When she emerged alive, Peter was still running. That group caught up to him and hacked him to pieces.
She felt nothing as she looked at his corpse—neither anger nor grief.
She only thought: Next time, I need to find allies who run slower. I can't match young people when it comes to running.
She jumped down from the rock and disappeared into the night.
The fifth night on Death Island. Death toll: 789.
Elena crouched beneath a dead tree, counting the people still alive.
She did not know the exact number, but she could feel that there were fewer and fewer. The screams were no longer as dense as they had been the previous nights. Only one or two rang out now and then, swiftly vanishing into the darkness.
She held the silver sword passed down by her grandfather.
Three new chips marred the blade, left behind in last night's battle. She had killed four people that night. Not because she wanted to kill them, but because those four people had wanted to kill her.
One of them had been a boy who looked no older than twenty.
When he charged at her, he kept shouting, "Sorry, sorry, sorry," but the knife in his hand still stabbed toward her chest.
She dodged and drove her sword through his throat with a backhand strike.
When he fell, his eyes remained open, staring at her. His lips still muttered apologies until he drew his last breath.
Elena closed her eyes.
She thought of her son, of the last time he had called her Mom.
If that boy were still alive, would his mother be waiting somewhere for him to return as well?
She opened her eyes. She could not think about that. Thinking about it would get her killed.
The seventh