury him?"
"What's the plan?" Aria asked.
Malik's lips curved faintly. "I'm going to leap from the next building—the tall one. Drop a massive slab and crash him."
Aria frowned. "You… want to drop a building on him?"
"Not the whole building," Malik replied. "That would be impossible. Just part of it."
Thomas shook his head. "You're insane. I know you're strong, but this could be suicide. What if there's more than one?"
"I've made sure he's alone," Malik said firmly. "And they never steal prey from each other. Each hunter picks a target and sticks with it before moving on to the next."
Thomas sighed. "Alright. Then let's hurry, before he closes in."
The three moved quickly. The alien followed from a distance, careful not to reveal itself too soon. It knew how dangerous these humans could be—even as prey.
They climbed to the top of the ruined building. From across the gap, the hunter waited, crouched in shadow, patient as a viper.
Aria kept watch on the edge, scanning the terrain. Malik and Thomas worked together, tearing a massive slab of wall free. Rebar groaned and snapped as Thomas's technique ripped it apart. Together, they shifted it into position.
The timing had to be perfect.
"Best of luck," Thomas said.
Malik smirked faintly. He dove headfirst.
Halfway down, the hunter lunged. Twin daggers gleamed as he shot across the gap.
At the same moment, Thomas released the slab.
The hunter was mid-flight. Too late to change trajectory.
As the block began its descent, Malik's lips curved.
The trap had been sprung exactly as intended.
The hunter would reach him—just in time.