Dev moved swiftly through the dense jungle, his mind racing. This is bad. That scream had come from the boss area. If that was the case, then the team dealing with the boss was in trouble—serious trouble. Whatever could take down a squad of Category Four hunters wasn’t something that belonged in this dungeon. If he ran in blindly, he’d be heading straight to his death.

  Damn it… were there any cat error gates around this time? He struggled to dig through twenty years of memories, but recalling an old news bulletin without the memory enhancements awakening provided was far from easy. Still, he had to see for himself. If this was what he thought it was…

  A precursor.

  In the future, it had been discovered that cat errors were a symptom of demonic influence. If that was the case here, the implications were nothing good.

  We still had three years… Damn it, I’ve only been here two weeks! Don’t tell me the butterfly effect works that fast.

  Pushing forward, Dev moved swiftly, his senses on high alert. The jungle around him was alive with movement, the damp air thick with tension. A rustle in the underbrush made him halt just before a writhing mass of thorny tendrils shot toward him.

  Vinebiters.

  He dodged to the side, firing off three quick shots. The first burst through a lunging creature’s center, the second shredded another mid-air, and the third severed a tendril just before it could coil around his head. Their bodies collapsed in a heap, leaking dark green ichor onto the jungle floor.

  Then came the wraithbeasts. Wispy figures drifted between the trees, hollow eyes glowing faintly. One lunged. Dev twisted away, feeling a chill scrape against his arm. He fired—one shot stunned the creature, the second shattered its head. He repeated the process twice more before the jungle fell silent again.

  Breathing heavily, he reloaded. No time for delays.

  With his weapon ready, he pushed forward. The screams had come from just up ahead.

  The moment he neared the clearing, the air thick as it was, clinging to his skin. It smelled different. Less of damp earth and more of something metallic.

  Blood.

  He stepped carefully, his boots barely making a sound as he scanned the area. Then, he saw it.

  The boss monster lay on the ground, screeching. Its limbs had been severed, the wounds cauterized to keep it alive. A Lizardman Chieftain—larger than a standard lizardman, nearly nine feet tall, its wiry muscles filling out its imposing frame.

  Then, Dev's gaze shifted to the bodies.

  The healer, recognizable by his auto-injectors, lay dead with an arrow lodged through his eye. The two mages—one with a shattered staff, the other with talismans—both lifeless. The latter’s throat had been slit.

  The sharp clang of metal meeting metal snapped Dev’s attention forward. Carefully, he peered around the corner.

  The longsword-wielding warrior was on one knee, breathing heavily. Standing before him were two figures—the archer who had likely loosed that fatal shot, and a towering, burly man gripping a massive zweihander.

  …..

  Dain looked down at the swordsman, who knelt before him, barely holding himself upright. This had been a simple job—get a few members of the team to call in sick, step in as replacements, and do what needed to be done. No loose ends.

  He didn’t know exactly who had hired him and the big guy. Everything was handled through back channels, dark web forums, and anonymous drops. That suited Dain just fine. He wasn’t the type to ask too many questions, especially when the payout was this good.

  And it was very good. Not just a better-than-usual payday—retirement money. Buy-a-mansion-in-Buenos-Aires, sip-Mai-Tais-on-the-beach-for-the-rest-of-his-life kind of money. Enough money to be in her life again

  Better than what Caelum had ever paid him.

  All he had to do was make sure the job went smoothly, clean up the mess, and before anyone started really digging.

  Apparently, his employer had a grudge. Their goal wasn’t just to kill a few hunters—it was to ruin Caelum. Public opinion would plummet once the news spread. A team sent into what was supposed to be a standard dungeon, only to be slaughtered? The guild would be accused of knowingly sending them to their deaths, brushing off warning signs of a Cat Error. The fallout would be bad.

  He and Boris would be the only survivors, and their testimony would seal the deal. A tragic miscalculation. A reckless guild willing to gamble with its hunters’ lives.

  All they had to do now was finish up and get the hell out before anyone started asking the wrong questions.

  Dain sighed and pulled his dagger free, stepping toward the kneeling swordsman. “Nothing personal,” he muttered for a brief moment, an image flickered in his mind—a little girl with long, curly hair before swinging the blade into the man’s throat.

  Then his instincts screamed.

  Dain’s eyes widened, and before his mind could even register the danger, his body reacted—head tilting just in time as a bullet whizzed past his ear. What the hell?! His [Ranger’s Domain] skill flared to life, instantly mapping everything within a 20-meter radius. His senses locked onto the shooter—someone crouched in the underbrush, rifle still trained on him.

  A porter? The realization slammed into him. What the hell is a porter doing all the way out here?

  He barely had time to think before movement in front of him forced him back into the fight.

  The swordsman exploded upward, abandoning his weapon entirely, fists flying. Dain barely had time to bring his arms up before a heavy punch crashed into his forearm, sending a numbing shock up to his shoulder. He stumbled back, cursing under his breath, but the bastard was already on him again.

  A left hook—Dain ducked. A knee—he twisted away just before it could break his ribs. He retaliated with a quick stab, but the swordsman batted his wrist away and drove a palm strike into his chest, knocking him back another step.

  Relentless.

  This wasn’t some calculated duel. The man fought like a rabid beast, each attack wild but full of intent, closing the gap again and again, forcing Dain to keep defending. The swordsman wasn’t trying to win—he was trying to drag Dain down with him.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  A sharp elbow grazed Dain’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. Shit! He countered with a brutal kick to the swordsman’s thigh, making the bastard stagger for half a second—but half a second wasn’t enough. He came back, snarling, fists swinging.

  Dain blocked another strike, but his arm throbbed from the force. He could take this guy, sure—but not fast enough. The porter was already on the move, and if he got away, they were screwed.

  Awakened criminals were barely given trials. No mercy, no negotiations. If he was caught, it was straight to solitary, chained to the damn walls until he rotted—or worse, forced into community service, a glorified slave sent to clear gates until his body gave out.

  “Boris!” Dain barked, gritting his teeth as he caught the next punch on his forearm. He slammed his elbow into the swordsman’s gut, forcing him back just enough to speak. “Go chase that porter! I’ll handle this guy—then come back and clean up. Worst case? Just kill ’em all. I am not about to go to Gehenna over this shit!”

  I can’t, he thought, the words blazing in his mind.

  Boris grunted in acknowledgment, already turning toward the fleeing porter, exploding toward him with the speed and force of a charging bull.

  Dain exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. His grip on the dagger tightened as he eyed the swordsman, who was already preparing to rush him again.

  “Alright then,” he muttered. He spat blood to the side and lifted his knife. “Let’s finish this.”

  ….

  SHIT. SHIT. SHIT. SHIT. Why did you do that, Dev? Why the hell did you do that? You could’ve just turned around, ran for the hills, informed the porters, and evacuated them. Let Pantheon handle this mess. But no, you made a dumb decision and tried to shoot evil Robin Hood.

  In his mind, he knew he wasn’t Awakened not yet. He knew he had no chance against a Cat-4 Hunter like Boris. But he didn’t feel that way. Two weeks ago, he’d been able to bench press a truck with one hand. He thought he’d come to terms with his condition, thought he’d reconciled with the reality of his current self.

  But his actions said otherwise

  Dev cursed under his breath, his legs pumping as he charged through the dense jungle, one foot in front of the other. The massive beast of a man—Boris—was charging behind him, a human wrecking ball tearing through the underbrush. Dev swore he could feel the ground shake with each step the brute took. He could almost hear Boris’s roar, like an animal’s guttural howl, as the man tore through the jungle like it was made of paper.

  There’s no way I’m outrunning this guy.

  Dev gritted his teeth, pushing himself faster, sweat stinging his eyes. His breath came in ragged gasps, the weight of his decisions pressing down on him. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t even a soldier anymore—just a guy who knew how to survive.

  But that damn swordsman... the way he fought, the way he tried to protect his team... The image of Beelzebub overlayed on the archer in his memories as he ran

  It was too much, too soon. Just letting him die felt wrong.

  Focus, Dev!

  He snapped back to reality. The pounding steps grew closer. Boris wasn’t slowing down. There was no way he was going to outrun him—not in this terrain. Dev needed a plan. He needed a place to hide, something to give him a better vantage point to maybe snipe him. He had to be able to see Boris coming for him if he was going to stand a chance at slowing him down, or worse—if the bastard got too close, there’d be no running away at all.

  He scanned the jungle ahead, his sharp eyes darting from tree to tree, searching for any kind of advantage. A ridge? A rock outcropping? Anything to give him the high ground.

  Finally, a break in the trees. A narrow ravine that led down into a low, rocky area, the perfect place to get some cover and, hopefully, a shot at stopping the brute.

  THERE!

  Dev's sharp gaze locked onto a massive mangrove ahead, its thick roots twisting into the murky water below. The raised tangle of wood created natural cover—a place he could use to break line of sight and maybe set up a shot. He veered toward it, nearly slipping as his boots splashed into ankle-deep sludge. The swamp sucked at his legs, slowing him just enough to make his heart hammer in panic.

  Boris was close. Too close.

  Desperation fueled him as he lunged forward, scrambling up onto the mangrove roots, using their gnarled knots as footholds. His fingers dug into the damp bark, hauling himself up just as Boris crashed into the clearing behind him.

  The brute stopped for just a second, scanning the area with predator-like intensity. His zweihander was already drawn, the massive blade glinting dully in the filtered light.

  Dev pressed himself against the trunk, forcing his breath to slow despite the adrenaline screaming through his veins. Come on, big guy... just step a little closer...

  If Boris came within range, Dev could take a shot at his knee—maybe not enough to stop him completely, but enough to slow him down and escape.

  The brute chuckled, his voice a low, mocking growl.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” He took a slow step forward. “It’s only a matter of time before I find you. And if I don’t? Maybe I’ll pay a visit to one of the porter camps—kill them one by one until someone tells me where you’re hiding.”

  Dev’s grip on his pistol tightened.

  “You seem like a bleeding heart,” Boris taunted. “Would you really let that happ—”

  CRACK!

  A sharp gunshot rang out. Boris’s knee buckled slightly as the bullet struck home. He grunted, stumbling for half a second before quickly regaining his balance. His head snapped toward the source of the shot, eyes narrowing.

  Another shot.

  This time, Boris rolled to the side, a predator’s grin splitting his face as he pinpointed Dev’s position deep within the mangrove.

  “Not bad,” he mused, flexing his leg. “Bruised the back of my knee a bit. What rounds are those? Armor-piercing?” He chuckled. “Nah, regular folk can’t get those.”

  Dev fired again, the bullets ricocheting off Boris’s skin. The brute barely flinched.

  “Steel-tipped,” Boris guessed, rolling his shoulders. “That’d explain why they hurt like a mother—”

  Then he moved.

  With terrifying speed, Boris surged forward, bullets bouncing harmlessly off him as his mana surged outward. His skin darkened, a faint sheen covering his body as his skill activated—[Aegis Skin].

  Dev barely had time to curse before Boris was already upon him. The zweihander whistled through the air in a deadly arc.

  Shit!

  Dev leaped—just in time. The blade cleaved through the mangrove, splintering wood where he’d been a heartbeat ago. Dev barely had time to register the pain before instinct took over. His ankle snapped on impact, sending a shockwave of agony through his leg. He bit down a scream, rolling through the fall and forcing himself to keep moving. Move now, deal with the pain later.

  Boris, meanwhile, was grinning like a madman. "Ohhh, that sounded bad," he taunted, yanking his zweihander free from the now-cleaved mangrove roots. "Bet that hurt like hell, huh? You should’ve just stayed hidden, kid. Now you’re mine."

  Dev gritted his teeth, sweat dripping down his face as he hobbled backward, rifle still raised. His hands were steady, but his mind was racing. Boris was faster than expected—too fast. His [Aegis Skin] was holding strong, the steel-tipped rounds barely leaving a mark. Dev only had a few seconds before the bastard was on him again.

  Boris took another step forward, testing his weight on the injured leg. He chuckled, "Not gonna run anymore? Smart. I’d just break the other one." Then, with a sudden burst of speed, he lunged.

  Dev barely had time to throw himself to the side. His injured ankle screamed in protest, and he nearly collapsed, but the move saved him—the zweihander whooshed through the air just inches from his head, slicing deep into the mud where he had been standing.

  Too close.

  Breathing ragged, Dev gritted his teeth. He needed a plan, and he needed it now. Boris was durable, fast, and completely unbothered by gunfire. If he didn’t find a way to turn the fight around, this swamp was about to become his grave.

  Then, suddenly, a deep whooshing sound cut through the air behind him. It wasn’t the wind—this was something else. A buildup of energy.

  The humid jungle air grew dry, the moisture seemingly sucked away as the temperature around him spiked. Dev felt the heat prick at his skin, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as an undeniable force surged behind him.

  Boris, who had been fully focused on him, hesitated. His expression twisted in irritation as he turned toward the disturbance. "Who the hell are you?"

  Dev, still half-sprawled on the ground, forced himself to turn as well.

  Standing there, arm outstretched, was a figure unlike anything he’d ever seen.

  The man—if he even was a man—was clad in a full-body suit of sleek black armor, futuristic in design. Gray undertones covered the joints, blending seamlessly into the obsidian plating. A glowing blue core pulsed at the center of his chest, from which countless circuit-like lines of light extended across his form, weaving through the armor like veins of energy. His helmet, smooth and featureless save for the sleek metal visor, radiated the same eerie blue glow.

  And at the end of his outstretched arm?

  Not a hand.

  But a laser cannon.

  And it shot right at Boris