Year: 2327 — Time: 9:17 UTC
Three months before the escape.
"Predators who live by blood will one day be hunted by an even greater predator. That predator may be their past, their present, or something that emerges beyond themselves altogether." — Yu Wo
What would you call the true nature of man?
Yes, I am asking you. Don't be confused. Listen—
If the universe began in chaos, then humans, being part of that same universe, carry chaos inside them. That is why people show greed, jealousy, anger, and vengeance — the wild, messy sides of human nature.
But the universe didn't remain in chaos forever. As it expanded, it revealed beauty and order: stars, galaxies, balance. Humanity is no different. Though our bodies age and decay at some point, our minds and experiences keep expanding. We invent morals and values to guide us, shaping life for the better, reaching toward something close to perfection.
And yet—when life pushes us to the brink, those morals collapse. Survival, fear, and anger, etc, take over. We return to instinct.
That is the nature of man: not purely chaos, not purely order, but the endless struggle between the two. We are beings caught in that tension—always striving to rise above, yet never fully able to leave behind where we came from.
This story begins with a man falling headfirst.
His name is Malik Haruna—a man in his early thirties, long white braids streaming in the wind, copper-brown skin, hazel-brown eyes sharp with focus, about six feet tall, dressed in a vest, jacket, and loose buttons.
If you were listening, you might assume, Ah, so it's him. After all, it is a story, and he is falling headfirst. You might wonder: Did he fall by mistake? Was he pushed? Did he jump?
But if you've read the previous chapter, you already know—the ladder is impossible. And if you did not and thought he jumped to his doom, you're wrong.
If you are still wondering, the true nature of man—well he is ever expanding, yet always clinging tightly to his origin. That is humanity. It is you, your friend, your brother, your sister, every individual you've ever crossed paths with, or ever will. Chaos is always with man, in countless shapes and forms, silent, waiting.
But this man—Malik Haruna—was something different. Born from chaos, raised in darkness, yet calm as the silent sea. He had reached the pinnacle of man. Call him the middleman. The first true man, maybe. He had fully accepted both chaos and calm. He accepted everything for what it was, what it should be, and what it was not.
So why was he falling? Look carefully. Look up.
From the top of a ruined concrete building, several stories high—perhaps once ten or fifteen floors. With the roof long gone, its true height is impossible to tell.
So maybe not exactly from the very top.
The multistory building was a shell of what it had once been. It had withstood bombardments during the invasion and centuries of decay, yet it still clung stubbornly to the earth, refusing to die.
The floors sagged, too weak to bear much weight. The walls are slowly surrendering to creeping vines.
Do you recall this place? Wait. Let it sink in. If you're thinking of Amara and the others, you're right on the money.
It is the same hunting terrain where the first runners found themselves.
The building stood as a mute witness while the scene unfolded. The whole environment seemed to watch eagerly, anticipating the outcome.
A gust of wind tugged at Malik's braids, slapped against his jacket, trying to throw him off course. He did not flinch.
He was a master of the Hand of the Wind technique, a martial art that bent air itself to his will. He had also used an assassin's method called the Void to boost his presence. In doing so, he invited an attack.
The Void was absolute spatial deception. It allowed the user to manipulate the perceived flow of space and light so that they "blended" into the background—not by literal invisibility, but by bending attention and visual cues until the assassin became effectively unseen.
But this time, Malik had used the Void differently. Instead of vanishing, he made himself more visible. It was possible only because he combined it with the martial discipline he had learned from Yu Wo.
He was a veteran forged by his own choices. His arms spread wide, hands open, ready to embrace danger. This was no accident. His fall was meticulously planned—a scheme to ensnare his target.
"Control your bloodlust," he reminded himself. His jaw was loose, his face calm, his mind clear. "They can sense it."
That lesson had been branded into his flesh during the invasion. Once, he had let his bloodlust run wild, and the Vexari had tracked him through it, anticipating every move. He had almost died. The Vexari sensed emotional resonance; the intent to kill was no exception.
The heart of the Vexari Command Guard carried the malice of a predator. But Malik's was greater still. From that day on, he wrapped the storm inside him in silence, unleashing it only when the battle demanded it.
Halfway through his fall, a shadow streaked across his peripheral vision—
A Starter Hunter lunged, twin daggers flashing like serpent fangs. He sprang from a lower floor of the opposite building, cutting diagonally upward to reach his prey.
At that exact moment, a massive concrete block, its rebar rusted, plunged from a higher level of the same building Malik had leapt from. Someone had timed its fall to coincide perfectly with Malik's descent.
The hunter thought he had cornered his prey. Midair, unable to maneuver, Malik was trapped. The hunter glanced briefly at the descending block, believing it would change nothing. He would cut Malik down before the slab could reach them both.
Malik's boot struck the concrete with surgical precision. To onlookers, it might have seemed like a soft landing, but in truth, he had shifted his weight at the exact moment the hunter closed in. With wind guiding the slab and gravity at his command, he increased its descent.
The hunter was caught beneath it.
He couldn't dodge. He couldn't slash it apart. His position made it impossible.
The impact shook the ruins. Concrete and flesh slammed into the ground with a thunderous roar. Dust exploded outward. The earth cracked like brittle bone. Tentacles writhed beneath the crushing slab.
The concrete couldn't pierce the Vexari's armor, but Malik wasn't surprised. The hunter was still pinned.
He landed atop the slab, arms resting on his knees. Flipping his braids back from his face, he looked down at the struggling alien, a cruel smile tugging at his lips.
"Which one of us is prey now?" he muttered.
He leapt down.
His fists fell like a storm. A relentless barrage of strikes hammered into the hunter's head until green glycerin blood pooled beneath them, until its skull was mangled beyond recognition.
The hunter was prey.
Malik Haruna had always been a predator forged by choice.
But before that, he had been a son.
His father was a broad man, back crisscrossed with scars, machete in one hand, a rifle slung across his shoulder. He was a land guard in northern Ghana—half-soldier, half-gangster, enforcing territory in endless disputes. Malik, still a boy, had walked at his father's side through dust and blood, learning the harsh rhythms of that life.
One day, a tribal war broke out. Malik watched his father cut down in the chaos, hacked apart by men just as brutal as him. At thirteen, Malik lost the only family he had.
He ran.
Not from fear—but for a different future. His father had wanted him to inherit the gang. Malik wanted something else.
He smuggled himself north, sleeping in trucks and begging strangers for scraps of food and coins. His dream was Europe, though the world itself was tearing itself apart.