Survival of the Nation: My luck was a tiny bit worse.

Mike didn't sleep all night.

Before dawn, he finally got out of bed.

His eyes were so dry they felt like they were covered in sandpaper, but his mind was terrifyingly clear—the fear of death forced him to stay alert.

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at the bandages on his legs.

Chen Hao's skills were indeed excellent. The wound had already formed a thin scab, and pressing it only caused a dull ache, no longer the tearing, burning sensation it had before.

He even moved his ankle.

He is flexible, strong, and can walk normally now.

"……Hold."

Mike muttered a Chinese swear word under his breath.

Even though his wounds had healed, he felt no joy whatsoever; instead, he felt ashamed.

The wound, which had healed so efficiently, seemed to be mocking him: Look, we've healed your wounds, and you're still not getting out of here?

Mike folded the clean clothes and placed them at the foot of the bed.

There's no need to take them; these things don't belong to him. It's probably his last struggle for self-respect.

His equipment was still there—a pistol, a military knife, and the communicator that had been reduced to scrap metal.

Ou Yun didn't confiscate anything from him, nor did he even search him. He simply and openly allowed an enemy athlete to stay in his camp for two days with weapons, and even provided him with food and lodging.

What's the point?

Mike didn't understand, and didn't want to understand.

Perhaps, if he could see through what they were thinking, things wouldn't have come to this...

Mike put the gun back in its holster, and as his fingers touched the grip, he suddenly felt that this gun—his only weapon—was somewhat ridiculous.

What can he do with it?

Shoot that giant tortoise?

Shoot that bull that can overturn a tank?

Or was it facing that black bird that was crackling with electricity?

He couldn't even beat the smallest Hakimi.

Mike pushed open the door of the stone house.

The valley was shrouded in a thin mist in the early morning, the air was cool and carried the earthy sweetness.

The waterwheel in the mill—it has been turning slowly ever since he arrived here.

The wheat in the nearby fields gleamed with a bluish-gray light, and the outlines of the distant mountains were faintly visible in the morning mist.

No one in the camp had gotten up yet.

—No, there's someone there.

Mike's gaze swept across the square and landed on the big cat named North and South.

It lay beneath the watchtower, its tail slowly sweeping the ground, its golden pupils fixed intently on him.

Mike felt neither alarmed nor threatened.

The lynx, which was larger than a lion, just looked at him like a leaf swaying in the wind, or an ant crawling past his feet.

Mike took a deep breath and walked toward the camp gate, leaning on his trekking pole.

His leg has healed completely, with only a few small scabs remaining, the kind that wouldn't hurt to peel off.

But for some reason, he still felt a dull ache in his wound, as if his leg was still covered in blood, just like when he first arrived at the camp.

He walked slowly, taking each step very steadily.

It wasn't that his legs hurt; it was that he didn't want to look like he was running away—even though that was exactly what he was doing.

As he passed by the square, he couldn't help but glance at the large wooden table.

The campfire from last night had long since died out, but a few wisps of smoke still lingered in the ashes.

There were several empty bowls and a half-empty jug of chilled juice on the table.

Two days ago, he sat at that table and ate his first dinner.

Honey pancakes, roasted wild boar meat, and wild vegetable and egg soup.

Ou Yun sat in the head seat, drizzling honey over the waffles and smiling as she told him not to be shy—

Now, Mike feels that there should be another sentence following those three words:

Don't be shy, you'll die at our hands sooner or later anyway.

Mike looked away and quickened his pace.

The camp gate was a wooden fence on a low stone wall, without a lock, which could be opened with a gentle push.

Mike walked out and headed down the mountain path without looking back.

The morning fog grew thicker and thicker, and the trees on both sides became blurry black shadows in the fog.

The mountain path was slippery, and he used his hiking stick to move down step by step, the sound of his footsteps being swallowed up by the mist.

After walking for about ten minutes, he couldn't help but look back.

The campsite was completely hidden in the thick fog.

The outline of the watchtower, the roof of the stone house, and the waterwheel of the mill have all disappeared.

Only the occasional squeaking of monkeys leaping through the forest drifted through the mist.

Mike turned around and continued walking.

He didn't know where he was going, he only knew he was going downhill.

Going down is always the right thing to do. There's a river at the foot of the mountain. If you follow the river, you'll eventually find the spot where Sarah and James last sent the signal.

—If their bodies were still alive.

He suddenly stumbled, his trekking poles slipped on the wet, slick rocks, and he almost fell over.

He steadied himself, took a few deep breaths, and continued walking down.

After walking for about half an hour, the fog finally began to dissipate.

As the view gradually opened up, the river bend at the foot of the mountain came into view.

The river shimmered in the morning light, and the giant turtle lay in the bend, half of its shell protruding from the water like a moss-covered rock.

Mike instinctively slowed his pace.

Although he knew that the giant tortoise would most likely ignore him—he had stayed at the camp for two days and the tortoise hadn't even given him a second glance.

But the size of that turtle shell would be enough to make any living creature instinctively keep its distance!

The giant tortoise seemed to sense something; it turned its head and glanced at him with its tiny, beady eyes.

There was no hostility, no threat, just watching.

He knew it—

Mike gave a wry smile. "Okay, think positively. At least I'm still alive, right? Even though I planned to do something bad, I didn't manage to."

He walked downstream along the riverbank.

After walking about a kilometer, he stopped on the pebble beach by the riverbank.

right here.

The coordinates of Sarah and James' last signal were on this gravel beach.

He squatted down to examine the ground carefully.

There were several fresh scratches on the gravel, as if they had been left by a sharp weapon.

Several spent cartridge cases were scattered nearby—9mm caliber, the same type they used.

But apart from that, there was nothing.

There was no blood, no pieces of clothing, and no signs of a struggle.

Mike stood up and walked back and forth along the pebble beach several times.

He turned over almost every stone to examine it, searched inch by inch in the bushes by the river, and even lay on the ground to dig through the soil with his hands to see if there were any signs of burial.

There was nothing there. It was completely empty, as if his two teammates had vanished into thin air.

Mike stood on the pebble beach, his hands hanging at his sides, his fingers unconsciously clenching and unclenching.

He knew what this meant.

The body was disposed of.

It wasn't dragged away by a mutated wild animal—only humans would handle the scene like this. Clean, thorough, and without leaving a trace.