Camptodon sat on the edge of a mossy boulder, his long tail dangling off the side as he stared into the swirling river below. The dense jungle canopy overhead filtered the sunlight into slivers that danced on the water's surface, but Camptodon’s mind was elsewhere. He wasn’t like the other dinosaurs in Fanum Tax. While the other herbivores of his kind roamed the land with purpose and strength, Camptodon found himself lost in his own world, chasing fleeting moments of indulgence, locked in a cycle of gooning.

He had heard the term “gooner” thrown around the jungle, but it wasn’t until his obsession with certain repetitive thoughts and distractions consumed his days

that he realized—he had become one. His once strong, chiseled frame now seemed softer, more hunched, as his mind was constantly elsewhere, far from the vibrant energy of Fanum Tax.

A distant rustle of leaves pulled Camptodon from his thoughts. Emerging from the shadows of the jungle was Grimace, a sharp-eyed Carnotaurus who had always walked alone. Grimace was no ordinary dinosaur—he was a sigma male, a true lone wolf, feared and respected by all in the land. His sleek black scales and battle-worn scars only added to the aura of someone who had faced challenges and always came out on top.

Camptodon felt a shiver run down his spine as Grimace

approached. He was clearly not here for idle chatter.

“Camptodon,” Grimace said, his deep voice carrying a weight that seemed to silence the very jungle around them. “You’ve lost your rizz.”

Camptodon gulped. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen you,” Grimace said, taking a step closer, his sharp claws digging into the dirt. “You sit here day after day, gooning away your potential. You used to have edge. But now? Look at you.”

Camptodon glanced down at himself. He hadn’t noticed just how far he had fallen. Grimace’s words cut deeper than any physical blow.

“I… I just don’t know what else to do,” Camptodon

muttered, his voice weak.

Grimace’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the problem. You’ve let yourself fall into this cycle, letting go of your purpose. While you waste away, others like me and Chad are out there carving our own paths, moving with purpose. You're just sitting here, mewing to your own defeat.”

Camptodon blinked. “Mewing?”

Grimace’s jaw tightened. “Constantly doing nothing but obsessing over your own failure. You’re gooning, man. And it’s weak. You’re better than that.”

Camptodon felt a pang of anger rise in his chest, but it was quickly drowned by the overwhelming truth of Grimace’s words. His thoughts were interrupted by the

sudden, booming approach of another dinosaur—a Gyatt, one of the largest and most revered creatures in Fanum Tax. Camptodon had always envied the way other, smaller dinosaurs rode on Gyatt’s back as a show of power and status. But he had never dared.

“You’re soft, Camptodon,” Grimace continued. “You want to mog? You want to have the rizz that Chad or any other chad dinosaur has? You can’t if you keep wasting your time with this. The only way you can reclaim your life is by embracing your inner sigma. No more following, no more gooning. You’ve gotta be the one who moves first.”

Camptodon stood up, his legs trembling slightly. He knew Grimace was right. But the thought of changing, of

letting go of his distractions, felt daunting. “How do I… how do I stop?”

Grimace smirked. “You just do. No more excuses. No more sitting around like a Skibidi fool. If you want to mog, if you want to lead, you have to break free of what’s holding you back. The world doesn’t care about your feelings, Camptodon. The world only cares about what you do.”

Camptodon stared into Grimace’s eyes, the weight of the sigma male’s words sinking deep into his soul. He realized that no one was going to save him from this spiral—he had to save himself.

“Alright,” Camptodon said quietly, but with newfound

resolve. “No more gooning.”

Grimace nodded, his expression unreadable. “Good. Now prove it.”

As Grimace turned to leave, disappearing back into the thick jungle, Camptodon felt something shift within him. It wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t easy, but for the first time in a long while, he felt a spark of purpose reignite. Maybe Grimace was right. Maybe it was time to step up, to let go of his distractions, and finally become the dinosaur he was meant to be.

And maybe, just maybe, he could reclaim his rizz after all.

Days had passed since Grimace’s confrontation with Camptodon by the river. The jungle was quieter now, as if waiting to see if Camptodon would truly change or if he’d slip back into the shadows of his former self. The challenge Grimace had left him with echoed in his mind—"Prove it." Those two words had haunted him every time he woke up and every time he looked at his reflection in the still waters of the jungle pools.

Today was different, though. Camptodon had decided that he would no longer linger on the edge of the jungle, detached from life. Instead, he moved with purpose toward Fanum Tax, the bustling hub where dinosaurs of all kinds came to trade, train, and share stories of their

exploits.

As he trudged through the jungle, feeling the strength return to his limbs, Camptodon couldn't shake the sensation that something—or someone—was watching him. The air felt tense, like the moments before a storm. Suddenly, the bushes to his right rustled, and out stepped a locust with a swagger Camptodon had never seen before. The locust's sharp, gleaming wings reflected the sun's rays, and his piercing eyes locked onto Camptodon’s with unsettling intensity.

“Camptodon, is it?” the locust asked, his voice a strange mix of charm and menace. “I’ve heard about you. My name’s Ervil LeBaron.”

Camptodon tilted his head, confused. “Ervil… LeBaron?”

Ervil’s wings fluttered lightly, and he let out a dry chuckle. “That’s right. I’ve been watching you. You’ve got potential, but you’ve been wasting it. Gooning, wasn’t it? Pathetic, really.”

Camptodon’s face flushed with a mix of anger and shame. How did this locust know so much about him? “I’m done with that,” he muttered, trying to push past Ervil, but the locust was quicker, darting in front of him in a flash.

“I see Grimace got to you first, huh?” Ervil smirked, his voice dripping with condescension. “Think you’re gonna transform into a sigma like him? You think you’ve got the

edge for that?”

Camptodon straightened up, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t care what you think. I’m not going back to what I was.”

“Good,” Ervil said, circling Camptodon with a predator’s grace. “But becoming a sigma isn’t just about walking away from gooning. You’ve got to mog your enemies, dominate your space, and never let anyone see your weakness.” He paused, tapping a claw to his chin as though pondering. “But do you even know what it means to mog, Camptodon?”

Camptodon was silent. He thought back to Grimace’s words, his mind swirling with confusion. He wasn’t sure what mogging truly meant—he just knew that he didn’t

want to be weak anymore. He wanted to stand for something.

Ervil’s antennae twitched as he sensed Camptodon’s uncertainty. “See, that’s your problem. You still care too much. You’re like those creatures with no rizz, always seeking approval. You think Grimace or any real sigma needs approval? They don’t. But you…” He leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You’re still stuck in that mindset.”

Before Camptodon could respond, the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the jungle. Grimace emerged from the foliage, his presence immediately commanding attention. The Carnotaurus

took one look at Ervil and sneered.

“LeBaron,” Grimace growled. “Still leeching off the weak, I see.”

Ervil flashed a wicked grin, his wings buzzing lightly. “Grimace. Always so quick to assume. I was just having a friendly conversation with our friend here. Trying to make sure he doesn’t fall back into old habits.”

Grimace snorted, stepping between Camptodon and the locust. “Camptodon doesn’t need your twisted version of advice. You think you’re some sort of king, but all you do is manipulate and tear others down. You’ve got no rizz, Ervil. No edge. You feed off of fear.”

Ervil’s eyes darkened, but his smile never faltered. “And

you, Grimace, are always so righteous. You think you’re the ultimate sigma, don’t you? But you forget one thing: power isn’t about being alone. Power is about control, and I’ve got control.”

Grimace growled, but before he could lunge at Ervil, Camptodon stepped forward, surprising both of them. “Enough,” he said, his voice steady. “This isn’t about being a sigma or a chad or anything else. This is about finding my own path.”

Both Grimace and Ervil turned to him, their gazes intense. Camptodon felt the weight of their judgment, but for the first time, he didn’t care.

“I’ve been lost for too long, looking for someone to tell

me who I should be. First, I wasted my life as a gooner, then I thought becoming a sigma like Grimace was the answer. But the truth is, I don’t want to be either of you. I’m going to be me. I’m going to find my own rizz.”

Grimace’s eyes softened slightly, a rare look of approval flickering across his face. Ervil, on the other hand, seemed momentarily thrown off by Camptodon’s bold declaration.

“And how do you plan on doing that, Camptodon?” Ervil asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.

Camptodon took a deep breath. “By embracing my weaknesses, not hiding from them. By moving forward, not because I want to mog anyone, but because I want

to better myself. I won’t be a gooner, but I won’t be a sigma either. I’ll be something else—something stronger.”

Grimace gave a curt nod, a silent acknowledgment of Camptodon’s choice. Ervil, however, scoffed, clearly unimpressed. “Good luck with that, herbivore. You’ll never make it in this world with that soft mentality.”

Camptodon met his gaze with unwavering confidence. “We’ll see.”

With that, Ervil fluttered his wings and shot into the air, disappearing into the jungle canopy. Grimace stood beside Camptodon for a moment, then gave him a rare, approving grunt.

“Maybe you’ve got more edge than I thought, Camptodon,” Grimace said, turning to leave.

“Maybe,” Camptodon replied, watching the Carnotaurus disappear into the jungle.

As the jungle returned to its usual quiet, Camptodon stood tall, feeling the weight of his past mistakes lift from his shoulders. For the first time, he wasn’t running from anything. He was moving forward—on his own terms.

Camptodon was no sigma. He wasn’t a gooner anymore, either. He was something new, something balanced, and that was more powerful than either path could have ever offered.

The jungle stretched ahead of him, full of challenges, but Camptodon smiled.

He was ready.