Harem Survival System: Stranded On An Island With Beautiful Women-Chapter 28: Seashells

The wind outside the tent rustled the canvas walls. The soft crackling of the campfire outside was the only thing breaking the silence.

Then, after a long pause, the Math teacher finally spoke.

"We could go into the forest and cut down some wood to make new rafts."

His loud voice was unusually quiet, barely above a murmur.

The reaction was immediate.

Every teacher in the tent froze.

Miss Lane visibly stiffened, her brows knitting together.

Mr. Holt leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest.

Even the Nurse who had been relatively composed up until now seemed uneasy.

No one spoke for several seconds.

Then, finally, Principal Cross broke the silence.

"You know that's dangerous," she said evenly.

The Math teacher's expression didn't waver. "I do."

"But you still suggested it."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Because we need those rafts. And we need food."

Miss Lane shook her head. "You do remember why we've been avoiding the forest, right?"

Everyone did.

The forest was off-limits for a reason.

No one knew what was in there.

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It was dense, wild, and full of things that moved in the night — things they had caught glimpses of but never quite seen.

At first, they'd chalked it up to paranoia. To exhaustion.

But now...

Now, with the rafts destroyed, the whispers seemed much harder to ignore.

"If we don't take the risk, we starve," the Math teacher continued. "Or we waste even more time coming up with another plan when this is the most practical solution."

Principal Cross didn't respond right away.

She stared at him, her green eyes studying his face as if searching for something.

Then, finally, she exhaled.

"If we do this," she said slowly, "it won't be reckless. We'll plan it out carefully. We'll take a small group — only those who can handle themselves. And we'll do it during the day."

Mr. Holt grunted. "Good. Because going at night would be a death sentence."

"Night shifts will be necessary," Miss Lane added, crossing her arms. "If someone — or something — is out there ruining our supplies, we can't afford to let it happen again. We need guards."

Another murmur of agreement.

Principal Cross nodded. "Alright. We'll organize shifts starting tomorrow. Two teachers per shift, rotating every few hours. If anything happens, we report it immediately."

One by one, the teachers nodded in agreement.

But even as they settled on their plan, the uneasy feeling lingered.

Because deep down, every single one of them knew:

Whatever was out there — whether it was a student, an animal, or something else entirely —

They weren't done yet.

#####

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the beach as the waves gently lapped at the shore.

The salty breeze tousled Lucas's hair, carrying the distant laughter of students who were either splashing in the shallows or kicking up sand as they ran along the water's edge.

He stood with Leo and a few other students, enjoying the momentary break from their usual grueling tasks.

It was rare to have a moment like this — to just relax and let the ocean drown out all their worries.

Lucas let his gaze wander, scanning the beach lazily, and his eyes inevitably landed on her.

Maya.

She was crouched down near the shoreline with her group of female friends, her hands skimming the wet sand as she carefully picked up seashells.

The others around her were laughing and chatting, but she seemed completely focused, her dark hair swaying slightly as she examined each shell with curiosity.

It was cute. Really cute.

Almost like she felt his eyes on her, she suddenly turned her head and locked eyes with him.

Lucas stiffened for a second, caught off guard, but then she smiled and waved him over.

"Yo, looks like your girl's calling for you," Leo smirked, nudging him in the ribs.

Lucas rolled his eyes. "She's not my girl."

"Not yet," Leo muttered under his breath, but Lucas ignored him.

He let out a sigh, giving his friend a quick nod before jogging across the sand toward Maya.

His feet sank slightly with each step, and by the time he reached her, she was already standing upright, holding a handful of shells in her palm.

"Hold these," she said without warning, dumping them into his hands.

Lucas barely had time to react before his fingers were suddenly full of cold, wet shells.

He groaned loudly in frustration. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Maya grinned, unbothered by his complaints.

"Why me? You have, like, four other people here!"

"They're busy looking for more shells," she said simply. "And besides, you were just standing around doing nothing."

Lucas opened his mouth to argue but realized she did have a point.

He had just been standing around, watching her, after all. Still, that didn't mean he had to be her personal shell carrier.

"This feels like forced labor," he muttered under his breath, adjusting the weight of the shells in his hands.

Maya chuckled and took one of the shells from his palm. "Stop whining. You'll learn something cool from this."

Lucas raised an eyebrow as she held the shell up to the light. It was small, smooth, and had a faint spiral pattern along its surface.

Maya turned it slightly, letting the sunlight reflect off its glossy texture.

"This is a moon snail shell," she explained, her voice taking on a softer tone, like a teacher sharing a secret with her student. "See how round it is? And if you look closely, there's a tiny hole near the center."

Lucas squinted. "Yeah, I see it."

"That hole is how the snail used to eat," she said, twirling the shell between her fingers. "It would drill into clams or other shells and suck out the insides."

Lucas wrinkled his nose. "Gross."

Maya laughed. "Hey, that's nature."

She placed the moon snail shell back into his palm and picked up another one — a long, narrow shell with ridges along the sides.

"This one's from a razor clam," she continued. "They're really common around here, but if you ever see one with both halves still connected, it's a rare find."

Lucas watched as she handled each shell so delicately, carefully running her fingers over their surfaces as if they were precious artifacts.