Marcus had lost track of how long they had been on the island.
Not because he hadn't tried to count the days—but because the days refused to stay separate. One blurred into the next, broken only by combat, short rests, and the constant feeling of moving forward without ever truly arriving anywhere. Morning light felt the same as dusk here. Even sleep didn't reset anything. He would wake up tired, fight, move, and repeat.
That was the only certainty that stuck.
The island fought back constantly, but never the same way twice. Monsters crawled out of cracked stone as if the land itself had grown teeth. Others emerged from pools of corrupted mana, half-formed things that screamed when they died and left nothing behind. Some beasts charged them openly; others vanished the moment they were struck, dissolving like smoke before Marcus could even register the kill.
They adapted.
