CHAPTER 200: HUMANLY HUNTED

The base hadn’t even had time to die before another life was grafted onto it.

Only a few days had passed since Pilaf’s troops had been evacuated, dislodged, exterminated—the word didn’t matter. The place had changed hands, but not its scent. The dried blood had been scrubbed away, not forgotten. The walls still sweat the old hierarchy, the old orders, the screams of before.

But Martissant’s men moved through it with confidence, as if it were conquered territory. It was no longer an enemy base. It was their base.

Maggie, however, didn’t feel any safer.

She noted silently how swiftly the elite soldiers had reclaimed the place, organized the barracks, sealed the weapon caches, locked down the communication networks. Not even a speck of dust escaped them.

And not a single emotion, either.

Élisa, meanwhile, had been assigned to a mobile response unit, but her posting mostly suggested they wanted to keep her under watch—ready to be used without letting her too close to the real circles of power.

She let herself be managed. She trained sometimes.

And she waited for orders.

That morning, the walls were quiet.

When Maggie entered the encrypted comms room, she didn’t expect to hear her name spoken with urgency. The crystal pulsed softly at the center of the table, its bluish light dim, almost reverent.

"Maggie?"

The voice came from far away—not in distance, but in weight. It was Gael.

She stepped closer, her heart already tightening.

"He’s escaped," he said bluntly.

Maggie frowned but didn’t answer.

"Dylan. Him and another prisoner. They left their cell last night. No idea how. But they broke out of the prison."

Something cracked behind her. A breath, too close.

"Dylan...?"

Maggie turned slowly. Élisa stood in the doorway. She hadn’t knocked. She hadn’t even asked to enter. She had just slipped in, fists clenched, eyes locked onto the crystal as if it could suddenly give someone back to her.

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It was charged, dense, like unstable ground before an earthquake.

"You... you just said Dylan’s alive?" Élisa asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper, but every syllable taut as a wire.

Gael, from the other side of the world, answered without warmth, without joy.

"He escaped. That’s all we know for now."

Élisa took a step forward, her boots scraping the floor. Maggie watched her from the corner of her eye, already sensing the storm beneath the armor.

"And what are you going to do about it?"

She straightened, rigid as a javelin. "Are you sending a team? Retrieving him? Helping him?"

The crystal crackled faintly. Gael’s voice returned, firm.

"No."

A single word. Sharp.

"What?"

"We’re not moving, Élisa. Any contact attempt would jeopardize operations. That boy wasn’t a key piece. He’s not a priority."

Her eyes widened, lips parting. Emotion flared, scalding.

"Not a priority?! He fought for you. He risked his life! And you’re just going to leave him... out there? Alone?"

"He chose to run. He survived, good for him. But we can’t risk the mission for a pawn."

"You called him a pawn?" she growled, voice vibrating.

"That ’pawn’ has more guts than half your soldiers. He deserves better than your contempt."

Gael didn’t answer right away. A pause, then:

"It’s not contempt. It’s strategy."

Maggie, silent until now, finally spoke, her tone measured.

"Maybe... but even strategy doesn’t justify abandoning our own."

Élisa turned to her, eyes sharp with disbelief and fury.

"So what do we do? Just sit here, playing puppets while he’s hunted down?"

Maggie lowered her gaze for a moment, thinking. Then looked up.

"We stay put... for now. But we don’t forget."

Élisa stepped back, breathing hard. A hand pressed to her temple, as if the world had become too loud, too fast.

She was torn—between the urge to scream, to run, to disobey. And the need to believe that waiting for the right moment was better than charging headlong into a trap.

But one thing was certain: she wasn’t going to let him down. Not her Dylan.

Not after everything they’d been through.

She left without another word, leaving behind the blue crystal, Maggie, and this faceless war they fought half-awake.

——

The moment Élisa crossed the threshold, Maggie let out a long sigh. She waited a beat, her gaze lost in the crystal’s glow.

Gael hadn’t moved. He seemed frozen, as if listening to the echo of what had just happened.

"She’s going to disobey," Maggie murmured.

"I know."

"And you plan to stop her?"

Gael hesitated. Then, quieter:

"I’m counting on you to keep her from doing anything stupid."

Maggie gave a joyless smirk.

"Believe me if you want, but that’s asking way too much."

He didn’t answer. The crystal pulsed faintly.

"Do you really think he’s alive?" she asked then. "Or is this just... what you want us to believe?"

The silence stretched a beat too long.

Then:

"He’s alive. For now."

Maggie nodded slowly. The kind of nod that admitted they knew little but would pretend anyway.

"And you think he’ll make it to us?"

"Unless your friend is a real monster, I doubt he can slip through Pilaf’s Death Net."

She lifted her eyes to the crystal, weary.

"It’s honestly insane how that kid keeps throwing himself into the worst situations."

He didn’t answer. A shadow crossed his gaze.

Maggie continued, softer:

"My problem is I’ve never liked following blindly."

"And yet, here you are."

"For how much longer?" she asked, more to herself than to him.

One last pulse from the crystal, then the light died.

Maggie was left alone in the room, surrounded by walls too clean, memories too fresh, and decisions already slipping through her fingers.

——

Dylan’s POV

The magnetic vibration left behind the stench of scorched metal and seared flesh. Dylan pushed himself up, knees shaking, the world swaying like a drunken ship. The pain in his chest was a forge of hellfire, but a new fire coursed through his veins—raw, wild, reactive. His core pulsed now not as a victim’s, but as a wounded predator’s.

Julius grabbed his arm, grip ironclad. "Move!" His voice cut through the residual ringing in Dylan’s ears. No choice. They bolted into the undergrowth, leaving behind the battlefield streaked with violet and red.

But the Death Net didn’t just bite. It enveloped.

Behind them, no disorderly shouts, no frenzied charge. An eerie silence fell, more terrifying than the earlier clamor. Then, the sounds began. Not beneath their feet, but around them...

Dry rustling in the thicket to the left. A crack of dead bark high in a withered tree to the right. A sharp hiss, nearly inaudible, like a blade grazing the air—coming from ahead. They weren’t just being chased; they were already encircled, the snare tightening with mechanical precision.

"Flanks and high!" Julius snarled, eyes scanning the darkened canopy. His sword, dulled by the blood of attackers, was already raised, ready to deflect threats from any angle. Dylan, panting, desperately searched for a weapon. His hands closed around a gnarled, heavy branch. In this situation, it was better than nothing. His heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic drum, amplified by his core.

Three silent projectiles sliced the air—not arrows, but thin, likely poisoned darts. Julius was a whirlwind, his blade deflecting two into tree trunks with sharp clangs. The third grazed so close to Dylan’s temple he felt the wind of its passage.

A soldier lunged, a black flash. Julius pivoted, engaging in a furious, silent exchange—metal on metal, each parry sparking.

"Don’t look, run!" Julius barked, blocking a slash that would have split Dylan from neck to hip. "Southwest! The ravine!"

Dylan obeyed, sprinting ahead, his makeshift club gripped white-knuckled. The undergrowth became a hostile maze. Vines seemed to coil around his ankles. Treacherous roots jutted beneath his battered feet. And always, those ghostly presences.

A rustle at shoulder height—he ducked on instinct, a short blade slicing the air where his head had been a second before. A guard, face blank, emerged from a thornbush, already poised for a second strike.

Dylan reacted on pure survival reflex, swinging the club with all his strength. The heavy wood cracked against the guard’s forearm with a satisfying snap. The man grimaced, his blade dropping, but another replacement was already stepping from the shadows five meters ahead.

This was the Net. Not a wave, but a tight weave—every thread a coordinated threat. They weren’t two men chased by a pack; they were two prey in a giant spider’s web, every vibration drawing a new predator.

Julius caught up, panting too, a long gash freely bleeding on his left arm. The scout lay behind him, throat slit, but the cost had been high. "Raymond’s directing the net," Julius breathed, bloodshot eyes scanning the shifting shadows. "He knows my old habits. He knows where I’ll run."

As if to confirm, a different whistle cut through the forest—modulated, metallic, like a hunter’s call. Instantly, the pursuit sounds shifted. The rustling grew sharper, closer on their left and right. They were being herded.

"The ravine... it’s a trap," Dylan realized, bitterness burning his throat.

"Every path is now," Julius chuckled, a sound devoid of humor. "But a narrow trap can backfire on the hunter." His gaze sharpened, almost feverish. "Get ready. And when I say jump, you jump. No hesitation. Understood?"