I ghosted through the jungle today, sticking to shadows and avoiding anything that looked like it wanted to eat me. Eventually I stumbled on a ruined shelter. My eyes widened. “Was someone here before me?” I muttered.

  I stepped closer. The door was barely hanging on—rotted wood, hinges screaming for mercy. I pushed it open anyway. The roof was half-collapsed, letting shafts of daylight stab inside.

  On the floor lay what I first thought was a rag. I leaned in.

  A skeletal face stared back—empty sockets, jaw hanging loose.

  I jumped back hard, slamming into the wall.

  BOOM.

  The whole damn thing gave way. A gaping hole the size of my body punched through, dust exploding everywhere. I tripped backward, hit the ground on my ass, and just lay there for a second coughing. I groaned, pushed up, patted down my tactical gear and clothes to shake off the dirt. “Well, that hurt like a bitch,” I muttered, rubbing my back.

  I went back to the ruined shelter, moving carefully this time—no more surprise collapses. Inside, I spotted a desk half-buried in dust and debris. On it sat a diary, pages yellowed and brittle. I flipped it open—couldn’t read a damn word. Some old script, jagged and faded.

  I glanced at the skeleton again. “Who the hell were you, really?” I muttered.

  My eyes drifted back to the diary, then something caught in the corner of my vision.

  A book. Not the diary—this one had understandable symbols on the cover. Seven elemental ones, glowing faintly, etched in a perfect circle.

  I picked it up on impulse. The thing felt…heavy. Not just weight—something else. Like it was calling to me, low and insistent. I stared at it for a second, thumb brushing the cover.

  Then I flipped the page.

  Nothing. Not a single word I could make sense of. Just more of that strange script, swirling lines and symbols that looked like they were trying to crawl off the paper.

  I stuffed both books—the diary and the weird elemental one—into my tactical backpack, figuring I’d puzzle them out later when I wasn’t surrounded by death traps.

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  Then I turned back to the skeleton. Poor bastard deserved better than rotting in his own collapsed shack. I crouched, carefully lifted what was left of him (light as hell, mostly bones and tatters), and carried him out to a clear spot under the canopy. Dug a shallow grave with my hands and the flat of my knife—respect paid, no sermons needed.

  That’s when I spotted it: something glinting on one bony finger, catching the dappled light like it had its own power source. A ring. Red and green veins pulsed under the surface, tiny sparks flickering like trapped fireflies.

  “What the actual fuck is that?” I muttered, half-expecting it to bite me.

  I pried it off the skeleton (easy, finger bones popped right off—gross but effective). Held it up, turned it in the light. Shiny as sin, yeah, but also…pulling at me. Like a magnet in my blood, low and insistent, making my skin prickle.

  Ex-ops brain screamed don’t be stupid, could be trapped, poisoned, cursed, whatever. But the rest of me—the part that’s always chasing the next edge—was already sliding it onto my finger.

  The surge hit instantly—cool fire racing up my arm, into my chest, washing away the ache in my back and the jungle grime in my lungs. Refreshing didn’t even cover it; felt like I’d chugged pure adrenaline and forgotten what tired even meant.

  Just…power. Subtle, humming under my skin, waiting for me to figure it out.

  I flexed my hand, staring at the ring. “Alright, shiny. What kinda bullshit are you gonna pull on me later?”

  I gave the ring one last glare, then shoved my hand in my pocket like that’d stop the humming. It didn’t. If anything, it got…directional. Like a compass needle jammed in my veins, tugging north-northeast every time I tried to head back toward the beach or anywhere that felt even remotely safe.

  “Fuck that,” I muttered. Last thing I needed was cursed jewelry turning me into its personal errand boy. I picked a random direction—south, straight against the pull—and started moving.

  Ten minutes later, I was staring at the same damn tree I’d marked with my knife earlier. Full circle. The tug had gotten stronger, almost pissed off, like the ring was rolling its eyes at me.

  I sighed, rubbed my temples. “Fine. You win this round, shiny. But if this ends with me face-planting into a pit of spikes, I’m haunting your ass.”

  I let the pull guide me. Not like I was sleepwalking or mind-controlled—more like following a gut instinct that’d kept me alive through ops that should’ve ended me. The jungle started shifting around me: vines thicker, air cooler and damper, like stepping into a basement nobody invited me to. The ground sloped down gradually at first, then sharper. Roots turned into natural handholds without me asking.

  Wildlife went dead quiet. No birds, no bugs, no distant roars. Just the crunch of my boots on wet leaves and that low thrum in my blood getting louder, syncing with…something ahead.

  The slope finally bottomed out into a narrow ravine—steep walls shooting up sixty, maybe seventy feet, choked with mist and shadow. Water trickled somewhere way below, echoing weirdly long, like the sound was bouncing off more than just rock. I scanned the edges: sheer drops, hanging vines that looked too convenient, no obvious path down.

  The ring warmed. Not burning—just comfortable, like a hand on my shoulder saying keep going, dumbass. I leaned over the edge.

  At first? Nothing but dark water and fog. Then…a flicker. Blue-green light deep down, pulsing slowly along what looked like massive carved stone. An arch? Curved, huge, half-swallowed by the ravine floor and vines. Runes crawled across it—same swirling shit as the books. But from up here, it should’ve been screaming for attention. It wasn’t. Like the mist was holding it back, hiding it until you really looked.

  I blinked hard. The light vanished for a second, then reappeared when I focused. Optical trick? Or something else?

  My skin prickled. The pull was strongest now—right over the edge.

  “No coincidence,” I grumbled to the empty air. “Guy dies with glowy jewelry on his finger, now I’m getting yanked toward a sketchy hole in the ground? Universe has jokes today.”

  I backed off the edge a step, but the ring warmed again—like a nudge. Annoying as hell.

  I crouched, tested a vine. Solid. Another one. Could rig a descent if I wanted—tactical gear had enough straps and cord for a makeshift rope.

  Part of me screamed abort: unknown terrain, no backup, possible magical bullshit waiting to eat me.

  The other part—the one that’d always chased the next edge because sitting still felt worse than dying—flexed my hand with the ring on it.

  “One look,” I told myself. “Then I’m out. Promise.”

  Famous last words.

  (To be continued)