Roderick and his fourteen companions moved like a pack of lone wolves, silently crossing a graveyard of steel and concrete.
No one spoke.
The air around the group was stifling.
Each of them kept a careful distance from the people ahead and behind—just far enough to react if someone drew a blade.
Trust was the most expensive luxury of this age.
And every one of them was bankrupt.
"Howling Canyon is up ahead."
Falcon, the scout leading the way, slipped out of the shadow of an abandoned building. His voice was dry.
"We have to go through it. Going around would take at least three days, and our supplies won't last that long."
Everyone stopped.
Howling Canyon.
Among players in the North American War Zone, the name meant death.
It had once been a busy interstate highway. After the Apocalypse, shifts in the earth's crust had torn the land open, leaving a long, bottomless canyon. Strange winds echoed through it day and night, sounding like countless tormented souls wailing.
Worse still were the monsters that lurked there—the Corrupted Shadow Lurkers.
They were pack hunters, swift and silent, and they excelled at launching deadly attacks from the shadows.
"Let's go."
Roderick tightened his grip on his crude iron sword. The battered round shield strapped to his left arm gave him a pitiful sliver of reassurance.
He glanced back at his numb-faced "teammates."
There was no turning back.
If they stayed where they were, suspicion and despair would slowly rot them away.
If they pushed through, they might still have a chance.
No one objected. They followed in silence.
The moment they entered the canyon, cold, damp air struck their faces, and the light around them rapidly dimmed.
Sheer rock walls rose a hundred meters on either side, cutting the sky into