Scott waved at the newcomers with a faint smile.

The six-man party froze, eyes narrowing. They stepped back instinctively before even taking stock of their surroundings. A system notification flared before them, shifting their focus. Their expressions darkened as they read.

Scott watched, amused.

Looks like they don't recognize me, he mused, his smile turning wry.

Among the clowns, he recognized one—the same woman who'd once offered him a hand in a tense moment. As for the rangers, he knew all three. They were part of the crew he'd met during his first run through the Chain Expanse.

Funny coincidence. Both groups teaming up… could it just be luck or is it something else.

One thing was clear—they'd all been through hell.

Their ragged clothes, guarded posture, and sharpened auras spoke louder than words.

As expected, the party turned their attention to the shed the moment the system message disappeared. Their faces tightened again—especially the dark elves. They'd spotted the Frost Elves already closing in on the entrance.

Their gazes drifted back to Scott, suspicious, calculating. They scanned the area, probing for hidden allies.

But no matter how hard they searched, they found nothing.

Scott shook his head, chuckling.

I thought they were pretending not to recognize me. But honestly, I don't blame them. With how many people have passed through the Expanse, why would they remember some random guy they barely interacted with?

Still, the way they moved… the trauma in their eyes…

Yeah. They've seen some things.

Scott's gaze shifted to the elves nearing the ominous building.

Will I be able to learn anything just by watching them? Doubt it. If I were running this place, I'd make damn sure no one on the outside had a clue what goes on inside.

Hopefully the Garden Servants—or whoever designed this—aren't smart enough to keep it that way.

He looked back at the clowns and rangers.

I thought about tagging along with them, but that'd be a dumb move. We're not close. And I'm not sentimental.

But why did I have such thoughts to begin with? Am I secretly being influence by something… Scott's lips pressed together.

It's temporary. The fact that I noticed it so fast means I've already regained control. It won't happen again.

Footsteps pulled him from his thoughts.

The newcomers had started walking—cautiously—down the tarred road.

Scott watched them. They met his gaze.

"If you so much as follow us," one of the rangers said coldly, "you're dead."

Scott didn't respond. Just held his wry smile and watched them move.

It seems like they're still convinced I've got backup hiding nearby, huh?

None of them turned their backs to him. They kept scanning the area, cautious to the point of paranoia.

Scott shook his head without speaking. He glanced around.

I wonder if more champions are coming…?

He didn't wait to find out—but he didn't follow either.

Instead, he stepped toward the forest's edge.

I'm sure the theme of this Active Zone lies inside that Shed. But still… I want to know what's going on in the woods.

One step from the treeline, Scott halted.

His brow furrowed. He raised his hand—and met resistance. An invisible wall.

He pushed gently. No give.

I only noticed it once I got close. So that's it… The only path forward is the road. The Shed.

Scott's gaze lifted toward the looming red structure.

Everything about it feels wrong. My instincts keep screaming that it will be dangerous. A level of danger that could actually threaten me.

Then a thought struck him.

If eight people already made it through here…

Scott paused midway through his thoughts, frowning.

Could there be multiple penultimate zones? Different routes leading to the Final Zone?

The idea lingered, but he had no way of confirming it. Not yet.

With a final glance at the barrier, Scott turned and walked back to his original position.

The Frost Elves were nearly at the Shed's entrance. They'd noticed the clowns and rangers approaching—but made no move to intercept. No reaction at all.

The six-woman group advanced slowly, clearly avoiding conflict. Careful not to provoke the elves ahead.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Time to move, Scott decided, stepping toward the road.

Just then, a familiar hum buzzed in his ears.

He paused.

Another portal was forming—this time in his peripheral vision.

He turned, and his eyes widened slightly. The portal didn't just open. It expanded—fast.

That size… just how big is the person coming through?

He didn't have to wait long for answers.

A towering figure emerged from the swirling portal—a lion-headed giant clad in full gladiator armor.

Easily twenty feet tall, his mane was braided into thick, singular locks. A golden pauldron armored his right shoulder, and silver wristguards covered his forearms, each one extending to the elbows. Blood-soaked ribbons were tied around his left wrist, swaying unnaturally despite the still air.

His bare chest was a mess of ancient, writhing scars. He wore hardened leather skirt-pants, each strip darkened from age and battle. Golden greaves wrapped his lower legs, stopping at the knees, paired with worn but sturdy sandals.

In one hand, he held an eight-foot mace—massive, spiked, and gold-tipped.

This guy… is strong.

Scott didn't need a second look to know it.

The champion's gaze swept the area, indifferent—until he saw Scott. His eyes widened slightly, then his lips curved into a bloodthirsty grin. He licked his lips, blue eyes gleaming like a predator.

A system notification blinked into existence—but the giant didn't look. He tightened his grip around the mace.

"The Primary Target," he said, voice deep, rumbling, undeniable. "I've been looking for you."

Before Scott could move, the lion-man blurred—vanishing from his spot and reappearing directly in front of him, mace raised to strike.

Scott didn't flinch.

The mace never landed.

Time froze.

A familiar system chime rang out, followed by a crimson panel.

Violence in any shape or form will not be condoned in the current location!

Scott looked up. A matching notification glowed before the lion-man's face.

Within seconds, the hulking champion was pulled backward—returned to his original spot as if rewound.

Judging by his reaction, he didn't return on his own, Scott thought, noting the flicker of surprise in the giant's eyes.

The lion-man's gaze finally shifted. He looked at the Shed. Then, briefly, at the clowns, rangers, and even the Frost Elves in the distance. But none of them held his attention.

Only the Shed.

Scott said nothing. He simply watched.

The champion's eyes lingered on the structure for less than a minute before returning to Scott.

"Come with me," he said, voice booming. "You and I—meant to be together."

Scott raised an eyebrow. Then smirked.

"No thanks. I'm not into men."

The lion-man froze—then burst out laughing, mace lowered, head thrown back.

"Funny," he said, meeting Scott's eyes. "I'll relish the hunt."

Scott smiled—but it was cold. Calculated.

The giant approached in long, heavy steps. Scott didn't move. The system restrictions made violence impossible for now.

They stood side by side.

The mace vanished into the champion's inventory. He crossed his arms, intense gaze locked on Scott.

"We travel together," he said again. "I take your title too."

Scott didn't bother replying. His attention turned to the Frost Elves.

They've reached the Shed… but they're not moving. Why?

He narrowed his eyes.

Are they caught in some kind of trap? Could it be an illusion?

A system notification popped up.

The minimum number of trialists to grant entry into The Shed has not been met!

Scott glanced around. The same message hovered in front of the lion-man. The other party—clowns and rangers—had also stopped, clearly reading the same alert.

Great. Forced cooperation. Just what I needed.

The lion-man's voice rumbled again. "We move."

Scott looked up at him. The giant gestured toward the road with a grin.

"We move together."

Scott chuckled softly. "Sure."

That caught the lion-man off guard. But only for a moment. He guffawed, reaching to slap Scott's back—

Scott sidestepped the hand.

"You have sense. Really sensible," the giant laughed.

They walked together, feet tapping in sync on the tarred road.

After a beat, Scott broke the silence.

"Tell me—what's the importance of being the Primary Target?"

"No," the giant replied immediately. "Overseer forbids. Pointless to speak."

Scott nodded slowly. Then asked, "So why do you want the title?"

The lion-man puffed out his chest. "I join club. I take ticket from you."

Club? Scott frowned slightly.

They're targeting me… because they want access to some kind of group?

"What kind of club?" he pressed.

"Won't say," the champion said flatly. "Overseer restriction."

Scott didn't push further.

Still… I've got a lead. If what he's saying is true.

Big if.

Scott gave the lion-man a quick sidelong glance.

I might be overthinking it... but he doesn't strike me as the scheming type. Still—can't be too sure.

Without a word, the two continued toward the Shed.

About five minutes in, movement ahead caught Scott's attention.

The clowns and rangers had stopped—and were trying to step off the road.

What the hell are they doing?

He watched as they pressed against something invisible. No matter how they tried, none could cross the unseen barrier.

Scott paused. The lion-man did the same.

Scott approached the edge of the road and reached out. An invisible force intercepted his hand, cold and unmoving.

A barrier. We can't leave the road.

His gaze shifted back to the looming Shed.

This zone is designed to funnel us inside. There's no other destination. Which means... whatever's in there, someone wants us to see it.

He returned to his previous position. The lion-man stuck close.

They continued walking. Ahead, the six women were still struggling—some even attacking the barrier. But their blows made no sound. No impact.

Eventually, they gave up and resumed the path.

Moments later, the ladies reached the Shed—joining the Frost Elves who stood like statues; eyes locked on the door.

A system message blinked into view.

The minimum number of trialists to grant entry into The Shed has not been met!

Scott ignored it. He glanced behind—no sign of new arrivals.

Then it's us. We're the final two.

He looked at the lion-man again.

As soon as the restrictions drop, he'll stop pretending. That grin of his isn't friendliness—it's anticipation.

As if on cue, the lion-man turned to him and smiled.

Scott returned it. Wordless, they both looked away.

A moment later, the duo arrived in front of the ominous structure and a new system message appeared.

The minimum number of trialists to grant entry into The Shed has been met!

The stillness snapped.

The champions—frozen until now—began to move again.

Then came the groan of wood under strain. The Shed's thick door began to slide sideways, slow and heavy, the creaking echo scraping through the air like a blade on bone.

Scott instinctively turned around—and frowned.

An opaque barrier had formed behind them, sealing the way back.

The others noticed it only after he did. Some reached toward it, but there was no point. The road toward the forest was gone.

Then came the stench—iron-thick and nauseating, like warm blood splattered across rusted metal.

A constant clanking filled their ears, mixed with the dull thud of flesh hitting stone. Something chopped. Something gushed. And underneath it all, a steady ringing droned on like a war drum slowed to torture pace.

The door slid fully open. Only darkness waited inside.

The Shed welcomes you!

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