That morning, though the sky hung overcast as if hiding something, the sixteen survivors stood in silence. Their faces still showed the exhaustion of a sleepless night, but their eyes were steady—their resolve had been made.
"Everyone knows their job," Altair said, standing by the door of the building they had occupied for the past three days. "Team A comes with me northwest to the old supermarket supply depot. Team B goes with Sofia to the former aid distribution site."
Sofia added, "No fighting unless absolutely necessary. Our top priority is food and water. I’ll say it again—no recklessness."
There were no objections. Everyone understood what was at stake.
The teams split without a word. Each slipped out through the pre-planned routes from the night before. Their movements were swift and efficient, the result of drills under intense pressure. Strangely... everything went too smoothly.
"This is... weird," Rina muttered as she looked up at the gloomy sky.
Sofia nodded, eyes sweeping cautiously around them. "Too quiet."
But the silence gave them time.
While much of the food was spoiled or ruined by age, they managed to gather a decent amount of canned goods and some medicine from the old depot. More importantly, they were lucky enough to find a stockpile of sealed clean water. A rare blessing in terrain .
By late afternoon, both teams returned to the rendezvous point safely. No casualties. No injuries. Just disbelief—and unease.
"Too smooth," Altair said, as everyone gathered in the new temporary base. "Too... easy."
They didn’t have to wait long for the answer.
The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, a thunderous sound echoed from the east. Then the ground began to shake. A familiar roar filled the air. A sound that made their skin crawl.
He had arrived—finally.
Instantly, everyone was on high alert. But this time, it was different. Tyrant appeared slowly, emerging from the ruins with heavy, unhurried steps—like a beast that knew its prey had no more escape routes.
Then all hell broke loose.
Explosions, screams, the clash of weapons and magic filled the air. Tyrant struck brutally, but there was something strange—he was holding back. He didn’t kill outright. He injured, tore, hurled—like a predator toying with its prey.
Sofia unleashed wave after wave of light magic, trying to interrupt his movements, while Altair and two others fought him up close, diverting his attention. Injuries began piling up—broken bones, burns, deep bruises—but no one died.
"He’s... holding back?" Viktor shouted amidst the chaos. "Why isn’t he finishing us off?!"
"Because he’s playing with us!" Sofia yelled, shielding herself from another blow with a wall of light. "He’s enjoying this!"
After nearly twenty minutes of battle, with almost everyone severely wounded, Tyrant stopped. He stood tall, staring at them with a blank gaze that still bore overwhelming pressure. Then... he turned around and left without a word.
No one chased. No one spoke. Only ragged breaths and muffled groans filled the air. They sat, lay, leaned—tending wounds however they could.
They were still alive. But the cost—physically and mentally—was immense.
The days that followed turned into a cycle of hell.
Every day, they had to relocate. Base after base was torn apart. Tyrant always reappeared just when they began to feel a sliver of safety. He would arrive, wound, and leave. Never killing... but leaving enough pain to ensure they’d never forget the fear.
Their nights were haunted by nightmares. Mornings were spent fleeing. Afternoons filled with battles or desperate searches for shelter. And every evening ended with one question:
"Will we still be alive tomorrow?"
The team’s morale began to waver, yet they endured. With mounting injuries, dwindling strength, and hope slipping through their fingers, only one thing kept them standing:
They refused to die .
Not by the hands of a monster toying with their fear. Not in this cursed place.
And in the middle of all the chaos, they knew...
...someone had to end this. Or they would be slowly destroyed.