Chapter: When the Forest Opened Its Eyes
The north edge of the Amazon did not look dangerous.
That was the first lie.
Six vehicles tore through the mud-choked paths like they owned the land—
four dirt bikes, engines growling, mud splashing against reinforced tires, and two rugged transport jeeps dragging oil barrels and resource crates like trophies already claimed.
Thirty men in total.
Laughing.
Smoking.
Arguing over who'd get the best footage.
Satellite phones glinted under the filtered sunlight.
Two portable satellite TV units were strapped carelessly to the jeeps—broadcast gear, black-market gold.
Anesthesia dart guns rested confidently in practiced hands.
Firearms were cleaned, checked, admired.
This wasn't their first hunt..
They were professionals at killing things that couldn't fight back..
Or so they believed.
Ten skilled hunters rode at the front—eyes sharp, dart rifles calibrated for elephants, rhinos, anything that breathed and bled.
Fifteen bandits followed, assault rifles slung casually, walkie-talkies buzzing with lazy chatter.
And at the center—protected, relaxed—rode five VIPs, each gripping a polished golden Desert Eagle, weapons more symbolic than practical.
Men who paid to feel powerful.
Their temporary base lay ahead—
A fortified camp carved brutally into the northern forest, surrounded by floodlights and wire fencing.
Over a hundred armed men occupied the main base, with four outposts, fifty men each, forming a loose perimeter.
They called it Sector Green.
The jungle had a different name.
Feeding Ground.
The Scouts
High above them, where human eyes never lingered long enough, the leaves shifted.
Not from wind.
From intention.
Three figures clung to the canopy—so perfectly blended that even thermal scopes would have read them as foliage. Their skin shimmered subtly, pigmentation adjusting with every passing shadow.
They were Camouflage Ape Scouts.
Newborn predators of a reborn age.
Their muscles were leaner, denser—every fiber enhanced after consuming the Fruit of the Mystic Tree. Their hearts beat slower, stronger. Their eyes—ah, their eyes—glowed faintly amber, capable of seeing heat, motion, intent.
One scout tilted its head.
The scent hit it like rot.
Oil.
Sweat.
Metal.
Greed.
Its nostrils flared, processing pheromones, heart rhythms, adrenal spikes.
Hostile. Invasive. Arrogant.
The scout pressed two fingers into the bark beneath it.
The Whisperleaf Watcher trembled.
Signals pulsed through the vine network, racing faster than any satellite uplink.
Deep underground—
The message arrived.
The Primal Court Responds
The Primal King stood unmoving in the central chamber, eyes half-lidded as the jungle spoke to him.
Thirty intruders.
Armed.
Organized.
North sector.
His lips curved upward.
Rûkar knelt beside him, massive arms crossed, veins glowing faintly green beneath obsidian fur.
He, too, had eaten the Mystic Fruit—and it had transformed him into something terrifyingly refined.
His strength had multiplied.
His reflexes surpassed bullets at close range.
His bones had grown flexible yet unbreakable, layered with bio-crystalline density.
And his mind—once purely martial—now processed strategy like a seasoned general.
"They bring chains," Rûkar rumbled.
"And cages."
One of the elite apes stepped forward—Vael, a Shadow Howler commander. His throat sacs pulsed faint violet, a side effect of the fruit granting him sonic manipulation and fear resonance.
"They intend to hunt," Vael said softly.
"Then let them learn," the Primal King replied, opening his eyes fully, emerald light flaring, "what it means to be hunted."
He raised a hand.
No shouting.
No dramatic orders.
Just one sentence.
"Begin the cull."
Evolved Forms of the Primal Apes
The jungle shifted into war mode.
🦍 Mystic Vanguard Apes
Frontline units—towering, four meters tall, muscles layered like braided steel. Their skin could harden at will, forming natural armor plates. Each possessed adaptive regeneration—gunfire wounds sealed in seconds.
Traits:
Bullet deflection through muscle density control
Shockwave punches capable of flipping vehicles
Enhanced pain nullification
🌿 Camouflage Stalkers
Invisible until death arrived.
Traits:
Active chromatic camouflage
Silent locomotion (no heartbeat vibration)
Neurotoxin claws causing paralysis in seconds
🦴 Totem Guards
Massive guardians stationed near tunnels.
Traits:
Gravity anchoring
Earth manipulation
Siege-level endurance
🗣️ Howler Priests
Support and terror units.
Traits:
Sonic roars inducing panic, hallucinations, organ rupture
Morale amplification for allies
Disruption of electronic signals
The apes did not rush.
They closed the forest.
The First Mistake
One of the dirt bikes slowed.
"Yo," a bandit muttered into his walkie, "anyone else feel like it got… quiet?"
The jungle had gone silent.
No birds.
No insects.
No wind.
A hunter laughed nervously. "You're jumpy. Sensors are clear."
That's when the ground moved.
Roots erupted.
The rear bike was yanked downward, rider screaming as living vines wrapped his limbs, crushing, dragging him beneath the soil. The scream cut off abruptly.
Gunfire exploded.
Too late.
Sporeburst Mines detonated.
A green mist engulfed the center formation. Hunters stumbled, rifles slipping from numb fingers. Some laughed hysterically, seeing things that weren't there. Others collapsed mid-step, bodies locking rigid.
One VIP raised his Desert Eagle, firing blindly.
The bullet hit a tree.
The tree hit back.
A Mystic Vanguard ape burst from the canopy, fist slamming into the jeep's hood. The metal folded like wet paper. The engine died in a single violent cough.
The ape roared.
The sound hit like a wall.
Eardrums ruptured.
Men dropped screaming, clutching bleeding ears.
Satellite phones shorted instantly.
PANIC ERUPTED IN AN INSTANT.
"CONTACT! CONTACT—"
The walkie-talkie dissolved into static as a Shadow Howler landed beside its user and tore his throat out without breaking stride.
Camouflage Stalkers moved through the chaos like ghosts.
One appeared behind a hunter—
A claw brushed his neck.
He froze.
Paralysis spread before fear could fully form.
Another bandit tried to run.
Gravity increased.
He slammed face-first into the mud, bones shattering under his own weight.
Vehicles burned as resin flames clung, fire refusing to die even in damp air.
The VIPs tried to retreat.
Rûkar landed in front of them.
The ground cracked.
He smiled.
"You brought guns," he said calmly, voice low and amused.
Then he moved.
One punch.
One VIP ceased to exist above the waist.
The others fired wildly.
Bullets flattened against Rûkar's chest and dropped harmlessly.
He grabbed two men by their heads.
And ended them.
The Message
Within minutes, it was over.
No survivors.
The bodies were dragged underground—
Not as trophies.
As fertilizer.
High above, Whisperleaf Watchers recorded everything.
Deep below, the Primal King watched through the jungle's eyes.
"Send the signal," he said.
Howler Priests climbed to elevated ridges and roared—not in rage, but in announcement.
The sound traveled.
Toward the main base.
Toward the outposts.
A message encoded in fear itself.
💀 You are not alone.
💀 You are not safe.
💀 You are already inside our territory.
Rûkar knelt once more.
"The hunt begins," he said.
The Primal King's smile widened.
"No," he corrected softly.
"The slaughter continues."
TO BE CONTINUED.....