[Character Sheet]

  Subject: Kyle "Alvin"

  Age: 24

  Level: 8

  Race: Human (Basic 1)

  Class: None

  Affinity: None

  Affinity Rating: 38.4

  Core Type: un-awakened

  Energy: 0/521

  [Stats]

  Will: 12

  Strength: 9

  Intelligence: 12

  Vitality: 10

  Agility: 6

  Dexterity: 13

  Resilience: 11

  Unbound Points: 0

  [Abilities] None

  [Skills]

  Tracker (Intermediate 7)

  Survivor (Intermediate 6)

  Spear (Intermediate 3)

  Fighting (Novice 8)

  [Spells] None

  [Items of Significance]

  Spear- The Spine (basic) no enchantment

  Spear- The Fang (basic) no enchantment

  Knife- Bleeding Edge (basic) no enchantment

  Knife- Beast Bite (basic) no enchantment

  Shin Guards- Stonefang Greaves (basic) no enchantment

  Arm Guards- Reaper’s Clasp (basic) no enchantment

  1 Vials of substance (unidentified)

  Morning painted the jungle blue, a sky neither kind nor cruel stretching endless above the camp Kyle and his crew had wrought from nothing but will and blood. Ten days. Ten fucking days since the world spat them out here, since bullets on 58th Street became spears on backs became their second chance at living, at breathing, at becoming something the concrete jungle never allowed.

  Kyle ran calloused fingers along twin spears—weapons that sang to him now, not clumsy tools but extensions of muscle and bone and intent. The tips gleamed murder-sharp in the strange light, each edge worked finer than any knife he'd ever owned in Harlem. He slid the matching blade into its sheath at his hip, the weight familiar against his thigh, reassuring like a mother's hand and deadly like a father's rage.

  "Looking good," he murmured to himself, testing the balance, feeling its rightness.

  The armor plates strapped to his forearms clinked softly as he moved, scaled protection harvested from beasts whose names they'd never know. His skin—honey-brown now darkened to deep bronze by the merciless sun—wore sweat like jewelry, droplets catching light as they traced maps of survival down his chest. Bare feet planted firm on stone, he admired the plates guarding his shins, adorned with teeth from creatures whose dying breaths had fed their rise from prey to predator.

  His fingers touched the necklace at his throat, each fang and claw a number in his ledger, each kill a step up the ladder that climbed from death to power. Seven beasts by his hand alone, their essence absorbed, their strength now his. The cuts in his jeans—once made for comfort in oppressive heat—now marked deliberate choices, mobility over modesty, function over the fading memory of street fashion.

  Kyle squinted at the crude map they'd scored into bark over days of hunting and returning, territories marked in blood and memory and the occasional symbol that meant danger, meant food, meant water. "South," he decided, the word cutting through morning quiet like a blade through hide, brooking no argument because arguments wasted breath and breath wasted time and time meant life in this place that took and took and sometimes, if you killed enough, gave back.

  Marcus approached from the lean-to, already armed, already focused. "Found tracks yesterday, east of the purple stream. Three-toed, but bigger than what we've been hitting. Much bigger."

  Anticipation surged through Kyle's veins—hot, fierce, undeniable. Bigger meant harder, meant danger, meant more of those white motes that burned cold fire into his blood and marked his transformation from street soldier to something this world hadn't named yet.

  "How much bigger?" Kyle asked, already calculating risk against reward, already weighing their weapons against an unknown threat.

  "Half again as large," Marcus replied, gesturing with his hands to indicate the size. "And traveling in pairs, not herds."

  Dex emerged from the shadows of their shelter, bare-chested and battle-ready. Sunlight caught the ridges of muscle that hadn't existed ten days prior—not built by work but granted by this place's twisted gifts when blood spilled and numbers rose. Kyle noticed how Dex moved now—the swagger of Spanish Harlem stripped away and replaced by something wilder, more economical, more true.

  "We hunting or talking about hunting?" Dex asked, voice rough from sleep but eyes sharp and clear.

  Kyle studied them both, these brothers bound by blood not shared but spilled together. Their feet—once soft from concrete and sneakers—now moved across stone and root without hesitation. Their skin—once vulnerable to every thorn and branch—now turned minor threats aside like mail armor. Their eyes—once always glancing over shoulders for rival sets or blue lights—now scanned canopies and undergrowth for predators larger than human grudges.

  "We've changed," Kyle thought, the realization hitting like a physical blow. Not just stronger or faster or more attuned to this place, but fundamentally altered. The plates decorating their shins—trophies that served as armor, protection that served as reminders—would have seemed absurd before the corner on 58th, before bullets, before revival.

  JT's face flashed sudden behind Kyle's eyes—frozen in that moment of terror before the scream, before they ran, before they abandoned brotherhood for breath. "Would have looked good in scales," Kyle thought, the grief still raw despite days and levels and kills since. And behind that face, his mother's—copper-flame hair and eyes resigned to a son who would die on corners just like his father before him.

  "Wonder what she'd think now," whispered some part of Kyle that still remembered subway rides and bodega stops and the weight of her hand on his fevered forehead when pneumonia nearly took him at six. "Not the death she feared, at least."

  Kyle shook away ghosts, focused on flesh, on now, on the hunt ahead. He adjusted the deer-beast scales protecting his chest, feeling how naturally they conformed to his body now, how what once chafed now felt like second skin.

  "We move in ten," he commanded, the words falling easy from his mouth, leadership no longer borrowed from Dex but earned through decisions that kept them breathing, kept them eating, kept them rising through levels while others would have fed the worms.

  They descended from their perch like kings from thrones, like wolves from dens, like something the concrete never prepared them for but somehow trained them to become. Kyle felt energy building beneath his skin as they moved—a power not yet unleashed, a magic sleeping in his blood that occasionally stirred when danger peaked or triumph soared, then settled back into waiting. The character sheet in his mind showed numbers steadily climbing, potential energy building toward something explosive.

  Each carried twin spears and multiple blades harvested from creatures whose anatomy defied Earth's logic but whose deaths followed universal rules. They moved in silence—Marcus watching flanks, Dex scanning forward, Kyle leading with senses that stretched beyond sight or sound into something instinctual, something granted by Tracker (Intermediate 7) and Survivor (Intermediate 6) and the thousand small deaths that paved their road to power.

  The jungle parted before them—not from fear but from their knowing which paths to take, which vines would yield, which thorns would tear. Smaller creatures scattered at their approach, tiny scaled rodents and multi-winged insects sensing what Kyle now knew with bone-deep certainty: they were no longer visitors or victims or strangers in this realm.

  They were predators. They were hunting.

  They were becoming the thing that scared the dark.

  —--------------------------------------------

  Kyle moved through verdant shadows like a ghost haunting familiar halls, each step calculated where soil would absorb sound and branch would bend without snapping, his honey-brown eyes—darkened now by days beneath the impossible blue sky—scanning patterns that ordinary men would miss but street-hardened instinct transformed into stories written across the jungle floor.

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  Behind him, Dex and Marcus followed his lead with the same careful rhythm they'd once used creeping through rival territory back in the Five-Eight, before bullets tore them from concrete to be reborn in wilderness. Kyle's nostrils flared at the heavy symphony of rot and growth and water, the smell a thousand times richer than the stink of trash and piss that had defined their previous life.

  This place trying to drown us in air, he thought, wiping sweat from his brow with a forearm crisscrossed by healing scratches.

  The distant cries of unseen beasts echoed across the canopy—territorial warnings wrapped in throaty melodies that belonged in nightmares, not nature. Kyle recognized the sounds now, categorized them by threat and proximity without conscious effort, his mind reshaping itself with each level gained.

  Kyle stopped mid-stride, arm extending sideways in the signal they'd perfected since childhood. His fingers formed quick gestures: three beasts ahead. Dex's lips parted in a grin that spelled trouble back home and spelled life here, while Marcus's eyes narrowed, already measuring approach angles and escape routes.

  "Perfect," Dex whispered, the word barely disturbing the air between them.

  Memories flooded Kyle's thoughts—Dex whispering that same word before they jumped a rival dealer, before they took a corner that wasn't theirs, before bullets found them on 58th Street. Another hunt in another world, but the same hunger driving them forward.

  The blue-tinged light twisted through branches and vines and leaves wider than Kyle's torso, painting their skin in strange patterns that matched the churning in his gut—excitement and fear and hunger twisted into something he couldn't name but recognized from a lifetime of taking what wasn't offered.

  Kyle felt more than saw his brothers position themselves beside him, their breathing synced through years of shared danger and shared triumph. They communicated now through gestures and expressions, the wordless language of hunters evolved from the wordless language of street soldiers.

  Dex leaned forward slightly, nostrils flaring at the scent of prey, his entire body coiled like a spring waiting for release. Marcus calculated with eyes that missed nothing, taking in distances and angles variables that meant life instead of death.

  A clearing opened before them through a curtain of hanging vines that shimmered violet at their edges, and Kyle's breath caught in his throat. Three massive herbivores grazed in apparent peace, unaware of the death that watched from shadows. Each beast stood twice the size of any they'd killed before, their three-toed hooves leaving impressions in the soft earth that could swallow Kyle's hand to the wrist.

  Big motherfuckers, Kyle thought, his mind already sorting meat from hide from bone from value.

  He crouched at the track edge, his palm hovering over an impression without touching the evidence that told stories to those who knew how to read. The soil remained fresh, disturbed within the hour, still releasing the scent of minerals usually buried beneath the surface.

  He measured the width with spread fingers, noting how his hand failed to span the distance. The beasts themselves were walking mountains of muscle wrapped in scales that caught the light like metal, their flesh promising weeks of food if they could bring one down without dying in the attempt, but who was he kidding it wasn’t about the meat at this point.

  Risk against reward, his mind cataloged automatically. Three of us. Three of them. But bigger. Much bigger.

  Kyle signaled the comparison with separated hands, showing the difference between previous kills and these monsters. The others nodded, understanding flowing between them without words—a language built from necessity and trust and shared violence.

  Marcus pointed to a water source two hundred yards ahead, the likely destination for creatures this size. His finger traced a path through the undergrowth, suggesting approach vectors that would minimize exposure.

  Dex's eyes never left the largest beast, his jaw muscle tightening with each massive mouthful of vegetation the creature tore from low-hanging branches. Kyle recognized that look from a thousand corner confrontations—the focus of a predator who had already chosen his target, consequences be damned.

  Kyle's mind raced through calculations, weighing options against outcomes against needs. The plates alone would armor all three of them better than anything they'd cobbled together so far. The meat would feed them for days, allowing time to craft better weapons. The level gains from such a kill might unlock new skills, new advantages in this game of blood and advancement.

  But one mistake—one misplaced step, one errant breath, one spear thrown without enough force—and they'd join JT in whatever came after second death in this twisted paradise.

  Worth it, Kyle decided, the words formed in his mind but not spoken aloud. We need this. We need what these give us.

  He nodded once, the gesture small but final. Dex's smile widened, showing teeth that seemed sharper now than they had on Earth, hunger and violence and joy indistinguishable in the expression. Marcus exhaled slowly, accepting the decision with the same quiet resolve he'd shown when following Kyle into bad situations that somehow turned good through will and luck and brotherhood.

  Kyle turned his attention back to the beasts, watching their movement patterns, the way they communicated through subtle shifts of weight and position. His fingers tightened around his spear, the weapon humming with potential energy and and the promise of power waiting in blood yet to be spilled.

  Kyle traced their route in the dirt with his spear tip, carving lines that told a story of violence yet to come. The water hole gleamed fifty yards ahead—killing ground disguised as sanctuary. He'd learned at fourteen that opportunity lived where needs must be met, watching People get robbed each Friday when they hit the bank, their pockets fat with week's earnings and guard down with weekend plans.

  "Intercept at water. Three positions." His voice carried enough authority that neither questioned, but enough restraint that neither bristled. Leading without pushing.

  Dex's eyes locked onto the largest beast, already claiming it without words. "I want the big one." His hand tightened around his primary spear, knuckles clenching beneath soil-darkened skin.

  Marcus studied the herd's movement patterns, mind calculating variables Kyle could almost see flickering behind his eyes. "They're traveling together for protection. Take out the smallest first."

  Kyle nodded, the motion barely perceptible. "Smallest first. Disrupt the group." Street logic applied perfectly here: target weakness, create chaos, exploit the aftermath. The concrete jungle and this jungle operated on identical principles.

  Dex's mouth tightened into a thin line. His jaw muscle twitched once, twice—the same tell he'd shown before beating that kid half to death over a misunderstood look back in the Five-Eight. But the nod came, reluctant but present. He'd follow the plan.

  The water pool stretched before them, rock formations creating natural cover around its perimeter. Kyle studied angles, escape routes, potential complications. His mind felt sharper here—cleaner without the constant background noise of sirens, shouts, and anxiety that had been his lifelong soundtrack.

  Three quick hand gestures assigned their positions

  Dex took the high ground, scrambling up the rock formation with surprising grace for his size. His body coiled tight, potential energy waiting for release..

  Marcus moved with methodical purpose to his flanking position, wetting his finger and testing the wind direction. Always the planner.

  Kyle settled into position, the primary strike point. His spear balanced perfectly in his grip—not too tight, not too loose. "Like holding a woman," his father had once said about handling his .45, during one of his rare visits between prison stretches. "Firm enough she knows you mean business, gentle enough she don't feel trapped."

  His heart rate slowed deliberately, each breath becoming deeper, longer. The world narrowed to trajectory and timing. The smallest beast would pass between those two blue-barked trees in approximately thirty seconds. One clean throw. One kill. One step closer to becoming what this place demanded.

  Kyle raised three fingers. The countdown began.

  One finger lowered—Dex's breathing audible even at this distance, eager and hungry.

  Second finger down—Marcus shifting weight to his back foot, preparing to launch.

  Final finger curling into his palm—three spears lifting in perfect synchronization.

  The weapons flew, cutting humid air with deadly intent. Kyle's found the smallest beast's neck, burying deep between scales. Dex's strike punched through its flank. Marcus's spear grazed its shoulder, opening a wound that leaked orange-tinted blood onto emerald grass.

  The beast staggered, bellowing pain that echoed across the clearing. Its larger companions startled—heads jerking upward, nostrils flaring to catch the sudden copper-tang of blood.

  Kyle moved instantly, second spear already in hand, feet finding silent purchase in soil damp enough to swallow sound. He circled wide, flanking position offering multiple angles of attack.

  But Dex—fucking Dex—abandoned the plan, charging directly at the largest beast with a wild grin stretching his face. The same reckless, beautiful stupidity that had gotten them killed on 58th Street now threatened their careful formation. The massive creature turned to meet him, lowering horned head in challenge.

  "Motherfu—" Kyle bit off the curse. No time for anger now. Only adaptation.

  Marcus maintained position, circling methodically to cut off the escape route of the middle beast, which bolted straight toward him. His eyes watching, body already pivoting to intercept.

  Kyle focused on the wounded smallest beast, now thrashing between trees, blood marking its path like breadcrumbs. He closed distance in three long strides, spear held low and centered. The creature saw him coming—its eyes rolling white with terror, its breath coming in wet gasps.

  "Nothing personal," Kyle muttered, driving his weapon upward beneath the jaw where armor gave way to vulnerable throat. The beast reared, forelegs pawing air, then collapsed under its own weight.

  Kyle twisted the spear once, ensuring the kill, careful to avoid damaging valuable materials. His expression remained neutral.

  The job. The kill. The necessity.

  Across the clearing, Dex met the largest beast head-on, his spear driving deep into its chest. But the creature didn't fall. It charged, massive bulk carrying both itself and Dex backward into underbrush. Where others would retreat, Dex laughed—a sound Kyle recognized from countless street brawls, the sound of someone who loved the dance of violence more than he feared its consequences.

  They disappeared into greenery, the only evidence of their struggle the shaking branches and Dex's wild whoops of excitement.

  Marcus positioned himself with sniper's patience, waiting for the fleeing middle beast to cross his line of sight. When it did, his spear flew in a perfect arc, finding the narrow gap between armored plates at the base of its skull. The creature stumbled two steps, momentum carrying it forward even as life departed.

  The smell hit first—copper-sharp, potent enough to trigger flashbacks to those Friday nights when Kyle's childhood apartment walls had known fists and blood. He stood between two fallen beasts, their orange-tinged blood turning jungle soil to slick mud beneath his leather boots.

  Marcus followed, knife already drawn. He knelt beside one fallen beast, blade finding the brain stem. A mercy kill, minimizing suffering. Even here, Marcus maintained the principles that had guided him through the Five-Eight—violence as tool, not pleasure.

  Kyle left his own kill bleeding out, rushing toward the thrashing undergrowth where Dex had disappeared. He broke through tangled vines to find his friend straddling the largest beast's back, riding it like some twisted rodeo star, one hand locked in its fur while the other drove a knife repeatedly into the junction between neck and shoulder.

  Blood sprayed with each strike, coating Dex's face and chest in orange-red patterns. His teeth shone white in a face transformed by joy—pure, uncomplicated, terrible joy.

  "You gonna help or just watch?" Dex called, laughing as the beast bucked beneath him.

  Kyle assessed the situation in a heartbeat. The creature was mortally wounded, Dex in no real danger despite the spectacle. He stepped back, letting his friend finish what he'd started.

  "Got this one," he called back, turning to check on Marcus instead.

  When Kyle returned, Dex still straddled the third and largest creature, face flushed and glistening with sweat-mixed blood that wasn't his. He twisted his spear deeper into the beast's throat, muscles bunching beneath his torn shirt.

  "Told you I wanted the big one," Dex said, words punching through heavy breathing. His shoulders rose and fell like pistons, teeth bared in that familiar mix of triumph and rage.

  Marcus circled the second carcass, movements economical where Dex's had been explosive. He wiped his blade clean on a broad leaf, analyzing the beast's anatomy with detached interest. "Could have gotten yourself killed."

  "But he didn't," Kyle said, studying Dex—the wildness in his eyes, the complete absence of fear. Understanding clicked. He's enjoying this..

  Kyle's attention dropped to his own kill. The spear had entered perfectly below the shoulder joint, bypassing armored plates and finding the soft vulnerability beneath. His fingers traced the entry wound's clean edges, a smile forming without permission. Heat spread through his chest—not shame, not disgust, but something warmer.

  Why deny it? This feels good.

  The satisfaction of a perfect kill trembled through him, sweeter than the street victories he'd known before. Different from pulling a trigger and walking away. More intimate. More earned.

  Three months ago, this pleasure would have disturbed him. Now, he embraced it—this evolution necessitated by blue skies and strange predators and the hunger to rise through levels written in his blood.

  Around them, the three massive corpses leaked heat into the humid air. The creatures that had seemed so formidable in life now lay conquered, reduced to resources and experience points.

  Dex finally dismounted his trophy, wiping his blade on his already filthy jeans. "Fuck your plan. We got them all, didn't we?"

  "Next time, we stick to the plan," Kyle replied, without real anger. His words carried less reproach than they would have days ago.

  The familiar white motes appeared then, rising from cooling flesh like ghostly fireflies. They swirled in complex patterns before splitting into three streams. Kyle didn't flinch as they sank into his chest—the cold fire had become almost welcome, a herald of advancement.

  [Congratulations you are now Level 9] [Unbound Points: 8]

  The notification flashed behind his eyes, but something felt different this time. Beyond the usual rush of knowledge and capability, a strange warmth bloomed in his chest. Not the cold fire of the motes, but something deeper. It spread outward from his sternum, reaching down his arms to pool in his palms.

  Kyle caught Marcus's eye, then Dex's. Their subtle nods confirmed they felt it too—this new sensation beyond the familiar advancement.

  "You feel that?" Kyle kept his voice low.

  "Yeah," Marcus replied, flexing his fingers.

  Dex rolled his shoulders, expression shifting from triumph to curiosity. "Feels like... I don't know, man. Like there's more in the tank now."

  The warmth faded gradually, retreating back to a faint ember nestled beneath Kyle's breastbone. He turned his attention to the practical task of harvesting, kneeling beside the nearest beast.

  His knife found the seam between armored plates and flesh with newfound precision. The blade slipped through resistance that would have stymied him days earlier. Kyle separated a section of plating, testing its weight in his palm. Heavy, but manageable where before it might have strained his muscles.

  We're getting stronger, he observed, watching Dex pry fangs from the largest creature's jaw. Not just skills and stats. Everything.

  Dex held up a curved tooth longer than his hand, admiring its deadly elegance. His eyes darkened momentarily. " One day, I'll get that left-eye motherfucker that got JT."

  The name hung in the air between them—their lost fourth, whose absence shaped their survival as surely as his presence once had.

  "We will," Kyle agreed, the words a promise and a threat combined. He returned to his work, separating useful materials from waste with movements that felt increasingly natural.

  As he worked, heat gathered in his palms again before dissipating like water on hot stone. Power building with nowhere to go. Kyle exchanged glances with the others, acknowledging something new was happening..

  They worked methodically, stripping the carcasses of everything valuable—plates for armor, fangs for weapons, meat for sustenance. The larger beast would provide materials they couldn't have carried before their recent strength increases.

  The blue sun inched lower in the sky, casting longer shadows through the jungle canopy. They needed to move soon, to reach their elevated camp before darkness brought out the apex predators.

  Kyle hefted a section of armored hide, feeling the new strength in his muscles. Each kill made them more capable. Each level pushed them further from the humans they'd been and closer to something else—something that belonged in this world of monstrous beauty and beautiful monsters.

  He glanced at his hands, remembering the heat that had gathered there. Something's changing. Something more than just getting stronger.

  The thought both troubled and thrilled him as they began gathering their harvest, preparing for the journey back to safety.