Cain barely got airborne before a massive fist crashed down, crushing the spot he'd just escaped. The impact left a compacted crater, soil folded into the shape of its knuckles.
He twisted mid-fall, eyes catching the glint of metal scales and energy lines surging through iron — it was the golemite.
"What is this thing doing here?!"
It was back — faster, sharper, and no longer passive.
This time, it moved like a trained killer, and it was hunting.
The moment it sensed the cluster of crystal energy from the vicinity, it had transformed from a lumbering beast into a predator with singular focus.
He could fight it — he had strategies, weapons, and traps.
But he also had bruises all over, a half-spent reserve of magicules, and the darkness of the night that was never an ally to begin with.
Night on Fracturion was not just absence of light — it was a permission for every stalker and hidden predator to roam.
Cain wouldn't become the mantis that catches the cicada, only to be devoured by a watching oriole.
The golemite gave chase, tearing through the jungle with horrifying speed.
Its legs broke through tree trunks like brittle glass, and its blade-arm whistled through the air as it moved, already wielding three elemental prana types — earth, fire, and ice.
'On the bright side, at the very least it didn't learn my enchantments...'
Cain ran harder, breath shallow, and legs almost giving way.
His eyes scanned for something or anything — to be his instrument to tip off the balance.
'I never knew I'd love to see such hideous seedling again.'
A predator tree — hundreds of meters high, wide enough to cradle a house in its trunk, its vines twitching as if hungry.
He grabbed four holoprojector discs from his bag and tossed them in an arc toward the base of the tree.
Light clones of him sprinted forward, baiting the golemite's sensing crystal.
Cain followed them just long enough to sell the illusion — then with a tight crossover, he threw the cheapest shardling core right into the huge trunk of the tree.
The golemite didn't hesitate — it plowed into the predator tree's vines, which coiled instantly.
The demonic tree wasn't to be pushed around, its whiplike tendrils wrapped around its steel limbs — while attempting all kinds of pulling, biting, and crushing.
The metal creature resisted — slicing vines, melting bark, and trying to freeze the malicious greenery.
After a vicious clash, the tree seemed to realize this prey wasn't worth the effort — it let go, slumping like a dying plant resigned to its final days.
The golemite's crystal sensors flared, pulsing with frantic recalibration.
The tree radiated overwhelming energy — but it's strength wasn't enough to take it down.
Cain's trail still burned with energy — making the huge creature choose the latter option.
Legs burning, he pushed forward, thorns clawing at his sleeves, sweat running cold across his spine despite the heat rising in his suit.
Every breath felt a second too slow.
The jungle wasn't just alive — it was watching.
He couldn't see them, but he felt them.
Stares from all sides — invisible pressure that curled around his skin like mist.
A flicker came from his right — too fast for thought.
Cain didn't call out, nor ask questions — he drew his right pistol mid-stride and fired.
Ting!
The bullet bounced off something — but whatever it was, he didn't want it close.
Cain's other hand followed, drawing his left pistol as muscle memory kicked in.
He unleashed a fan of suppressive fire, a rhythmic percussion of almost silent barrages echoing through the foliage.
Still, no retaliation, nor any voice — just something fast, precise, and silently shadowing him through the nightline like a specter stitched into the dark.
Cain's thoughts flickered to the Syndicate's secret merchants — the elusive traders said to roam the world, hawking things you'll need in crucial moments.
But this? This wasn't a salesman.
This was something else.
Something hunting — but not to kill.
'What is this guy aiming for?'
He burst into a small clearing, heels skidding against damp roots.
He turned, fired two more rounds, and was already preparing to pivot when the silver glint of blades froze him mid-step.
They weren't thrown — they were held.
The wolf stood there.
Patchwork bandages wrapped across his punctured abdomen.
He looked like he'd rested, but not recovered — his exhaustion masked by raw will.
He said nothing at first.
Just raised his hands, stepped forward, and began to undress.
Cain blinked once, then looked away, lips tightening.
He wasn't flustered, but this was not the kind of engagement he'd prepared for.
Not in this context — nor with another man.
"What the hell do you want now?"
The wolf didn't hesitate.
"The black box."
Cain's eyes narrowed.
Of all things, that was the one item he wasn't ready to give.
Crystals cores were cash, and the talismans were still unapprised.
But the black box — it was information, confessions, travel data, or potential leverage.
He didn't know its worth yet, but instinct told him it could be worth something huge.
Cain steadied his breath.
Because nothing in this world — was harder than letting go of hard-earned fortune.
After a stretched silence, then came the sound — it was a soft flick, followed by a soft clink of metal on pebbled earth.
Cain looked down to a stop, guns halfway drawn, his eyes scanning the wolf's actions.
His gaze dropped to a badge lying near his feet.
Matte grey, weather-worn, but unmistakably detailed — a wolf with blind eyes etched into its face.
Cain didn't pick it up.
He let it sit in the soil — gaze hard behind the visor.
He knew what it meant.
It was a turf badge.
'It seemed authentic...'
The wolf must've known Cain wasn't one to be intimidated.
If he had been, he'd already be torn apart.
The badge wasn't thrown to threaten — it was offered in negotiation.
Cain studied it longer, jaw tightening.
Beastmen were inherently territorial.
Centuries ago, they'd mimicked the human civilization with contracts and anti-racism initiatives.
They built councils and coalitions — but they were never truly unified.
The fractures weren't in culture or belief — they were in a biological level.
Predatorial instincts and racial differences beyond skin — each rooted in every distinct species.
Some hunted, some hoarded, and some devoured the other.
Arthur had warned him.
"Memorize every turf big or small. They all offer all kinds of work. Some more dangerous than others. Some greater paying than the rest."
Cain finally lit up his visor, but only up to his mouth.
Then came a faint, crooked smile — part understanding, and part calculated doubt.
The wolf, still half-shrouded in the darkness — returned his own grin.
And even though Cain's visor hid his face, the wolf paused for a moment, tension gripping ever so slightly in his heart.
Because for the first time… he wondered whose smile was more wolfish.