The Milf's Drag Chapter 189. The Veteran’s Say

Chapter 189: 189. The Veteran’s Say

The jungle was different at night.

Sounds that Owen had learned to identify during the day transford into sothing else. Predators moved through the canopy. Larger things prowled below. The darkness was absolute—no moons, no stars visible through the thick foliage.

Owen and Gorvax moved carefully. CE senses extended. Alert.

They’d been searching for three hours.

"Korvan could be anywhere," Owen said quietly. "Jungle zones span hundreds of kiloters."

"He’ll find us before we find him," Gorvax replied. "If he’s been here three seasons, he knows who to watch for."

"You think he’s tracking us?"

"I would be."

They continued through dense vegetation. Crossed streams. Avoided a Tier 5, four-star predator’s territory.

Then Owen felt it.

A presence. Close. Concealed perfectly but present.

"Korvan," Owen called out. "We know you’re there."

Silence.

"We need information. Nothing else. No fight. No competition."

More silence.

Then a voice from the darkness. "How did you know?"

"I didn’t. Until now." Owen turned toward the voice’s source. "But Gorvax was right. You’ve been following us since we entered the jungle."

Movent in the shadows. Korvan erged from cover so perfect Owen hadn’t seen it despite looking directly at it.

The green-skinned veteran looked the sa as on the transport ship. Scarred. Worn. But his eyes were sharper now. More focused.

"False Fist. Sower." Korvan’s deep voice was cautious. "You left Zone 3. Smart. The Crucible Kings don’t forgive trespassers."

"We t Drekthar," Owen said. "He told us about the Lifers. The territories. The monthly hunts."

Korvan’s expression shifted. Surprise. "He told you? Interesting. Usually they just kill newcors and take the credits."

"He gave us twenty-four hours to decide. Pay tribute, leave, or die."

"And you chose to leave." Korvan stepped closer. Still maintaining distance. "Also smart."

Gorvax’s voice was flat. "We need information. Real information. About how this place actually works."

Korvan studied them both. Then nodded toward deeper jungle. "Follow. Not here. Too exposed."

They walked in silence for twenty minutes.

Korvan led them to a hidden shelter. A natural formation—rocks and roots creating a small cave, entrance concealed by vegetation. Inside was basic but functional. Supplies. Dried at. Water containers. A bedroll.

"Three seasons," Korvan said, sitting. "This is my fourth attempt at earning a pardon. I’ve learned to survive by being invisible."

Owen sat across from him. "Tell us everything."

Korvan exhaled slowly. "Where to start?"

"The beginning," Gorvax said.

---

Korvan spoke for an hour.

He explained Prison World’s true structure. The details Drekthar had omitted or glossed over.

**The Factions:**

"Three major factions. Dozens of smaller gangs. All Lifers.

The Crucible Kings—forty-three mbers. Control volcanic, ruins, and parts of desert zones. Led by Malthor. Tier 3, one-star. Used to be Tier 4, three-stars when he arrived in Season 38. Eight years of survival and growth made him a monster. Ruthless. Pragmatic. If you’re strong and useful, he might recruit you. If you’re weak or in his territory, he kills you.

The Wraith Collective—thirty-one mbers. Control frozen and swamp zones. Led by Sylkra. Tier 3, one-star. Stealth specialist. She’s smart. Strategic. Recruits carefully. Prefers manipulation over direct combat. Her faction operates more like an intelligence network. They know everything happening on this planet.

The Unbroken—fifty-four mbers. Control plains, coastal, and the best hunting grounds. Led by Torvann the Deathless. Tier 3, two-stars. Survived eleven years. Eleven. He’s seen six full seasons co and go. No one knows his original tier, but he’s grown beyond asurent. He enforces ’laws’ on Prison World. Territory disputes go through him. He takes tribute from everyone—even the other factions."

Owen processed this. "And the independents?"

"Maybe two hundred Lifers who refuse to join factions. Like . We survive by being useful, invisible, or too much trouble to kill." Korvan’s expression darkened. "Most independents don’t last more than two seasons. Factions eventually force you to choose—join or die."

The Credit System:

"Your billion-credit requirent? It’s designed to be impossible.

The highest credit total ever earned in a single season was 340 million. A Tier 3 prisoner who killed two monthly hunters, assassinated a faction leader, and won every major engagent for six months. He earned his pardon. Left. That was Season 29. Seventeen years ago.

Most pardons go to prisoners who hit top ten rankings. Eight million credits usually guarantees top ten if you’re a newcor. But Lifers in top ten have been grinding for years. Current top-ranked Lifer has thirty-seven million credits accumulated over nine seasons.

To actually earn a pardon as a newcor, you need to do sothing unprecedented. Kill multiple faction leaders. Kill multiple monthly hunters. Dominate the broadcast and get massive viewer engagent bonuses."

Owen’s jaw tightened. "So the system is rigged."

"Completely. The Tribunal doesn’t want to pardon people. They want entertainnt. Suffering. Drama. The credit requirent keeps people trapped. Forces them to take insane risks. Creates better television."

The Monthly Hunts:

Korvan’s voice dropped lower. "The hunts are the real killers.

Every month, one Noble Race sends a hunter. Always Tier 2 or higher. They get five days. No restrictions. Hunt however they want.

Month one: Nullborn. They track. They chase. They corner. Last season, the Nullborn hunter killed eighteen prisoners in five days.

Month two: Ordained. They challenge strong prisoners to honorable combat. If you accept and lose, you die. If you refuse, they hunt you down anyway for cowardice.

Month three: Architect. This is the worst one. They manipulate reality. Create impossible mazes. Trap prisoners in pocket dinsions. Psychological warfare. Fourteen deaths last season.

Month four: Eternal. Endurance predator. Doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t stop. Poisons. Parasites. Slow, painful deaths. Twenty-one kills last season.

Month five: Progenitor. Overwhelming power. Flight. Cosmic flas. If you’re not Tier 4 minimum, you can’t even fight back. Sixteen deaths last season.

The only prisoners who’ve ever killed a monthly hunter are Torvann, Malthor, and one other Lifer who died in Season 44. Three kills. Ever. In forty-six seasons."

Owen felt the weight of it. "And we have twenty-two days until the first hunt."

"Yes."

Gorvax spoke for the first ti since Korvan began. "The Nullborn hunter. They’ll be tracking Owen specifically."

Korvan’s eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Owen touched his chest where the tracker pulsed faintly. "Long story. But yes. I’m marked."

Korvan was silent for a mont. "Then you’re fucked. Nullborn hunters are the best trackers in the cosmos. They will find you. Hiding is impossible."

"Then I fight."

"You’re Tier 5, five-stars. They’ll be Tier 2, two or three-stars. You’ll die."

Owen’s fists clenched. "Not an option. I have people waiting for

at ho."

Korvan studied him. Then Gorvax. "You two are serious about this. Actually trying to win."

"Yes," Owen said.

"Most newcors give up by week two. Accept they’re here for years or until death." Korvan leaned back. "But you’re different. I saw it on the transport. You’ve got sothing to fight for."

"Seri," Gorvax said quietly. "I survive, she gets her freedom. That’s all that matters."

Korvan nodded slowly. "Then I’ll help. Because if you two actually pull off sothing impossible, it’ll shake up the whole system. Maybe create opportunities for the rest of us."

Owen t his eyes. "What do you need?"

"Nothing. I stay independent. But I’ll give you information. Warn you about threats. Guide you to hunting grounds the factions don’t control heavily." Korvan stood. "In exchange, if you kill a faction leader, I want a share of the credit bounty."

"Deal."

They shook hands.

Korvan pulled out a crude map drawn on treated hide. "This is Prison World. Approximate territories. Safe zones. Danger zones."

He pointed to various regions.

"Zone 7—jungle. Where you started. High biodiversity. dium-tier predators. Free territory but crowded with newcors. Seventeen active when you left. Probably fourteen now.

Zone 3—volcanic. Crucible King territory. You know this already.

Zone 12—desert. Shared between Crucible Kings and independents. Harsh environnt but good hunting.

Zone 18—ruins. Crucible King territory. Ancient structures. Lots of ambush points.

Zone 5—frozen. Wraith Collective territory. Extre cold. Stealth predators.

Zone 9—swamps. Wraith Collective territory. Toxic. Difficult terrain.

Zone 14—coastal. Unbroken territory. Best hunting grounds on the planet. You need permission from Torvann to hunt there.

Zone 21—plains. Unbroken territory. Open. Nowhere to hide. Herd predators."

Owen morized the layout. "Where should we hunt?"

"Zone 12—desert. It’s shared territory. Crucible Kings patrol it but don’t enforce tribute as strictly. High-tier predators. Good credits. Manageable risk."

"And when the Nullborn hunter cos?"

Korvan’s expression was grim. "You can’t hide. So you prepare. Train. Get stronger. Find advantages. Maybe ally with other strong prisoners." He paused. "Or you do sothing crazy."

"Like what?"

"Kill a faction leader before the hunt. Claim their territory. Use their resources." Korvan smiled slightly. "But that’s suicide. Malthor hasn’t been challenged in four years. Last prisoner who tried was Tier 4, four-stars. Malthor killed him in thirty seconds."

Owen filed that information away. "Anything else we should know?"

"Yes. Don’t trust broadcast rankings. They only show Season 47 prisoners unless you specifically access the full leaderboard. The Tribunal wants newcors to feel accomplished. Stay motivated. If you saw the real rankings day one, you’d give up imdiately."

"Can we access the full leaderboard?"

"Yes. But it costs 10,000 credits."

Owen’s current balance: 630,500 credits.

"Do it."

Korvan pulled out a small device. Crude. Handmade. "Black market tech. Hacked together from scavenged prison drones." He activated it.

A holographic display appeared. Small. Flickering. But functional.

[PRISON WORLD - FULL LEADERBOARD]

1. Torvann the Deathless - 37,240,000 credits

2. Malthor - 28,650,000 credits

3. Sylkra - 24,890,000 credits

4. Vrynn the Dissolver - 18,340,000 credits

5. Kael’thos - 16,720,000 credits

6. Threx - 14,980,000 credits

7. Yalira - 12,230,000 credits

8. Korvan - 11,540,000 credits

9. Gorvax - 8,890,000 credits

10. Varkoth - 7,650,000 credits

...

47. False Fist (Owen) - 630,500 credits**

Owen stared at the numbers.

Forty-seventh. Out of nearly five hundred total prisoners.

’I’m not even close.’

But Gorvax was ninth. Already in pardon eligibility range.

"You’re in the top ten," Owen said.

Gorvax’s covered face tilted toward the display. "Shared credit bonuses. The Colossus kill put

over the edge."

Korvan deactivated the device. "Now you see. The real ga. The real stakes."

Owen stood. His mind racing.

Forty-seventh place. 630,500 credits.

He needed to climb forty-six ranks. Earn tens of millions more credits.

In six months.

While avoiding faction wars, monthly Tier 2 hunters, and three hundred veteran prisoners.

’Impossible.’

But he’d done impossible before.

"Thank you," Owen said to Korvan. "For the information."

"Don’t thank

yet. You’ll probably be dead in a month." Korvan’s expression softened slightly. "But if you’re not... co find

again. We’ll talk strategy."

Owen and Gorvax left the shelter.

The jungle night surrounded them.

Sowhere on this planet, 480 prisoners hunted, hid, and fought for credits.

And in twenty-two days, a Nullborn hunter would arrive.

Hunting him specifically.

Owen checked his CE. 3,200. Recovered sowhat during Korvan’s explanation.

A notification appeared.

[PRISONER ELIMINATED: #198 - CAUSE: ENVIRONNTAL HAZARD]

[PRISONER ELIMINATED: #145 - CAUSE: LIFER EXECUTION]

[PRISONERS REMAINING: 179 (Season 47)

~300 (Lifers) = ~479 TOTAL]

Owen looked at Gorvax. "Desert zone. Zone 12. We hunt there for the next three weeks. Build credits. Get stronger."

"And when the Nullborn cos?"

Owen’s jaw tightened. "We kill it."

Gorvax almost laughed. "You’re insane."

"Probably." Owen started walking. "But I’d rather die trying sothing impossible than survive by hiding."

Gorvax followed. "Then we die trying."

They disappeared into the jungle.

Heading for Zone 12.

The desert awaited.

And with it, their next battle for survival.