After killed the old monkey king, Axel naturally took his place at the top of the troop. He soaked in that weird green pool a little longer, letting its bizarre energy work through his bruised muscles, then climbed out—calm, composed, and not looking back.

None of the blackleaf monkeys dared to stop him now.

Before leaving, he made sure to pry the life crystal out of the old king’s corpse. No way he was walking off without it.

He’d run more than ten kilometers since his last marker. Thankfully, Axel still had a general sense of direction. But just as he was picking up speed—

He stopped dead.

There, in the dense silence of the night, he felt them. Eyes. Somewhere in the dark, hidden, watching.

He didn’t move. Not a single twitch. Just let the tension build until his whole body buzzed.

Minutes passed like hours.

And then—just as suddenly as they came—the eyes vanished.

Only then did Axel dare to exhale. He found a massive tree, cloaked in tangled leaves and vines, and ducked beneath its canopy.

He shifted again, body rippling, bones crunching as his form morphed.

A three-tailed civet cat. Small, agile, almost invisible in the dark. Technically a level one mutant, but with top-tier night vision and a whisper-light body, it was the perfect form to scout in total darkness.

He moved cautiously, pausing often.

Thirty minutes later, he found the gully again.

"Twenty-four hours down..." he muttered.

His bloodshot eyes burned from exhaustion. Constant awareness, constant threat, constant tension—it was starting to gnaw at the edge of his sanity.

He crouched at a puddle and splashed cold water on his face, wiping away grime, sweat, and blood. Then he kept going.

.....

Three hours deeper into the jungle.

The gully ahead began to twist and turn sharply, dipping into scattered pits and shallow trenches.

The ground around him was scarred. Deep gouges, shattered bark, and shredded trees. The acrid stench of gunpowder still lingered in the morning air.

Axel knelt and picked up something half-buried in the soil—a burnt, charred piece of snake scale.

His pulse spiked.

“They fought here. And they hit it.”

The scale belonged to the Black-Scale Python. There was no mistaking that scorched armor-like texture. The Obsidian team hadn’t just survived—they’d fought back.

They still had strength.

......

As dawn broke over the peaks, Axel paused for a quick rest. He choked down some water and a few rock-hard compressed biscuits.

The gully ahead was thinning—shallower, faster. That meant one thing: they’d been running harder.

Axel kicked up his pace.

He guessed he was at least 200 kilometers deep into the Mirabelle Mountains now. Here, mutants were on a whole different level. Third-class beasts roamed freely—towering, six-meter nightmares with senses sharp as razors.

More than once, Axel had to go full stealth, hiding in mud or behind tree roots just to avoid detection.

And then—He saw it.

Off to the left, a few hundred meters from the gully: a concave cliff face, concealed with dense foliage and tangled branches.

Someone had camouflaged it.

Axel’s heartbeat quickened.

"Could this be it?"

He peered cautiously from the gully. No movement. No sound.

He slipped across the clearing and approached the cliff.

Definitely manmade.

As he got closer, he saw small warning traps—simple tripwires, tension sticks, rustling leaves rigged to snap if disturbed. Primitive but smart. Not meant to injure, just alert.

Axel gently brushed the branches aside, revealing a tightly sealed, round wooden door.

He knocked once.

Silence. He tried again. Still nothing.

"Are they gone…?"

Carefully, Axel unlatched the door and reached inside—

Suddenly a blade thrust from the darkness, lightning-quick.

His hand snapped up, catching the dagger mid-air, fingers gripping the blade like a vice.

It barely twitched.

His eyes adjusted, and there—standing in the shadows—was a kid.

Twelve, maybe thirteen. Big brown eyes. Skin sun-darkened. Dirty clothes. Hands trembling.

The kid stared up at Axel, dagger still clutched, trying to look fierce.

Axel didn’t move. He softened his voice. “Easy... You trying to kill me, boy?”

"Oh—sorry! I thought you were a mutant!" The dagger-wielding kid’s face turned bright red the moment he saw Axel clearly. Flustered and guilt-ridden, he quickly yanked Axel inside, glanced nervously around the hidden entrance, then shut the wooden door and carefully rearranged the branches and brush that camouflaged it.

“Bro, I’m really sorry. I didn’t think there’d be another human this deep in.”The boy’s voice was still soft, milky in tone. He wore stitched-together animal skins and moved with the cautious efficiency.

He flicked on a small portable light, illuminating the cramped space around them.

It was a tight little hideout carved into the cliff wall, maybe three meters wide. On the far side, shelves had been chiseled into the stone and were packed with dozens of glass jars. Most held dried herbs or crushed leaves, though some were half-filled with unidentifiable liquids. That sharp medicinal scent from earlier—it was coming from here.

“What’s your name?” Axel asked, brows tightening. “And what are you doing here?”

They were more than 200 kilometers deep into the Mirabelle Mountains. No one without power—or protection—should’ve made it this far. And this kid had zero force signature.

“My name’s Killian,” the boy replied with a small smile. “I came here with my parents. We’re herbalists.”

Herbalists? That was a new one. Axel had never even heard of such a profession in these parts.

Killian had seen the confusion on his face. He gestured toward the herbs. Some of them had already wilted, unsealed and drying out on the shelf.

“These are all medicinal plants. We collect them and sell them back in the cities. Mutant plants have a lot of healing power, that’s why my parents came here.”

“And… where are they now?”

Killian’s smile faltered. His eyes went glassy, and tears welled instantly. “My father and mother are… dead.”

From his story, Axel pieced it together. Killian’s parents were part of a small, almost forgotten class of survivalists—people who lived deep in the wild, harvesting mutated flora with high market value. Cities like Drakenfall depended on these rare resources.

“You’ve been out here… alone?” Axel asked quietly, placing a hand on the kid’s head.

Killian nodded, wiping his eyes with his sleeve and forcing a smile. “I’m used to it. I’m pretty talented! My nose is really sharp—I can smell mutant beasts from super far away, so I just… stay out of their path.”

He perked up. “Are you out here picking herbs too?”

“...No. I’m not.”

“I’ll still treat you to something good!” Killian rummaged around in a woven basket and pulled out some wrinkled wild fruit and a piece of coarse bread.

“Try this! My mom made it before… It’s really good.”

Axel took a bite of the wild fruit—it was surprisingly sweet, like honeyed citrus. “Thanks, Killian.”

“You’re an Awakened, aren’t you?” the boy asked, curiosity lighting up his face.

“Yeah.” Axel didn’t deny it.

Killian looked down at his hands. “I wish I was an Awakened, too… Maybe then I could’ve protected them.”

His voice cracked. He turned away and wiped his face again with dirty hands, trying to stifle the sobs.

Axel stepped forward and knelt, placing both hands gently on the boy’s shoulders. “When I find my people… I’ll take you with me. If you want to become an Awakened, I believe you will.”

Killian didn’t answer right away—he buried his face in Axel’s chest. “Thank you. You’re not like the other Awakened. You’re… you’re a good person.”

A good person? Axel blinked. That was… new.

“You stay here, alright?”

“Wait!” Killian reached behind a shelf and pulled out a small cotton bag, digging through it before producing a tiny bottle. He handed it to Axel.

Inside was a single golden fruit, about the size of a plum.

“What’s this?”

“We call it a Golden Apple,” Killian said. “Awakened say it’s powerful..”