The camp did not feel safer in the daylight. The boy noticed the shift in the demeanor of the camp as he watched people move through familiar routines—counting supplies, checking gear, whispering to one another like someone might be listening. By morning, the camp had changed. Supplies were separated into smaller loads. Paths were marked and erased. People were assigned roles without explanation and accepted them without complaint. Chop’s absence still existed, but it no longer demanded the boy’s attention. Grief had settled into something dull and distant, replaced by a sharper, quieter thought that rang through the boy’s head.

  I could die here.

  Not in a way that mattered or with anyone who actually cared about him. Just gone—without a name, without answers, without ever understanding what he was supposed to be. The realization didn’t scare him. It made him anxious and annoyed. He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the weight there again. Silent yet present. Unwilling to respond when he needed it. Whatever lived inside him was not something he could control yet it seemed.

  As soon as the camp was fully awake Gravel grabbed the same conch shell he had grabbed when he made the announcement for the expedition. He blew on it and the sound was as loud as the boy remembered. The camp all converged onto Gravel’s location. Gravel cleared his throat preparing to officially announce the expedition to the whole camp.

  “ Good morning y’all, as you guys know our expedition arrived late last night. We have successfully brought back the supplies we needed and have been able to confirm without a doubt that our last group is indeed dead.”

  This sent nervous murmurs through the crowd but Gravel continued, “We have also lost one our own group members, Good ol’ Chop, he died a hero’s death, a truly noble man. He died …. beating a powerful monster, but we have suspicion of another monster, an even more formidable foe was responsible for eating our first expedition. So we as a society must prepare, must push forward and must make the sacrifice of our fallen brethren worth their lives.” Gravel raised his fist into the air with his face filled with determination. “Let us not cower in fear of the monsters of this world let us fight for our lives and for our futures!”

  A few people echoed the raised fist. Most didn’t.

  The sound that followed was not quite a cheer. It was a murmur, uneven and thin, rising in patches rather than as a whole. Some lifted their arms out of habit, as if responding to the repetition of the gesture more than actually meaning it. Others nodded stiffly, eyes fixed on the ground. A few didn’t react at all, staring past Gravel and into the jungle beyond the camp’s edge.

  Gravel held his fist aloft for another second, long enough for the noise to die on its own. When he lowered his arm, the movement was slow and deliberate, like he’d expected this exact reaction. His shoulders settled, not in relief, but in acceptance.

  “This ain’t a call to panic,” he said, voice steady, carrying easily across the clearing. “It’s a call to work.”

  The words were simple and practical and got his main point across.

  “Effective immediately, perimeter watches are doubled. No one leaves camp alone. Ever. If y’all go out, you go in groups, and you come back before dark. Supplies get rationed smarter. We can't have no waste, no hoarding. Training gets more serious and if you see something you don’t recognize—anything—you report it.”

  He paused, eyes sweeping the crowd.

  “Don’t brush this off and assume it’s nothing.”

  That silence afterward felt louder than the cheering.

  People began to move, slowly at first, like they weren’t sure whether they were allowed to. Then motion spread through the camp in ripples. Groups formed and broke apart. Hands reached for weapons, packs, tools. Someone started counting arrows aloud. Someone else argued quietly over how much food could be spared before Gravel shut it down with a look.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The camp reorganized itself without panic, but without comfort, too. This was preparation for an unknown threat.

  The boy stayed where he was as the clearing shifted around him. He watched familiar faces slide into new roles, watched people he barely knew step forward and accept responsibility without complaint. Gravel’s words echoed faintly in his head, but they landed on deaf ears Talk of sacrifice and futures passed through him like smoke.

  Only one phrase stayed lodged in his thoughts.

  Another monster. Another creature that could end his journey. Just like the bone monster ended Chop’s.

  Gravel hadn’t raised his voice when he said it. Hadn’t dramatized it. He’d spoken the way someone speaks when they’ve already accounted for the truth and moved on to what comes next.

  The boy’s gaze lifted, finding Gravel’s across the clearing. It wasn’t a long look. It didn’t need to be. There was no reassurance there. They shared no optimism. Just recognition. They both understood. This wasn’t hope. They were simply fighting for a chance. A chance that now seemed slimmer than ever.

  Wrighty passed by carrying an armful of gear that looked too heavy for him, jaw clenched, shoulders tight. He didn’t joke. Didn’t complain. Didn’t even glance toward the boy as he went by. His eyes stayed forward, fixed on the task in front of him like it was the only thing keeping his thoughts in place.

  Shiela was near the edge of the camp in her wheelchair, far enough away that no one could easily see her shaking hands. She raised her palms, breathing slow and deliberate as faint hexagonal patterns flickered into existence around them. The shields shimmered for a second, then collapsed with a soft crackle. She flinched, swallowed, and tried again. Each failure made her shoulders tense a little more.

  Five moved through a small cluster of people near the supply piles, speaking quietly, efficiently. He didn’t raise his voice, but people listened anyway. Tasks were reassigned. Loads were redistributed. His calm felt practiced—too practiced. The boy noticed how often his eyes drifted toward the trees, how rarely they lingered on people. He seemed to be staring at a particular part of the ground past the clearing. The boy wondered what that was about.

  Snow was already gone. The boy hadn’t even seen her leave, which meant she’d slipped away before the speech ended. That realization unsettled him more than it should have. If Snow was scouting now, it meant Gravel had been starting the preparations in the middle of the night.

  Eerie leaned against a wooden post near the center of camp, arms crossed loosely, posture relaxed in a way that felt wrong in this moment. He watched the activity with mild interest, head tilting slightly as if he were observing something entertaining rather than alarming. When his gaze met the boy’s, he offered a faint, unreadable smile.

  Then he looked away first. The irritation that flared in the boy’s chest surprised him with its intensity. Not at Eerie—no—at himself.

  Everyone was doing something. Becoming useful. Preparing for what came next, and he was still waiting.

  Waiting for answers. Waiting for control. Waiting for the weight inside him to decide whether it would help or not.

  He pressed his palm against his chest again, harder this time, as if pressure might force a response. The sensation beneath his ribs remained the same—dense, silent, weirdly painful, unmoving. Present in a way that felt almost mocking. This power was nothing but a nuisance that caused him discomfort It just was a liability he carried everywhere.

  The boy turned away from the camp and walked toward the tree line, stopping just short of where the shadows thickened. The jungle loomed close, layers of green folding over one another, leaves shifting gently in a breeze he couldn’t feel. In the daylight it looked almost peaceful.

  The boy clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. If he was going to survive this place, waiting wasn’t an option anymore. Answers could come later—if there was a later. Control could come later too. But hesitation couldn’t. Behind him, Gravel’s voice carried again, low and steady, adjusting plans, issuing new instructions as information shifted. The sounds of preparation filled the camp—metal scraping, fabric tightening, footsteps moving with purpose.

  The boy couldn’t help but feel determined, I don’t care what type of monster this is. I don’t care what killed those people or how they turned into that monster. I WILL LIVE. I WILL FIND THE SECRETS TO MY EXISTENCE, and I will KILL anything that prevents that.