Several weeks had passed since the incident in Hive Territory. Scott had crossed countless Active and Shared Silent Zones, encountering champions and creatures of every stripe. The Active Zones had grown larger, more treacherous, and the beasts prowling them were fiercer—tougher, smarter.

The champions who made it this far were just as dangerous—paranoid, quick to strike. Trust was rare. Bloodshed and chaos were constant. Everyone did what they had to, clawing their way toward the Final Zone. After all, with each passing moment the invisible timer ticked down. No one wanted to repeat the grueling experience a second time.

Scott stood in a vast meadow, beige trench coat buttoned to the collar, unmoving amid the aftermath of slaughter.

"You fucking monster..." growled a beast-like champion with a lion's head atop a humanoid frame.

Blood matted the champion's golden fur. His right arm was scorched, barely recognizable. Deep gashes carved up his face. His legs shook violently, unable to support him much longer—but he remained standing.

In his left hand, he gripped a battered rapier. Its blade was charred and slick with blood. He clung to it like it was the last thread keeping him alive.

All around them, corpses littered the field—charred, mangled, torn apart. The air reeked of blood. A wide, dark puddle spread beneath Scott's feet, though none touched the pristine fabric of his coat.

He hadn't drawn the war hammer. The chains hadn't stirred. And yet, the carnage was total.

Scott looked at the lion-headed champion with cold indifference.

"I'm the monster?" he said, smirking as he shook his head. "I warned you what would happen if you attacked me. Don't blame me for your greed."

The champion's face twisted. If he could've run, he would have. But he knew the risk of turning his back on the one who had just butchered all his comrades.

"There's only one way this ends," Scott said.

The lion-man gritted his teeth. "Even if I die here, I'll still—huh?"

Scott stepped forward, calm and slow. The champion tried to move but couldn't. His limbs refused to obey.

Scott advanced, his footsteps light, unhurried. Blood rippled around his boots but never touched them.

The champion trembled in place, paralyzed.

Scott stopped in front of him.

"Goodbye," he said softly.

The lion-man's eyes flared wide. With a wild grunt, he forced his body to move—summoning the last of his strength. He raised the rapier and drove it through his own chest, piercing his heart.

The blade sank deep.

Scott didn't flinch. He simply watched.

The light in the champion's eyes flickered, then died. The body dropped with a dull thud, motionless in the grass.

Scott didn't look back.

He continued on, guided by the pulsing arrowhead that floated ahead of him.

Based on my estimates, there should be seven or eight days left until this round ends, he estimated.

He'd thought he'd reach the Final Zone sooner, but the later Active Zones had been much larger than expected.

Even worse still, there are no signs Garden Servants since the Thumper...

It felt deliberate.

Aside from wandering champions and aggressive beasts prowling the numerous zones, he had only seen members of the Hive here and there. None had attacked him. But he had confirmed one thing—they all carried the same slithering, worm-like parasite.

They're infected. That much was obvious. But by what?

He didn't know. But he was certain the Garden Servants would reappear in the Final Zone. He hoped they wouldn't—but he knew better.

I'm not that lucky.

Scott chuckled under his breath and moved on. From time to time, he stopped to gather rare flowers or mushrooms growing in the fields. He'd already looted earlier zones for anything remotely valuable.

Three more days passed.

Then he arrived.

A crystal door stood ahead. A message hovered in the air.

Congratulations! You have reached the end of the twentieth Active Zone! Do you wish to continue ahead? Yes! No!

Scott pressed [Yes] without hesitation.

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The door slid open—silently.

He froze.

Instead of another Zone, a swirling portal now hovered behind the open door. Grey and black currents churned within it, pulsing with energy. Flares of crimson and amber occasionally sparked from the grey, while the black moved like smoke—trying to consume the light.

This isn't a Silent Zone.

He had passed through many Shared Silent Zones before, and they all had the same peaceful, forested stillness. This… was something else.

"System," Scott said aloud, "how many people have reached the Final Zone?"

The system flared to life, answering without delay:

Current number of trialists in the Final Zone: 8!

The number went up, Scott noted. There were only seven a day or two ago.

The first arrival had entered roughly ten days ago—and was still alive. That fact alone raised questions.

Shouldn't they be facing the full brunt of the Garden Servants? Not to mention the Hive?

No answers came. The fact that seven others had reached the final area—and none had died—only deepened the mystery.

He took a long breath and stared into the swirling portal ahead.

I should've gotten there first.

But then came the delays—greedy champions, fools hunting the Primary Target. Weeks of battles slowed him down. Yet, even after all that, no opponent had matched the fanatical worshipper of the Keeper of Strings.

Scott stepped forward without hesitation, eyes cold.

His form vanished into the swirling mass. The crystal doors closed behind him without a sound.

Congratulations! You have reached the penultimate zone to the Final Zone—The Shed!

Scott didn't glance at the system notification. His attention was fixed ahead.

The surroundings looked deceptively mundane—an overgrown forest of familiar trees and shrubs. The skies above were open, streaked with grey and crimson clouds.

But what held his gaze was a shed.

It stood two miles ahead, unassuming in shape but deeply wrong. A red wooden exterior, a neatly paved road leading to its entrance. It rose at least a hundred feet into the sky.

A thick, metallic stench clung to the air—iron and rot. Like ancient breath that had never known mercy.

Chains the width of tree trunks dangled from open windows. They swayed gently, moved by something unseen. The whole structure groaned softly, as though burdened by centuries of slaughter.

By Scott's estimate, it spanned over 21,000 square feet.

Just looking at it, I can tell—whatever's in there is a problem.

That thought had barely settled when a faint whir echoed behind him.

He turned. Another portal—a swirl of grey and black—had materialized.

What are the odds? Another champion, arriving seconds after me.

He waited silently, gaze steady. Then he saw them.

A party of over twenty emerged.

Scott's brow rose slightly.

They wore thick coats of bluish fur, tailored and artistic. All of them—tall, slender, ethereal. Pale white skin with a faint blue tint. Silver hair braided neatly—some into one strand, others two. Sheathed daggers hung at their waists; silver axes strapped to their backs.

Ice—no, Frost Elves.

He couldn't tell male from female. Their beauty was surreal, their fashion and features elegantly androgynous.

Scott showed no aggression, only calm observation.

The elves returned his gaze—at least a dozen of them with emerald eyes full of veiled cruelty.

Then the system notification appeared before them.

Their attention shifted to the shed in the distance—and their expressions turned grim.

So now they get serious, Scott thought, resisting a smirk.

He followed their gaze to the looming structure.

Anyone with eyes—or a shred of sanity—can feel it. That place is death waiting to happen.

He shook his head with a quiet sigh.

Then he noticed the elves looking at him again—this time with open bloodlust.

Scott chuckled, not bothering to hide it. "Need something?" he asked, his grin widening.

The mood shifted. The elves who had remained indifferent now frowned.

One stepped forward.

Three steps in, a voice called out.

"Traken. Stop."

The elf froze.

Scott tracked the voice to its owner. It was soft—feminine, maybe—but even now, he couldn't tell the speaker's gender.

"Return to your position," the voice said again, quieter this time.

Traken didn't respond. He simply turned and returned to the line. But his bloodshot eyes stayed locked on Scott.

Scott ignored the stares.

He focused on the one who had spoken.

Strict hierarchy. Controlled movement. Discipline.

Good. That makes them predictable.

If I had to guess, each one wields a Rule of Absolute. Maybe even a combined attack that edges toward Authority-level force.

He hadn't paid attention to their initial positioning. But now, after that voice of command, he studied them closely.

Though clustered together, each elf kept just enough space around themselves. The arrangement looked random—until it didn't. With a closer look, it resembled a carefully constructed formation.

Then the voice came again. Calm. Direct.

"Are you here alone?"

The speaker stared straight at him.

Scott scoffed, folding his arms. "And why exactly should I tell you that?"

He waited for a reaction—but got nothing. No shifts. No flinching. The bloodlust from earlier still lingered, but none of them moved.

They are really, really disciplined, Scott thought. Taunting or baiting them won't get me anywhere.

"When did you arrive?" the elf asked, ignoring his previous answer.

"A few seconds ago," Scott replied with a light chuckle.

The elf's lips twitched slightly before nodding. "Not enough time to gather anything useful," she declared dismissively.

Her voice still held that distant calm, but now Scott was more certain—she was a woman. He couldn't prove it, but instinct said yes.

She turned her gaze away and focused on the looming shed in the distance.

Then came the command, barely louder than a whisper.

"March."

Without hesitation, the elves moved. Synchronized steps. Flawless coordination. All except for her.

She lingered a moment longer, turning back toward Scott. Their eyes locked.

"If you follow us, you'll die," she said coldly—and walked on.

Scott let out a quiet chuckle and didn't move.

So eager to go in first? Be my guest. I'm actually curious to see what happens to you.

He remained where he was, arms still folded, watching the group advance along the tarred path leading to the shed.

When they passed the midway point, a low hum buzzed in his ears.

He turned. Another portal was forming to his right.

Another group? Interesting.

He watched as the new party emerged.

A wry smile tugged at his lips the moment he saw them.

Well, well. Looks like they've been through hell.

Six figures stepped out.

Three wore garish clown outfits, complete with painted faces. The other three were dark elves—tattered ranger uniforms, stained with ash and dried blood.

Scott grinned.

"What a surprise," he said lightly. "I never expected to see you ladies again."

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