Ethan climbed out of the canal's exit, the shovel scraping the concrete as he hauled himself onto the grassy embankment. Mia followed, axe in hand, shaking water from her boots, while Cal and Tara pulled themselves up, crowbar and bat dripping with tunnel muck. The red-streaked sky loomed overhead, its crimson scar casting a faint glow over the fields beyond the campus—a mile southwest of the gym, open terrain dotted with wrecked cars and skeletal trees. [Predator Sense] hummed, picking up distant skitters but no immediate threats. The canal stretched behind them, its mouth a dark gash in the earth, the breeze carrying a hint of rust and damp.
"Made it," Mia said, wringing out her hoodie's hem, the axe tucked into her belt.
Cal uncoiled the rope from his belt, shaking it dry. "Exit's clear. No flood, no monsters—yet."
Tara leaned on her bat, kicking a clump of mud off her shoe. "Bones say it won't stay that way."
Ethan blew two sharp blasts on the whistle, the sound cutting through the night—clear, per Riley's code. "Gym needs to know," he said, tucking it back into his pocket. "Let's move."
They trekked back across the fields, the ground soft underfoot, the gym's silhouette growing as they neared. Pete waved them in through the southwest gap, dragging a mat aside, the fire pit's warmth hitting Ethan as he stepped inside. Riley stood by the bleachers, machete propped against a crate, counting cans with the burly man. Survivors huddled around the fire, passing a dented thermos, their voices a low hum.
"Report," Riley said, straightening as the group approached.
"Canal's open," Ethan said, setting the shovel down. "Half a mile southwest, past the track shed. Locked grate's busted—found bones, but no blockages."
Cal dropped the rope onto a blanket. "Water's shin-deep, no worse. Could work."
Riley nodded, tapping the crate. "Good. Rest up—you've earned it."
Mia set her axe beside Ethan's shovel, grabbing a water bottle from a stack and passing it to him. Tara slumped onto a bleacher, bat at her side, while Cal joined Ben by the fire, trading the crowbar for a can of soup. Ethan took a swig from the bottle, the cold liquid cutting through the salt in his throat, and sat beside Mia, the shovel within reach. The gym's walls creaked faintly, the fire crackling, a rare calm settling over the group.
He rubbed his hands together, the candle wax still crusted on his skin, and muttered, "What's this system even doing?" He'd killed monsters, gained strength, moved faster—all tied to that voice in his head. "Status," he said, half to himself, testing the word.
A shimmer flickered in front of him, a virtual screen snapping into view—visible only to his eyes, glowing blue against the gym's dim light. Lines of text scrolled:
[Ethan Carver]
[Attributes: Strength 5, Agility 5, Endurance 5, Perception 3]
[Skills: Predator Sense, Improvised Tactician]
[Titles: Serpent Slayer (+10% damage to reptiles), Vermin Bane (+10% damage to insectoids)]
[Monsters Slain: Velociraptor, Enhanced Komodo, Lesser Raptor x3, Giant Anaconda, Abyssal Centipede, Lesser Abyssal Centipede x3, Cinema Raptor, Mutated Komodo]
Ethan blinked, leaning forward, the shovel slipping slightly in his grip. "You see this?" he asked, glancing at Mia, then Cal and Tara.
Mia tilted her head, setting the bottle down. "See what?"
"This screen," Ethan said, pointing at the air. "Numbers, skills—everything I've killed."
Cal looked up from his soup, spoon pausing. "Nothing's there, man. You hit your head?"
Tara smirked, stretching out on the bleacher. "You're seeing things. Been running too hard."
"It's real," Ethan said, swiping at the screen—it stayed fixed, glowing. "Strength, agility—it's all here."
Mia grabbed his arm, pulling it down. "Ethan, there's nothing. You're wiped out—rest."
Riley stepped over, machete in hand, overhearing. "He's talking nonsense?"
"Just tired," Cal said, shrugging, spooning more soup. "Give him a break."
Ethan let his hand drop, the screen fading as he stopped focusing on it. He rubbed his face, the shovel's handle cool against his leg, and took another sip of water. Maybe they were right—exhaustion could trick the eyes. But the voice, the boosts, the screen—it felt too sharp, too real.
"Fine," he said, setting the bottle aside. "I'll sleep it off."
Riley tossed him a blanket from a pile. "Do that. We move tomorrow—canal's our shot."
Ethan spread the blanket over the bleacher, lying back, the shovel close. Mia settled beside him, axe within reach, while Cal and Tara traded watch shifts with Pete. The fire popped, the gym's murmur fading, but the numbers lingered in Ethan's mind, unseen by the others.