Chapter 47: Paranoid Prey
"We're two hours in," the commentator's voice rang out, crisp over the feed, "and the forest belongs to one man."
A sweeping drone shot cut across the battlefield: mist coiling between twisted trees, dirt churned by dozens of panicked footsteps slipping just out of view. But there, at the heart of it all, was one name—Orion Reyes—and one undeniable truth:
He was winning. Alone.
"We expected skirmishes. We expected rivalries. What we didn't expect... was Orion Reyes casually turning sixty candidates into confused, paranoid prey."
The second commentator let out a laugh—half thrill, half disbelief.
"I'm not sure you realize how difficult this is. The wrist-com map is designed as a compass to prevent candidates from ganging up on stronger opponents. But Orion not only exploited this safeguard—he lured them into complacency, broke their coordination, isolated key threats, and transformed the trial into a solo hunt."
Millions across the Confederacy were watching, eyes wide, breath held. Cafés, training halls, command centers—even a few royal lounges in Dominion territory. All tuned in, and every time a drone camera glimpsed Orion crouching in the fog, sliding under low branches, or moving like a phantom, the audience watched breath caught in their throats.
Somewhere deep in the forest, hidden behind a thick oak, Orion crouched low. His knees ached, and his forearms were streaked with dirt and sweat. The sword—a standard gladius, chipped and bloodied—rested lightly against his thigh. He hadn't dropped it once in two hours. It felt like a part of him now.
A long wooden spear leaned against the tree beside him.
He tilted his head.
Three candidates moved through the undergrowth to his left. Too focused on staying quiet to notice they were already walking into a trap.