Ezra trudged through the forest, mood thoroughly ruined. The rain had stopped a while ago, but his sour expression lingered like the last drops on his coat.
He could already imagine it—his face, plastered across every broadcast screen in Arkanis. Eyes wide in horror, hand frozen mid-air, caught in the worst possible angle.
PERVERT, written in bold, glowing letters beneath.
He groaned.
"Great. Just great."
Somewhere above, the mechanical bird trailing him dipped lower, letting out a single, judgmental chirp.
Ezra shot it a glare.
"What? You gonna write a report too?"
He didn't know if mechanical birds were capable of emotions, but this one? This one had perfected the art of silent disappointment. It was like dealing with another Sol—except this version didn't argue. It just stared, quietly judging.
Ezra sighed. He had just been trying to take a nap, not invade someone's personal space. But once he'd been caught? Yeah, there was no walking that one back. He'd grabbed his gear and bolted, dignity left behind with whatever shattered reputation he'd once had.
He tapped his watch, pulling up the participant rankings.
A few names had already dimmed—eliminated, disqualified, or withdrawn. Each watch had a red emergency button, the final out. Press it, and you were done. No shame, no glory, just gone.
Ezra had earned some points earlier—took out four who'd ambushed him near a ravine. But apparently, that hadn't done much.
He squinted at the screen.
[ Rank 534 / 535 ]
He stared.
"…Seriously?"
Sure, it wasn't last anymore. But second-last? That was basically a formality. A technicality. A cosmic joke.
"534 is better than 599," he muttered.
"Tiny victories, Ezra. Tiny victories."
He shoved his hands into his pockets and kept moving, shoulders squared, face set. If he was going to go down as Arcanis's most misunderstood pervert, he might as well rank a little higher on the way.
His stomach growled.
So did his throat.
The hunger and thirst were starting to gnaw at him now. He pulled out the half-wet map, unfolded it, and stared at the mess of faded ink and smeared symbols. A few Xs marked points of interest—or maybe previous ambush zones, or trash piles, or someone's terrible idea of art.
Ezra groaned, crumpled the map, and tossed it aside.
"Thanks for nothing."
He planted his hands on his hips, scanned the woods—and froze.
A sound.
Light. Sloppy. Careless.
He ducked behind a bush just as two figures emerged from the underbrush, muttering to themselves. They looked irritated—one of them, short and stocky, kicked a fallen branch hard enough to snap it. Sandy hair. District 3 emblem.
"Stupid trap. Total waste of time," he grumbled.
"We should've just torched the place."
Ezra smiled to himself as he watched them.
Perfect.
Two hunters—tired, frustrated, distracted.
It was time to hone his skills.
He summoned Dawnstride, the spectral glow of his resonance flickering to life beneath his feet.
In a blur, he darted between the trees, weaving through underbrush and narrow forest paths with ghost-like speed. The sudden movement startled the two figures, their heads snapping toward the shifting shadows.
Creating fear was the goal.
Fear made people reckless. Sloppy. Easy to dismantle.
He kicked up leaves, deliberately brushed against branches, and snapped twigs underfoot—just loud enough to set nerves on edge. It was the illusion of chaos, of something wild and fast circling them. A predator they couldn't see.
Even the wind joined him, rising into a low, feral howl through the canopy. It rustled the undergrowth like whispers in the dark, bending trees and sharpening every shadow.
One of the men cursed, hands trembling as he drew his bow.
"There! In the trees!"
He loosed an arrow.
It sailed wide, embedding itself deep into a trunk, the shaft still quivering.
Ezra grinned from the shadows.
They were spooked.
Exactly where he wanted them.
He raised his hand—and the chains answered.
Luminous Bindings burst from the earth, coiling like serpents around their ankles. The two men shouted in alarm as they were hoisted into the air, limbs flailing as Ezra casually stepped from the darkness into view.
Weapons rained to the forest floor—knives, a crossbow, even what looked suspiciously like a tactical pen. Amid the scattered debris, something rolled near his foot.
Round. Green. Metallic.
Ezra bent down and picked it up, brow furrowed.
It was smooth, with a blinking red light.
Click.
He froze.
His eyes widened.
"Oh… shit."
He launched himself backward, rolling hard as the beeping accelerated into a high-pitched whine.
The two men, still bound and upside down, didn't even have time to scream.
BOOM.
The forest lit up in a pulse of heat and fire, leaves tearing from branches, bark splintering in a violent burst. Ezra hit the ground behind a fallen log, heart hammering, air sucked from his lungs.
Debris rained down around him. Smoke curled through the trees.
He peeked over the log, coughing.
"Okay… no more picking up random glowing balls."
The clearing was scorched. The two men?
Out cold, limbs limp in the smoldering aftermath—one of them still dangling upside down, spinning slowly like a roasted chicken.
Ezra groaned and pushed to his feet.
"Second-hand victory still counts."