Dawn had not yet broken when the ten departed.
The eastern horizon was still a dim line of ash-gray beneath a sky heavy with lingering night. A thin mist clung to the lower streets of Cetadel, curling around boots and drifting across cobblestones like something reluctant to leave.
One by one, the top performers stepped beyond the northern gates.
Some left with quiet resolve.
Some with visible anticipation.
Some with weapons already drawn and resting upon shoulders.
But one left before the others.
Without announcement.
Without farewell.
Without being seen clearly by anyone.
Gavrilo Russell moved before the city had fully awakened.
His coat drawn tighter against the early chill, his cap shadowing his eyes, his steps light and measured as he passed beneath the iron arch of the northern gate.
The guards barely spared him a second glance.
The jungle stretched beyond the city like a dark ocean of trees.
Thick.
Ancient.
Unforgiving.
But he did not head directly toward the outpost.
He turned instead.
Toward the smaller dirt roads leading eastward.
Toward the villages.
Because hunting blind was no different than suicide.
And Gavrilo never stepped into the unknown without reshaping it first.
The Road Before the Trees
The sky began to pale slowly as he walked.
Birds stirred faintly within distant branches. The scent of damp soil and crushed grass filled the air.
The jungle loomed ahead—but between the city and that green darkness lay small settlements. Wooden houses clustered around shallow wells. Smoke rising lazily from chimneys.
He entered the first village without declaring purpose.
He did not carry visible hostility.
Nor did he carry visible urgency.
Just another mercenary passing through.
He stopped near a stone well where two elderly men were drawing water.
"Morning," he greeted calmly.
They glanced at him, wary but not alarmed.
"You're heading north?" one asked, noticing the direction he had come from.
"Yes."
He rested lightly against the well's edge.
"I heard something attacked the outpost."
The men exchanged glances.
A pause.
Then—
"They don't attack during day."
His gaze sharpened subtly.
"Only at night."
The second man nodded.
"Like shadows with wings."
"Wings?" Gavrilo asked, tone neutral.
"Bats," the first replied.
"But not like any bat I've seen."
He gestured upward with his wrinkled hand.
"Four times bigger than normal."
Gavrilo did not react outwardly.
Four times.
"Do they dive?"
The second man swallowed.
"They don't just dive."
"They hunt."
The word lingered in the air.
"Hunt?" Gavrilo repeated softly.
"They circle," the first explained.
"Cut off retreat."
"They spit venom."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Venom?"
"Black liquid."
"Burns skin."
"Melts flesh."
Silence settled heavily.
"And they come alone?" Gavrilo asked.
The second man shook his head quickly.
"No."
"Never alone."
"They move in groups."
A faint tremor entered his voice.
"They don't attack."
"They hunt."
The distinction mattered.
Attack implied aggression.
Hunt implied strategy.
Second Village — Reinforcement
He left without lingering.
As he walked farther east, the jungle thickened.
He entered a second settlement, smaller than the first.
This one quieter.
Doors barred despite daylight approaching.
He knocked lightly on one.
A woman opened partially, chain still latched.
"Yes?"
"I'm looking into the outpost incident."
Her expression tightened.
"You're not the first."
"How many?" he asked.
"Two others passed before dawn."
He nodded slightly.
"So they left early."
"Yes."
She hesitated.
"Don't go alone."
He tilted his head slightly.
"They hunt in packs."
"Like wolves."
"But they fly."
"And they're patient."
Her grip tightened on the door.
"They don't strike immediately."
"They wait."
"Until fear spreads."
He thanked her quietly.
And stepped away.
Reorganization
By the time the sun broke fully above the horizon, Gavrilo had circled three villages.
He did not approach the outpost yet.
Instead, he found a large stone near a shallow stream at the forest's edge.
He sat.
Removed his gloves slowly.
Let cool water run over his fingers.
Then folded his hands loosely.
And began reorganizing.
"Only attack at night."
"Four times larger than normal bats."
"Venom-spitting."
"Group hunters."
"Strategic encirclement."
"Patient."
He stared into the stream's surface.
The reflection of trees shimmered faintly.
"They don't attack."
"They hunt."
That meant—
They likely scout first.
Choose weakest target.
Isolate.
Overwhelm.
Venom spit implied ranged capability.
Flight implied mobility advantage.
Night-only attack implied vision dominance in darkness.
Which meant—
Direct night engagement without preparation would be foolish.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Other top performers."
Two had already passed through villages before him.
Meaning—
They might go straight to outpost.
Perhaps assume brute strength enough.
Perhaps seek immediate kill count.
But if the creatures hunt in packs—
Reckless aggression would trigger swarm.
He exhaled slowly.
He was not here to prove power.
He was here to win.
He opened his eyes.
Above him, tree branches overlapped like woven fingers, blocking large portions of the sky.
Dense canopy.
Perfect cover for flying predators.
He stood slowly.
Dusting his coat lightly.
He would not go to the outpost in daylight blindly.
He would scout perimeter first.
Identify patterns.
Look for droppings.
Wing markings.
Venom residue.
He adjusted his cap slightly.
"Night hunters."
"Then I will prepare for night."
He began walking along the forest edge.
Not entering yet.
Listening.
Watching.
Observing flight patterns of smaller birds.
Noting silence pockets.
After several minutes—
He found it.
A tree trunk marked by dark residue.
He approached cautiously.
The substance had dried partially.
Black.
Corrosive.
The bark beneath it had melted inward slightly.
Venom.
He crouched.
Examined angle of impact.
Approximately chest height.
Spit from mid-air.
He glanced upward.
Branches above were thick.
Ideal ambush point.
He stepped back slowly.
"This is not random."
The venom marks formed triangular cluster.
Three spitters targeting same area.
Coordinated.
He looked toward deeper jungle.
The outpost lay roughly two kilometers north.
He would approach by mid-day.
Observe structure.
Count survivors.
Assess damage.
Then withdraw before dusk.
He would not engage first night.
He would watch.
Let others engage.
Learn patterns.
Exploit fatigue.
He placed gloves back on.
Green eyes steady.
Because this was not Phase Three.
Not urban race.
Not clever retrieval.
This was attrition.
And those who rushed for highest kill count early—
Would likely become prey themselves.
He moved again.
Slow.
Measured.
The jungle swallowed sound gradually as he stepped within its boundary.
Leaves muffled his boots.
The air grew heavier.
Thicker.
More humid.
Light filtered down in fractured beams.
He paused once more.
Listening.
Nothing yet.
But silence here was not safety.
It was anticipation.
Somewhere within this green darkness—
Winged predators waited for night.
And somewhere behind him—
Nine others advanced toward same objective.
Some bold.
Some careless.
Some calculating.
But only one needed to surpass.
He touched lightly at the spiral-circles within his core.
Mana rotated calmly.
Balanced.
Controlled.
The hunt would begin truly after sunset.
Until then—
Information was his weapon.
Preparation his shield.
He disappeared deeper into the tree line.
Not as prey.
Not as challenger.
But as something patient.
Because in hunts—
The one who survives longest is not the loudest blade.
It is the shadow that waits.
And Gavrilo Russell had no intention of being hunted.
Not in the dark.
Not by wings.
Not by venom.
Tonight—
He would learn.
And After—
He would decide how many must fall.