Haa! Haa! Haa!
Ah shit!
We didn't know this.
Why did it suddenly happen?
My hands won't stop shaking. Neither will my legs. Warm liquid drips down my forehead. My entire face is covered in something black. Blood? Dirt? I don't know anymore.
My blades... I dropped them. Somewhere.
Haa... Haa...
My breath gets heavier with every passing second. It comes out white. Too cold.
My team already died half an hour ago. The silence is louder than their screams were.
Idiot. You fell off this time too.
What should I do? What?
I tried to close my grip. Forced my broken fingers into a fist.
Argh!!!!!!
Pain shoots up my arm like lightning.
Arghhhh!!!!
I can't feel my surroundings anymore. My senses are dulling. The world is blurring.
It's coming... Towards me... Fast... Too fast...
Is it over?
Is this where I die?
Yes or no?
I grit my teeth, tasting blood and dirt.
Fuck you, fate!!!
---
[A FEW HOURS EARLIER]
[FREDRIKO UNIVERSITY, FREDRIKO, AVENTIC]
No, no, no.
I'm late.
I'm late.
Again.
I sprint toward the exam hall.
Today there's supposed to be an exam, and I'm twenty minutes late. Twenty minutes. The teacher's going to kill me before any Duman ever gets the chance.
The hallway is empty. Everyone's already inside, already writing, already doing the normal student things I'm supposed to be doing. Instead I'm running like an idiot because I stayed up too late reviewing mission reports that I definitely didn't need to review for the eighty-seventh time.
I stop near the door. Catch my breath. Try to look like someone who has his life together.
"Sir! May I come in?"
Haa... Haa... Haa...
My breaths are fast and heavy.
"So finally, our prince decided to join us. Come on in, dear prince."
He's angry. Obviously. I've been late three times this month. Maybe four. The math isn't in my favor.
"Yes, sir." I quickly find my seat and sit down. The other students don't even look up. They're used to this by now. Nams, the guy who's always late. Nams, the guy who disappears for days without explanation. Nams, the guy who probably won't graduate.
He gives me the questions and a deadpan warning glare. The kind that says don't bother explaining, I've already judged you.
I look down at the paper.
Q1. If 45x45x45 = x, then tell what the poet wanted to say?
Uh... what?
Q2. If a couple gives birth to 1 crore children, then calculate their children's future wife's father's height?
Huh?
Q3. A train leaves Station A at 3:00 PM moving at 60 km/h. Another train leaves Station B at 4:30 PM moving at 80 km/h. If a Duman eats both trains, how many survivors reach the hospital?
...This is a joke, right?
I know it's not a serious exam—this is the "general aptitude" nonsense they make us take between real subjects—but what is this? Beyond child's play. Beyond anything resembling education. The professor who wrote this was either drunk or had completely given up on humanity.
That's right. Child's play.
Thirty minutes later, the exam ends.
I don't even know what those questions meant or what I wrote. Something about the poet wanting to say that math is meaningless. Something about the children's future wife's father being very tall. Something about zero survivors because the Duman ate them too.
I stand up. Walk outside.
The hallway flows with students. Couples holding hands. Friends laughing about answers they got wrong. Normal people living normal lives with normal problems like test scores and homework and what to eat for lunch.
I've never been any of them. Not really. Even when I'm here, sitting in the same classes, taking the same exams—I'm not here. My mind is somewhere else. Somewhere with maps and mission briefings and the constant hum of impending violence.
My phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Mission time, Boss."
Cari's voice. Familiar. Too cheerful for what those words actually mean.
"Where?"
"Ushikawara Jungle. Your eighty-seventh mission, can you believe it? They're calling it a routine sweep. Thirty-plus signatures. Nothing we can't handle."
Nothing we can't handle. That's what they always say.
"Who's on the roster?"
"Usual squad. Marcus, Sophie, Clara, Veyna, Ethan. You're captain this time. Your old man specifically requested it."
My father. Specifically requesting me. That's either an honor or a trap. With him, it's hard to tell.
"When do we leave?"
"Helicopter's already warming up. Get to the roof. And Nams?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't be late for this one too."
I hang up. Look around the hallway one more time. At the students. The couples. The friends. The normal lives.
Then I walk toward the roof.
°°°
[5:09 PM, USHIKAWARA JUNGLE, AVENTIC]
We're flying over the Ushikawara Jungle. Only a few miles from the target destination. Below us, the trees stretch endlessly—a green so dark it's almost black. The canopy is so thick you can't see the ground. Anything could be hiding down there. Anything usually is.
"Nams, four more kilometers to the base." Father's voice echoes through the speaker. He's guiding us from RAW headquarters, watching our signals on a screen somewhere safe while we fly toward danger. Same as always.
"Sensors are picking up movement. Nothing above Star class so far, but stay alert."
"So it's the time," Marcus says, grinning like an idiot. Same as always.
This is Marcus. Our idiot. You'd never believe he's killed over a thousand Star-Class Dumans. He looks like someone who'd forget his own birthday, not someone who could decapitate a monster faster than you could blink. That's the trick, I think. No one sees him coming.
"Nams... we're heading down," Sophie mutters, already reaching for her parachute. Her voice is calm. Even when everything goes wrong, Sophie sounds like she's ordering coffee.
"Why the hell did I even come here?" Veyna mutters under his breath. He says this every mission. Every single one. And every single mission, he fights harder than anyone.
"To kill the Dumans, dawg." Marcus grins wider. "Same reason as always. Kill the Dumans. Look cool doing it. Go home. Repeat."
"You're so hopeless," Clara sighs.
"Yes! He is!" Marcus agrees, pointing at himself proudly. "Hopeless, handsome, and humble. The three H's."
"That's not how humble works."
"It's exactly how humble works when you're me."
"Yo, Boss. Don't fall behind." Sophie checks her armor for the third time. Methodical. Precise. Everything in its place.
Ethan just nods.
Say something, Ethan. One word. Anything. But he won't. He never does unless it matters. Ethan saves his words like they cost him something. Maybe they do.
This is my team. My idiotic, strong, impossible team. We've been together for most of those eighty-six missions.
Slowly, everyone starts packing equipment after hearing Father's word. Suits. Weapons. Medical kits. The ritual of preparation that we've done so many times it feels like muscle memory.
"Dumbass, that's mine." Marcus snatches something from Veyna—a sidearm, standard issue.
"It was on my side of the bench!"
"It migrated."
"Guns don't migrate, Marcus."
"This one did. It wanted to be with someone cooler."
The team starts pulling on suits made of Niclomantius fabric, which was lighter than a feather, tougher than diamond. It came from the other world. Like most things that keep us alive. The suits regulate temperature, filter air, absorb impact that would shatter bones. Without them, we'd be dead a dozen times over.
"Ethan, my swords?" Clara asks.
"Here." He hands them over. Two blades, perfectly balanced, the edges glinting with Azinthenium coating.
"Ompho. This simp only talks to girls."
"Marcus, shut up."
"Okay, okay, Ethan. I get it. Sensitive subject. Your communication skills are off limits."
They sigh. The sound is synchronized. They've been doing this too long.
"Let's go," they say in unison.
And they jump.
One by one. Sophie first, graceful as always. Then Veyna, already complaining. Clara, steady despite everything. Ethan, silent. Marcus, grinning and waving like he's on vacation.
I look at their empty seats. Not new to me. Before this, I had eighty-six missions.
Why am I even thinking about that?
I sigh.
"So, Father. Wish me luck." I try to sound casual. Like I'm not about to jump into a jungle full of things that want to kill me.
"Good luck, Idiot." A familiar voice crackles through the bluetooth. Not my father.
"Cari, don't talk while I'm talking to my father."
"Okay, okay. I ain't gonna talk when my boss is talking to the other boss." He chuckles. "Just don't die, yeah? I've got money on you surviving at least ninety missions before something eats you."
"Shut up. Bye." I almost smile. Almost. "I'm off."
I disconnect his line.
I take my favorite blades. From the day I started working with RAW, I never liked guns. Guns jam. Guns run out of ammunition. Guns make noise that attracts more enemies. Blades don't betray you. Blades are honest.
What am I saying? I'm not officially in RAW. Not yet. Father says I need to prove myself first. Eighty-six missions apparently isn't enough proof. Maybe eighty-seven will be.
"Captain Nams, off to go."
Three. Two. One.
I jumped.
The wind current suddenly worsens—it wasn't anything like this when we were safely inside the hull. It tears at my suit, trying to throw me off course. The jungle below spins and tilts. My altimeter screams numbers I don't want to see.
"Oi! There's something in the air!" I announce.
"We know, Boss!" Marcus yells back. His voice crackles with static.
There's dangerous gas in the atmosphere. I can see it now—faint green tendrils weaving through the treetops. But our suits protect us.
"Ahhhhh!"
Someone screams. Veyna. Definitely Veyna.
"What happened?"
"You know, as always, Marcus fell off. Again." Sophie's voice stays calm. It always does. "His parachute deployed early. He's somewhere below us. Probably in a tree."
"IT'S A VERY COMFORTABLE TREE!" Marcus's voice echoes from somewhere far too distant to be safe.
The wind is bad. My landing isn't great—I hit the ground harder than I should, my knees absorbing impact that sends shockwaves through my spine. But at least I don't fall like Marcus. He always does, for some reason. Gravity's favorite victim.
The jungle closes around us. The trees are massive here—ancient things with trunks wider than houses and roots that sprawl across the forest floor like frozen serpents. The canopy blocks out most of the sky. What little light filters through is green and sickly.
"Why are we here at night?" Veyna's voice carries distress. His eyes dart between shadows. His hands are already on his blades.
"Have you seen Dumans in daylight?" Clara asks. "They burrow during the day. Deep. You'd have to dig them out. At night they surface to hunt."
"So we're hunting them while they're hunting us. Great logic."
"You guys, just leave him alone." Here we go. The only member who doesn't talk much. Ethan. Four words. Probably his quota for the hour.
The jungle is unnaturally silent. That's the first sign something is wrong. Jungles should be loud—birds, insects, the constant chatter of living things. But this place is dead quiet.
No birds. No insects. Just the oppressive weight of the air and twisted, claw-like branches reaching from every direction. The trees themselves look wrong. Their bark is too dark. Their shapes are too angular. Like the forest itself has been corrupted by whatever lives here.
If this was a horror movie and I was the protagonist, fuck the mission. I'd run. I'd run and not look back and pretend I never saw this place.
I sound like a coward. We all do. And it's fair. We are a team of cowards. You don't survive eighty-six missions by being brave. You survive by being scared and doing the job anyway.
We draw our blades. Ready our guns. The familiar weight of steel and Azinthenium settles into our hands like it belongs there. Because it does.
I take a long breath. The air tastes wrong, even through the filters. Metallic. Old. Like something died here a long time ago and never stopped rotting.
"All good?" I ask. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"Yes, except one thing."
"What is it, Sophie?"
"Our long-distance comms isn't working. Hasn't been since we landed in Ushikawara. Can't reach headquarters. Can't reach the helicopter. We're on our own."
"What?"
How could I miss that? Aren't I supposed to be their captain? Shouldn't I have checked the comms the moment we landed?
Calm down, Nams. Panic later. Survive now.
"It's okay. We still have our flares, right? When we're done—or sense danger we can't handle—we'll use those." I try to speak with as much confidence as I can muster. Fake it until you make it. Fake it until you believe it.
It's fine. It's not like some god-tier Duman is going to appear today.
"Let's go."
I announce it and sprint toward the Duman base. They follow without hesitation.
Veyna especially hates Dumans. We all do—but he hates them too much.
Six months ago, he lost his sister. She was returning home after finishing tuition. Normal evening. Normal route. Then she went missing. A few days later, they found her in a jungle. Most of her body parts were missing. Bite marks matched Duman cases.
But what was a Duman doing in Fredriko city? They're not supposed to be there. They're not supposed to get past the walls.
He never found out. No one investigated. No one had time. There were always more Dumans. Always more missions. Always more deaths to avenge.
He hates them. He fears them but he doesn't stop slaying them.
Dumans aren't easy to kill. Normal human weapons can't harm them. Bullets bounce off their hides. Blades shatter against their horns. We don't know why—something about their biology, something about the energy they absorb from the other world. It takes special materials to hurt them. Our guns are made of Azinthenium, a rare element that also came through the rifts. Expensive. Hard to find. The only thing that works reliably.
My blades are different. Made of some unknown material. Father calls it the Blade of Theridiam. He says it's older than RAW, older than the Duman war, older than anything we have records for. He says it was a gift. He never says from who.
These blades were my mother's. Before she disappeared without explanation. She was the reason I learned the double blade style.
"Scan." Ethan activates his device.
"Guys. Thirty-four presences I'm getting." Bored, as always.
"Copy that," we sync.
No wonder this place feels wrong. The deeper we go toward the enemy base, the worse it gets.
The trees grow closer together. The darkness thickens. The silence becomes heavier, more deliberate, like something is holding its breath.
"Captain. We might face problems tonight."
"And why is that?"
"I'm sensing more than twenty-five Dumans. Most are Star rank or higher." Ethan's voice doesn't change.
Star class. When a Duman has more than five horns, we call it Star Class. Below that is Ginefa. Higher is Demon Class. They move faster than eyes can follow.
We start seeing shapes between the trees. Movement in the shadows. Eyes reflecting what little light exists.
"Go."
Sophie shoots one. Direct hit to the head. It drops without a sound.
"Watch out!"
Too late. A Duman slams into Clara's stomach. It moves faster than any Star class should be able to move. Gone before anyone can react.
She flies backward. Hits a large tree. Hard. The impact echoes through the silence.
I rush to her side.
"Don't come!" I shout. "Keep us safe for a moment."
Dumans appear from the shadows. All around us. Their horns catch the faint light—five, six, seven points. Star class. Multiple Star class.
"Oh, God Nihility protect us." Veyna mutters it like a prayer before cutting one down. His swords move faster than most RAW members can track. But it's not enough. There are too many.
I lift Clara's head onto my lap. Blood is already pooling at the corner of her mouth.
"Hey, hey. Are you okay?"
Obviously she's not. Blood pours from her mouth. Her eyes are unfocused. Her breathing is shallow and wrong.
What was that? What moves that fast? That strong? What rank? Star? Or higher?
"Hello, Father? There's a Demon rank Duman here."
"Father?"
"Father?!"
Ahh. Our connection isn't working. Of course it isn't. We're alone out here.
"Ahhhhhh... Take this, you son of a—" Marcus growls, cutting through another wave. His usual jokes are gone. His voice is pure fury now.
"Captain!!!" Ethan shouts.
A Duman nearly reaches me. I was distracted. Careless. Thinking about comms instead of the enemy in front of me.
I hiss. Grab its head. Crush it with my bare hand. The sensation is sickening—bone and cartilage and something wet giving way under my grip.
"Boss! You know you have swords." Marcus grins through the chaos. There he is. There's the idiot.
I almost laugh.
I pull out a bandage kit from my bag.
"Clear them all. They're just lower ranks."
"Clara, unlock your suit."
"CIMY, UNLOCK."
I remove the stomach section of her suit. The wound beneath is worse than I expected. The Duman's claws went deep. Too deep. Blood wells up faster than it should.
"CIMY, turn on X-ray mode."
The scan shows the damage. Shattered bone. Internal bleeding.
"How... how did a Duman that strong—it completely shattered your bone." I keep bandaging. My hands are steady even though my mind is screaming.
"Argh!!"
"Can you lift your body?"
She lifts. Barely. Her face is pale. Her teeth are clenched.
"There. There. Almost done."
She's panting. Each breath is a struggle.
"Ahh. At least it's just one bone." She tries to smile. Tries to make me feel better while she's the one with the shattered rib.
"CIMY, LOCK."
I ready an injection. The needle glints in the faint light.
"Is that Garimin?"
"Indeed. It'll remove your pain for a few hours."
"I know, Captain."
"But after those few hours, it'll hurt like hell, Boss." Marcus's voice cuts through. He's still fighting. Still covering us. Still being the idiot who never stops.
"You can handle it. You're strong. I know you can." I say it to Clara. I mean it. She's tougher than me. She's always been tougher than me.
"Oi! Womanizer, are we done?"
I look at Marcus. He's bleeding from a cut above his eye. Still grinning.
"Marcus. You know I can cut your salary over fifty percent if I report to my father about you."
"You wouldn't dare, Boss." He pouts. An actual pout. While surrounded by Duman corpses.
I glance around. The immediate area is clear. But the shadows are still moving.
"Where are Veyna, Sophie, and Ethan?"
"They went ahead. Said they'd clear the path to the base." Marcus jerks his thumb toward the deeper jungle. "Didn't want to wait. You know how Veyna gets."
I sigh. Those idiots. Going ahead without backup. Without waiting. Without thinking.
"Clara, can you run?"
"Uhm, no, I can't. Please carry me like a princess." Marcus pitches his voice high, fluttering his eyelashes.
"Ninety percent."
"Fine, fine, fine. I'll stop." He grins. "For now."
"That's more like it."
Clara stands. Her legs are shaky but holding.
"Yeah, I can run. I'm not feeling any pain." The Garimin is working. For now.
She's tough. Will I ever be that tough?
"Let's go."
°°°
We sprint toward the Duman base.
The jungle blurs around us. Trees become walls. Shadows become threats. Every sound is a potential attack. Every silence is worse.
Why do they make these bases? This question has haunted me for months. Dumans aren't mindless—we know that much. But building structures? Organizing territory? That implies intelligence. Intelligence implies strategy. Strategy implies something worse than mindless monsters.
I've tried to solve it. Can't. The only assumption I have is that they hunt in groups. Pack predators. But packs don't build bases.
We reach the location. A clearing in the jungle. The trees have been torn down—not cut, torn, ripped from the ground by something massive. In the center, structures made of bone and packed earth. Crude. Organic. Wrong.
Sophie, Veyna, and Ethan are panting. Three Duman corpses lie at their feet. These ones are larger than the others.
"You good?"
"Yes, Captain," they say in sync.
"Captain, one of them ran away." Veyna points toward a darker path leading deeper into the jungle. "Big one. Fast. Couldn't catch it."
"It's o—"
I catch a spear-like thing before it hits my chest.
My body moves before my mind can process.
Argh!!!
The impact vibrates through my arm. The thing I caught is still humming with the force of its throw. I look down at it. Not a spear. Something else. Something that was never meant to be thrown but was thrown anyway.
"Captain!"
"Boss!"
"Nams!"
"Captain!"
"Captain!"
"Are you okay?" They ask in unison. Their voices overlap. Their faces are tight with fear.
I tighten my grip around the object in my hand. It's warm. Too warm. And it's not a spear at all.
It's a horn. A Duman's horn, torn from someone's head and thrown like a javelin.
And from the darkness beyond the treeline, I see them.
Eyes.
Dozens of them.
Glowing like embers.
Watching.
Waiting.
"Something is here."
---