The drama on his very first day at The Dire Wolves’ headquarters left a bad taste in the air, but Jax didn’t lose any sleep over it.

To him, Gareth and his crew were nothing more than a means to an end. If Jax hadn’t needed a roof over his head last night, he wouldn’t have given the man a second glance. At this point, he considered his relationship with Gareth to be strictly transactional—roommates, nothing more.

The next morning, the wasteland sun hadn’t yet breached the horizon, but Jax was already awake. The air was still cool, a fleeting mercy before the scorching heat of the day took over.

He moved quietly across the room to the hulking mass on the floor.

“Barney,” Jax whispered, slapping the giant’s shoulder. “Up and at ’em, big guy.”

Barney groaned and rolled over, burying his face in his arms like a petulant child refusing to go to school.

Jax sighed. He knew the magic words. “Alright, suit yourself. I guess I’ll go eat breakfast alone.”

The effect was instantaneous.

Before Jax could even turn around, Barney’s eyes snapped open. The giant scrambled to a sitting position, the floorboards creaking under his weight.

“Jax! Where food?”

Jax scowled, though there was no real heat in it. He flicked the giant’s forehead. “You little rascal. Playing dead until food is mentioned? Get up. We need to move, or we’ll miss the main caravan.”

Barney grumbled but hauled himself up.

Their morning routine was grimly efficient. They stepped outside to collect the meager amount of water that had condensed in their traps overnight—barely enough to wipe the grit from their faces and rinse the stale taste from their mouths.

Cleaned up as best they could be, they headed downstairs to the square.

Monday mornings were chaotic. It was the universal launch time for every guild in the city. Mercenaries checked weapons, engines revved, and shouts filled the air.

Timing was everything. If you missed the main caravan, you were on your own. And in the wasteland, being alone was a death sentence. While Sandworms were primarily nocturnal, the desert didn’t care about rules. Rogue swarms were common.

Traveling in a pack deterred the smaller predators. But more importantly, it kept you from getting lost. The desert terrain was fluid; windstorms shifted dunes overnight, erasing landmarks. Without an experienced guide, venturing out was suicide.

As Jax stepped into the square, he nearly collided with a short, wiry man.

He looked up and stiffened. It was Silas.

“What are you doing here?” Jax asked, his voice dropping an octave.

Of all the members of The Dire Wolves, Jax cared little for Kaleb’s tantrums or Gareth’s cowardice. But Silas… Silas put him on edge.

The man was short, but his eyes were constantly darting, scanning everyone he met from boots to belt, looking for weaknesses. He had a permanent, disarming smile plastered on his face, but Jax knew better. In his past life—and in this one—he recognized a predator.

Silas was the team’s scout. In this world, a scout wasn’t just a lookout; they were infiltrators, surviving deep behind enemy lines. You didn’t survive that job by being soft.

“Morning, kid,” Silas grinned, craning his neck to look up at Jax. “You boys heading to Sector 33?”

“Yeah,” Jax replied curtly. “We established that yesterday.”

“Heh. What a coincidence,” Silas chuckled. “I’m heading out to do some recon. How about we stick together until next week’s mission?”

Jax frowned. “You go ahead. Why wait for us?”

Silas sensed the rejection but didn’t back off. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Look, brother, I’ll be honest. I’ve got a feeling about you. A guy walking into the chaotic zones with nothing but a giant man-child? You’ve got an ace up your sleeve. I can smell it.”

Jax’s expression went cold. “If you’re coming, come. But cut the crap. I don’t owe you an explanation, and I’m certainly not giving you one.”

Silas held up his hands in mock surrender, that slick smile never wavering. He hitched his pack over his shoulder and pointed toward Central Street. “Lead the way.”

As the trio disappeared into the crowd, a head popped out from behind the Dire Wolves’ gate.

“Whew! I can’t believe they actually went,” a voice muttered.

Inside the compound, a nervous recruit looked at Gareth. “Guild Leader… are we still going out?”

Kaleb, standing nearby, shot a glare at his younger sister who had asked the question. “Go where? Use your brain. We’re staying put. We’ll pick up some courier jobs or perimeter checks later. Outside the walls? That’s suicide for us right now.”

Gareth slumped against the wall, watching the empty street. “Yeah. Let’s just wait. Maybe Old Silas will bring back some good news.”

At the city gate, the bureaucracy of the apocalypse was in full swing.

Jax, Barney, and their uninvited shadow, Silas, handed in their mission paperwork. The soldier on duty stamped the forms and tossed a heavy iron token to Jax.

“One return token. Don’t lose it. No token, you pay the full entry fee to get back in. If it’s damaged, you pay for that too.”

Jax caught the cold metal and slipped it deep into his pocket.

Silas eyed the token greedily but kept his mouth shut. The rules were strict: one token per team. Whoever held the iron held the power to bring the group home free of charge. If a teammate got “lost” in the desert, the city guards made a tidy profit on the survivor’s re-entry fees.

“Where exactly are you headed?” Jax asked as they stepped out into the blinding glare of the wasteland.

“With you,” Silas said, falling into step. “To Sector 33. I don’t have a token, remember? I’m your baggage.”

Jax stopped dead. This was a problem.

His entire plan relied on the [God-Tier Architect System]. He needed to build turrets, walls, and defenses instantly. He couldn’t do that with a sharp-eyed scout watching his every move.

“You can’t follow me,” Jax said flatly.

Silas shrugged. “Then give me the token.”

“Not a chance,” Jax snapped. “I give you that, and what happens when you ditch us? I’m not paying the gate tax.”

He didn’t trust Silas as far as he could throw him—which, given Barney’s presence, was actually quite far, but the metaphor stood. Silas was the type to sell his own mother for a canteen of water.

Silas saw the hard look in Jax’s eyes and pivoted. “Fine, fine. Don’t get your panties in a twist. How about we compromise? We travel to Outpost 15 together. I’ll hole up there and wait for you. You keep the token, and pick me up on your way back.”

Jax ran the map in his head. Sector 33 was past Outpost 15. It worked.

“Deal. You wait at the Outpost.”

They picked up the pace, jogging to catch the tail end of the massive caravan snake winding its way into the dunes.

The caravan was a lifeline. Hundreds of hunters and mercenaries moved in unison, a moving fortress against the horrors of the sands.

Not everyone walked, of course. The elite guilds—the ones hunting high-level insectoids—roared past in modified dune buggies and armored trucks, kicking up clouds of dust that coated the walkers in grit.

Jax watched the vehicles disappear over a ridge, a pang of envy hitting him. One day, he thought. One day I won’t be walking.

They reached Outpost 15 by midday. It was a massive natural fortress, a hub of canyons and branching paths that allowed hunters to split the insect swarms into manageable chunks. Many guilds had established permanent forward bases here, complete with crude watchtowers and bunkers.

Most of the caravan peeled off here, settling in for the hunt.

“Ahem,” Silas coughed, stopping at the turnoff. “Well, this is my stop. Good luck, boys. Don’t die on me.”

Jax gave him a curt nod and kept walking.

The crowd thinned dramatically. Two-thirds of the people stayed at Outpost 15. The remaining third were the desperate, the insane, or the incredibly powerful. They were venturing into the deep desert—to earn a fortune, or to die trying.

The terrain opened up. The protective canyons vanished, replaced by wide, flat killing fields where ambush was inevitable.

By mid-afternoon, the guide at the front of the column halted and pointed to a jagged rift in the earth.

“Sector 33!”

Jax grabbed Barney’s arm and stepped out of the formation.

The guide looked at the two of them—a young man and a simpleton, armed with practically nothing. He opened his mouth to warn them, then stopped. He sighed instead.

“You know the rules,” the guide said, his voice rough from dust. “I’m bringing the return group back this weekend. I won’t be back before then. If you run out of water or food, crawl back to Outpost 15 or figure it out. Don’t expect a rescue.”

Jax nodded. He had done his homework. The harshness of the rules didn’t surprise him.

The guide turned his back, waved the column forward, and marched on.

As the group moved away, whispers drifted back to Jax’s ears.

“Tsk. Look at those two. Fresh meat.”

“Are they insane? Sector 33 is called ‘Dead Man’s Maw’ for a reason. You don’t camp there.”

“The terrain looks defensible, sure, but the swarm density is off the charts. They’re walking in with nothing but sticks.”

“Dead by sundown. I bet you ten credits we find their bones on the way back.”

Jax ignored them. The guide didn’t look back. In the apocalypse, compassion was a luxury no one could afford. Survival was 10% skill, 10% luck, and 80% minding your own damn business.

Silence fell over the canyon as the caravan vanished into the heat haze.

Jax turned to face his chosen battlefield. He scanned the entrance and exit of the narrow gorge.

The ground was a graveyard. Bleached white bones—some chitinous, most human—littered the sand.

On the canyon wall, scrawled in faded, ominous red paint, were four words that served as both a name and a warning:

DEAD MAN’S MAW