The second day.
John led Blue Team through the dense forest with no fixed base and no predictable route.
They moved through the trees like ghosts, changing direction every two hours.
John knew that after losing Fred, they could no longer fight a static war of attrition against Black Team—they were at a numerical disadvantage, short on supplies, and the enemy clearly held the information advantage regarding their water source.
He had to use mobility to counter the enemy’s intelligence edge.
The problem was that John didn’t know where Black Team’s base was.
Tak’s recon had only appeared once on the first night, after which he had left no trace whatsoever.
This meant either Black Team had given up tracking Blue Team, or they were monitoring them from a much greater distance.
John leaned toward the latter.
In the cave, Riley spread the terrain map on the ground and began analyzing John’s potential routes.
He used a process of elimination: John wouldn’t take the open river valley to the south—too vulnerable to sniping.
He wouldn’t take the deep forest to the east—the terrain was complex, but water was virtually nonexistent there, making long-term mobility impossible.
He wouldn’t take the ridge to the north—that was the boundary of the training zone, leaving too little operational space.
“That leaves three directions,” Riley said, pointing at the map with his finger.
“The steep slope to the west, the stream valley in the center, and the old path looping back to the high ground.” He looked up at Ethan.
“If it were me, I’d take the central stream valley. It’s the most balanced choice—there’s cover, water, and plenty of escape routes.”
Ethan stared at the map for a long time.
Then he shook his head.
“No. John won’t take the most balanced path.” He stood up, walked to the cave entrance, and looked west toward the near-vertical slope.
“He’ll go there.”
Riley stared, bewildered.
“The west slope? The incline is close to sixty degrees, and the ground is covered in loose gravel and rotting leaves. It’s almost impossible to walk normally.”
“Precisely because of that,” Ethan said.
“No one would expect anyone to take that route. John isn’t looking for the best path—he’s looking for the most unpredictable one.” He turned back to Tak.
“Confirm it.”
Tak vanished once more.
Three hours later, he returned, bearing fresh scrapes from the underbrush.
“West slope,” he said, offering only two words.
Ethan nodded, as if confirming something he had long anticipated.
John had indeed chosen the west slope.
Using rope and tactical knives, he carved out a barely passable trail along the sheer rock face, leading Kelly and Linda down at a snail’s pace.
The route drained an immense amount of physical energy, but John was betting that no one would search for them in such terrain.
However, he had underestimated his opponent.
At the thirtieth hour, John decided to change tactics—they couldn’t remain entirely passive.
He sent Kelly to attempt a flank maneuver from the rear to search for traces of Black Team.
Kelly was the fastest runner in Blue Team, and John believed she could complete the reconnaissance before the enemy spotted her.
Kelly glided through the trees like a shadow, her footsteps so light they didn’t even disturb the fallen leaves.
She swept in a wide arc, approaching Black Team’s estimated direction from the south.
A branch three meters above her quivered slightly, yet there was no wind.
Kelly reacted instantly, but she was a moment too late.
Tak leaped down from the tree canopy like a hunting leopard, slamming his weight into Kelly.
One hand pinned her rifle barrel while the other pressed his paintball gun against her lower back.
A muffled pop at point-blank range, and orange paint exploded across Kelly’s waist.
Kelly struggled for two seconds before coming to a halt.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“He’s been in that tree since yesterday.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
Tak released her, stood up, and nodded expressionlessly.
Kelly opened her eyes, looking at this boy who was half a head shorter than her, realizing for the first time that speed was not always an absolute advantage—sometimes, patience was far deadlier than speed.
Blue Team’s list of losses continued to grow: Fred, then Kelly.
Only John and Linda remained.
Black Team had zero losses.
At the forty-eighth hour, John stopped in his tracks.
He stopped running.
For two days, he had been moving, evading, and trying to throw off pursuit.
Now he stood beside the roots of a giant pine tree, rainwater dripping from the overhead canopy onto his shoulders.
He closed his eyes.
Five meters behind him, Linda maintained a vigilant guard distance, her paintball gun held across her chest, her eyes scanning the dense forest.
She did not rush John or ask any questions.
She knew John was thinking—he needed time.
John was recalculating.
Fred’s elimination at the water source meant Black Team understood their water route.
Kelly’s ambush on the flank meant Black Team consistently tracked Blue Team’s location.
This implied someone on the opposing side was monitoring them from a distance at all times—not Ethan, because Ethan was the commander and wouldn’t conduct recon personally.
It was Tak.
That scout who moved as silently as a cat.
However, Tak couldn’t be everywhere at once.
If he was tracking Blue Team, then Black Team’s base was left exposed—or at the very least, they could no longer conceal their whereabouts perfectly.
John opened his eyes.
“Linda.” He pointed toward the southwest.
“Can you hit a moving target from eight hundred meters out?” Linda didn’t answer, merely adjusting her gun strap slightly.
The action itself was her answer.
They changed direction, pushing toward the sector where Riley had last appeared during his map analysis.
John didn’t need to know Black Team’s precise location—he only needed to get Linda to a high enough vantage point, then let those hawk-like eyes search for him.
Linda climbed the tallest pine tree in the sector.
The canopy swayed fifty meters in the air, and she secured herself to the trunk, resting her paintball gun against a thick branch.
From this height, she could see almost every corner within a one-kilometer radius.
It took her twenty minutes to find Riley.
Riley was crouching by a stream, marking something on a newly drawn map.
His location was well-concealed—sheltered by rocks on both sides and covered by a thick canopy overhead—but he had overlooked one direction: straight up.
The paintball traced an arc through the air.
By the time Riley heard the sound of rushing air and looked up, the orange paint had already burst across his chest.
He looked down at the mark on his chest, the expression on his face less of shock and more of a cold confirmation—he truly hadn’t accounted for a threat from directly above.
Riley was “killed.” Black Team lost their most vital strategist.
Far off, Ethan heard the muffled impact of the paintball hit.
His jaw tightened for a moment—and then returned to calm.
Riley’s elimination meant John was no longer the prey.
He was counterattacking.
Ethan was right.
John didn’t stop to celebrate.
The moment Linda slid down from the tree, he was already charging toward Black Team’s suspected base.
He no longer hid, no longer detoured—he cut through the dense forest at top speed, like a drawn blade.
Cohen stepped into his path.
Cohen was waiting behind a thicket of bushes, his paintball gun slung across his back, his hands empty.
As John charged forward, Cohen met him head-on—not with gunfire, but with his body.
Cohen was the strongest of them all in hand-to-hand combat, his punches heavy and fast, moving like a human punching bag.
He was betting that at this distance, fists were faster than a gun.
Cohen’s first punch swung directly for John’s face.
John sidestepped, slamming his shoulder into Cohen’s chest to throw him down.
But Cohen’s stance was as solid as a tree; he grabbed John’s shoulders with both hands and brought his knee up—John blocked with his forearm, bones colliding with a dull thud.
The two grappled intensely.
Cohen was indeed stronger, every blow landing with terrifying weight.
John took a blow to his right shoulder, and his entire arm instantly went numb.
But John didn’t retreat.
He waited for Cohen’s second punch to miss, leaned forward, and slammed his forehead against the bridge of Cohen’s nose—not hard enough to break it, but enough to force him to blink.
That single second was all he needed.
John raised his paintball gun from his hip, firing two paintballs that hit Cohen squarely in the chest almost simultaneously.
Orange paint burst across his gray training uniform like two suddenly blooming flowers.
Cohen looked down at the orange marks on his chest, breathing heavily.
He looked up to find John had already stepped back three paces, his gun still trained on him.
“Next time, use your brain, not your fists,” John said.
His voice wasn’t loud, but every word was crystal clear.
Cohen stared at him for two seconds, then offered a rare smile—not one of anger, but of acknowledgment.
“Next time, you might not get the chance,” he said, turning around to head toward the edge of the training zone.
Black Team’s list of losses: Riley, then Cohen.
Only Ethan and Tak remained.
Blue Team: John and Linda.
Two against two.