The Milf's Dragon

Chapter 188. The real game

Owen sat against the cave wall, his CE slowly recovering.

630,500 credits. Rank #1. Four days survived.

It should have felt like progress.

But It didn’t.

Gorvax stood at the cave entrance, watching the volcanic landscape. His posture was tense. Alert.

"Something wrong?" Owen asked.

"We’re being watched."

Owen’s CE sense flared. He scanned the area. Nothing within his range. "I don’t sense anyone."

"Not close. But they’re out there." Gorvax’s covered face tilted slightly. "I’ve felt it since we killed the Colossus. Eyes on us. Multiple sources."

Owen stood. Extended his senses further. Pushed his range to the limit.

There. Faint signatures. Three of them. Tier 4. Far enough to avoid casual detection but close enough to observe.

"Three contacts. North, east, and southwest positions. Tier 4 power levels."

"Prisoners," Gorvax said. "But not new ones."

"How do you know?"

"New prisoners won’t coordinate surveillance like this, They don’t have the discipline." Gorvax’s scythe materialized. "These are veterans. Watching and Evaluating us."

Owen’s jaw tightened. "Veterans from what?"

Before Gorvax could answer, one of the signatures moved. Approaching directly. No attempt at stealth.

A figure emerged from the heat shimmer.

Male. Humanoid. His skin was deep red with black tribal markings across his bare chest and arms. Horns curved from his temples—not filed down like Korvan’s, but intact, sharp, intimidating. He wore minimal armor, just reinforced plates over vital areas. His eyes glowed faintly orange.

Tier 4, 3-stars.

He stopped thirty meters from the cave. Arms crossed. Confident.

"False Fist. The Sower." His voice carried easily over the volcanic rumble. "Impressive performance. The Ember Colossus hasn’t been killed in three seasons."

Owen’s gauntlets hummed. "And you are?"

"Drekthar. Lieutenant of the Crucible Kings." He gestured to the volcanic region around them. "You’re standing in our territory."

Gorvax’s scythe pulsed. "Your territory?"

"Zone 3. Zone 8. Parts of Zone 15." Drekthar smiled. Sharp teeth. "We’ve held them for six years. Newcomers don’t change that."

Owen’s mind raced. ’Six years? Seasons are six months.’

Drekthar seemed to read his confusion. "You don’t know, do you? The new blood never does."

"Know what?" Owen asked.

"Prison World isn’t seasonal for everyone. Just for you." Drekthar stepped closer. Casual. Unthreatening but radiating danger. "Season 47 ends in six months. For you. But for those of us who didn’t earn pardons when our seasons ended? We stay. Season after season. Year after year."

Owen’s blood ran cold. "You’re from previous seasons."

"Season 41. Sentenced for killing a Tribunal tax collector." Drekthar’s smile widened. "Didn’t earn my pardon. So here I am. Still hunting. Still surviving. Still trying."

Gorvax’s grip tightened on his scythe. "How many?"

"Veterans? Maybe three hundred across all zones. Some from Season 35. Some from Season 46." Drekthar shrugged. "We call ourselves Lifers. Because that’s what this place becomes if you’re not strong enough, smart enough, or entertaining enough."

Owen’s stomach sank. "The leaderboard. The top ranks."

"Held by Lifers," Drekthar confirmed. "Your rank #1? That’s cute. Among Season 47 prisoners. The actual top ten? All veterans. Lowest credit count in the real top ten is eight million. Highest is thirty-seven million."

Owen kept his face neutral. "So you came here to what? Gloat?"

"To collect." Drekthar’s expression hardened. "You killed the Colossus. In our territory. That’s 192,500 credits worth of our prey. The Crucible Kings demand compensation."

"We didn’t see any claim markers," Gorvax said.

"Because you’re new. You don’t know where to look." Drekthar gestured around. Specific rocks. Specific lava flow patterns. "The whole zone is marked. You just don’t have the eyes to see it yet."

Owen’s CE flared slightly. "And if we refuse to pay?"

Drekthar laughed. "Then we take it. One way or another."

The two other signatures Owen had sensed earlier moved. Closer now. Flanking positions.

Two more figures emerged. Both Tier 4, 2-stars. One was female with scales and a tail. The other was a massive being covered in rocky protrusions.

Three Tier 4 veterans against Owen and Gorvax.

Drekthar noticed Owen’s calculation. "Smart. You’re evaluating odds. That’s good. Means you might survive longer than most newcomers." He uncrossed his arms. "Here’s the deal. You pay tribute—say, 150,000 credits transferred to Crucible King accounts. Or you leave Zone 3 and never come back."

"And if we do neither?" Owen asked.

"Then we kill you. Take your total credits as spoils. Divide them among the Kings." Drekthar’s orange eyes gleamed. "You’re worth 630,500 credits, False Fist. Dead, you’re worth more to us than you’ll ever be alive."

Gorvax stepped forward. His CE flared. "You can try."

The scaled female hissed. "Sower, you have no pardon eligibility. You’re here until you die. Don’t make it today."

Gorvax’s voice was ice. "I’ve been sentenced to death before. Still here."

Drekthar raised a hand. His companions stopped advancing. "I like you both. You’ve got fire." He lowered his hand. "So I’m going to give you something valuable. Information."

Owen waited.

"Prison World has rules," Drekthar said. "Unwritten. Enforced by Lifers. Territory. Tribute. Hierarchy. Break them, and you don’t last a week." He pointed north. "The Crucible Kings control volcanic zones. The Wraith Collective controls frozen and swamp zones. The Unbroken—the oldest, strongest faction—controls plains and coastal areas. The best hunting grounds."

"And the jungle zones?" Owen asked.

"Free territory. For now. Too many newcomers die there for Lifers to bother holding it permanently." Drekthar smiled. "But here’s the real lesson. Every month, one of the Noble Races sends a hunter. Tier 2. Sometimes Tier 3. They hunt prisoners for five days. Most of us hide. Some fight. Very few win."

Owen’s jaw tightened. "When’s the next hunt?"

"Twenty-two days. End of month one. A Nullborn hunter this time." Drekthar’s expression turned serious. "If you’re still alive by then, you’ll learn what real fear feels like. Those five days kill more prisoners than the entire rest of the month combined."

Gorvax’s scythe pulsed brighter. "Why tell us this?"

"Because strong newcomers make the game interesting. Boring seasons mean fewer viewers. Fewer viewers mean lower credit bonuses for everyone." Drekthar turned to leave. "You have twenty-four hours to decide. Pay tribute, leave, or die. Your choice."

He walked away. His two companions followed.

Owen watched them disappear into the heat shimmer.

Then he looked at Gorvax. "Three hundred veterans. Faction territories. Monthly Tier 2 hunters. This place is a fucking warzone."

"Yes."

Owen’s mind raced. 630,500 credits. The real top ten had millions. He needed a billion.

’The game isn’t what I thought it was.’

"We need information," Owen said. "Fast. Someone who knows how this place really works."

Gorvax nodded. "Korvan. He mentioned surviving three seasons. He’s a Lifer."

"Can we find him?"

"If he’s smart, he’s avoiding factions. Probably in the free zones." Gorvax gestured south. "Jungle or ruins. We search there."

"And the Crucible Kings?"

"Twenty-four hours." Gorvax’s scythe dissolved. "We’ll be gone before then."

They gathered what little they had. No supplies. No weapons except what they could manifest. Just their skills and determination.

Owen checked his CE. 2,847. Still recovering.

A notification appeared.

[PRISONERS REMAINING: 181]

Two more dead. Somewhere on this planet. Veterans hunting newcomers.

Owen looked at the drones still recording everything.

Across the galaxy, billions watched. Betting on how long he’d last. Whether he’d pay tribute. Whether he’d fight.

He ignored them.

"Let’s move," Owen said. "We find Korvan. We learn the real rules. Then we decide what to do about the Crucible Kings."

Gorvax nodded.

They left Zone 3. Headed south toward the jungle zones.

Behind them, the volcanic region glowed. Crucible King territory. Claimed. Defended. Deadly.

Ahead, uncertainty.

But uncertainty was better than playing a rigged game.

Owen’s fists clenched.

’One billion credits. Against veterans with millions. Against monthly Tier 2 hunters. Against faction armies.’

He almost laughed.

’Impossible odds. Just like always.’

They disappeared into the jungle.

The hunt continued.

But now, Owen understood what he was really hunting for.

Survival wasn’t enough.

He needed to break the system.