The Dunerunner was stunned. For a fleeting second, it felt a spark of joy realizing its playmate was alive—then the reality of what had just happened hit it. It was losing. It had been caught, and by its own internal rules, if it couldn't escape, it meant defeat.
It opened its beak to screech, pure instinct, but Mark's hand was already around its throat. The sound died before it started. What came out instead was a strained, muffled squawk that would have been funny under different circumstances.
The bird had no real strength. It never did. Speed was its entire toolkit, and right now it had none of that either. Mark stopped holding back. He pulled the mana he'd been keeping locked in his Inner World and let it flood through him, Mana Reinforcement kicking in hard. He used the extra weight and strength to pin the Dunerunner into the sand and keep it there.
The bird fought. Of course it did. Even while starving and pinned to the ground, its natural endurance was evident. It thrashed and twisted, refusing to accept reality despite its hunger. But it was useless now. Mark was proving exactly how committed four months of frustration and resentment could make a person. The Dunerunner's futile resistance carried no moral weight for Mark; instead, it became a source of pure satisfaction.
"Shut up," Mark said, pushing its head further into the sand. He had wanted this for a long time—simply burying the chicken's head in the sand so it could never screech again. "You damn chicken. This is what you get."
The System dinged several times with warnings, but Mark ignored them completely. He didn't stop until the Dunerunner ceased its struggle. The bird wasn't broken, it was just done—wrung out by hunger and the crushing weight of the man on top of it. Finally, it went completely still, its breathing barely perceptible.
Then the panel appeared:
[Congratulations! You have captured the Boss of the 3rd Floor alive. You now have access to the 4th Floor.]
Mark exhaled the breath he'd been holding for four months. He glanced down at the bird beneath him and simply sat on top of it. The Dunerunner didn't move. Mark remained motionless for a while as well. Though he hadn't truly "mastered" Hidden Aura and Hidden Mana, he had executed them perfectly in a short burst—at the cost of his own endurance. The doubts that had plagued him—whether the plan would work, whether at the final second, like a tightrope walker's last step, the creature would simply dash away—were finally silent. Had it escaped then, it would have been the ultimate insult.
Everything had worked. He had taken his revenge on the "chicken." It was a slight departure from his vow of a "clean death" without unnecessary suffering; in all honesty, the entire process had been pure torture for the bird. But since Mark had no intention of killing it, the situation wasn't entirely unforgivable. Sitting there, savoring the helplessness of the creature that had made his life miserable for four months... it felt remarkably good. Mark didn't overthink it.
He stayed there until he felt like moving. The bird was completely spent. Even if it wanted to flee, it lacked the strength; and even at full power, it could no longer outrun Mark. When Mark finally stood up and headed toward the Gate, he almost left it there.
Almost.
But if he walked away now and left it to starve in the sand, it would truly die. Mark paused at the thought, then reached into his inventory, pulled out a piece of cooked meat, and tossed it before the bird without ceremony. Then, he walked away without looking back.
This creature, entirely by accident and against Mark's will, had made him significantly more skilled at fighting fast opponents. Spending four months failing to catch something that swift had a way of sharpening a person in various ways. Mark felt a sense of debt toward it. Moreover, the Dunerunner was like a child—a mischievous child who just wanted to play. One could say he felt a flicker of pity for it. It was another small effort to preserve his humanity.
He heard the bird eating behind him. It tore at the meat, and despite having a beak, the distinct sound of chewing reached his ears. The sound pulled a small smile from Mark. Then, a sudden realization froze that smile on his face.
Wait. Can birds even chew?
"Different world. Just move on," he told himself.
After walking for a while, his Earth Sense picked up those familiar footsteps. Light, fast, and now strangely recognizable. Mark stopped. He stood still and took a deep breath. The monster that had tormented him for four months, making his ears bleed and causing countless "short circuits" in his brain, was back. Just as Mark thought he'd taken enough revenge and shown a bit of mercy, the Dunerunner had regained its strength and begun following him again. Honestly, Mark was certain that if he heard that screech one more time, he would toss all morality aside and simply kill it.
Mark turned around. The Dunerunner stopped a few meters away. Thankfully, it didn't screech. Through Sound of Heart, its intent was clear: this wasn't aggression or hunting. It was something simpler and slightly embarrassing to admit—it just wanted more food.
Mark narrowed his eyes, watching it with lingering distrust. Then, he pulled another piece of meat from his inventory.
"You want more?"
Mark waved the meat back and forth, and the Dunerunner's head followed the movement perfectly.
The bird went perfectly still, its gaze locked onto the meat. It waited. Mark tossed it, and the Dunerunner caught it mid-air without moving more than its head. Truly, this bird was terrifyingly fast. The chewing sound resumed. Mark spent a few more seconds trying to grasp the physics-defying movement of that beak before giving up with a dismissive wave.
He pulled out the final piece.
"Still hungry?"
Sound of Heart answered with an unambiguous "yes."
"Next time," Mark said, tossing the final chunk, "we play the game by my rules."
He resumed his trek. The Dunerunner followed him—just like always, mirroring the way it pursued him whenever Mark grew tired and headed for the Gate. But this time, it was without that ear-splitting screech. That in itself was a massive victory. Mark didn't look back. He figured as long as the creature could remain quiet, this "relationship" might actually survive.
The Gate came into view. Behind him, the rhythmic footsteps slowed. By the time he reached the threshold, they had ceased entirely. Mark could sense it—the Dunerunner was standing at a boundary it couldn't or wouldn't cross. The Gate wasn't for it. Such were the laws of this place: those born on these floors cannot leave their domain; the Gate was open to Mark alone.
Mark paused for a moment. He pulled even more meat from his inventory and tossed it across the distance.
"Remember what I said. My rules. That's it. It's not much different—same game, same chase. Almost no difference at all. Just... don't screech. Think you can handle that?"
The Dunerunner was already focused on the food. Mark watched it for a second. He had no idea how much of his words had actually landed. Sound of Heart read intent and emotion, not comprehension. But he wanted to believe. If there was even a shred of understanding, it was worth something.
And if it were true—if there was something in this world that would listen to him without immediately trying to eat him—then across the past two years, he had finally found something resembling a "conversation partner." During this time, he had developed a habit of constantly talking to himself, but simple communication—even with this monster, even in such an unconventional way—was somehow refreshing. Furthermore, he understood that in the next three years, it would be nearly impossible to find another creature like the Dunerunner that didn't look at him as mere prey. With these thoughts, Mark stepped through the Gate.