Krell dragged the prefab shelter across the canyon floor, metal screaming against stone. He planted it where three hunting territories met. Every rival within fifty klicks would see his camp by morning. This was how legends started—not by hiding, but by daring someone to try. But a shelter wouldn't be enough. He assembled the fortress piece by piece, canons rising like steel fangs against the red sky. The structure climbed three stories high, bristling with sensor arrays and automated defenses. Orange panels glowed between chrome plating, visible for kilometers. By sunset, every bounty hunter in the region would know someone had claimed the junction. By midnight, they'd know it was Krell. He mounted his last kill's teeth above the entrance—six yellowed fangs the size of his fist. The message was clear: this ground belonged to him now, and fear was the only rent he accepted. At dawn, he hauled a volcanic stone to the canyon's mouth and carved four parallel gashes into its face with his hunting blade. Deep. Deliberate. The claw marks glowed faint orange where the heat of friction met stone. He dragged similar markers to each approach—north, south, east—planting them where the ground rose and sightlines opened. Any hunter who passed one would know they were entering claimed territory. Any hunter who ignored the warning would find Krell's fortress waiting, canons tracking their every step. The word would spread fast. Vexor Krell had planted his flag in contested ground, and he wasn't asking permission.