Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee-Chapter 25: Snowflake in Hell
My eyes flick to the corner of my vision. The HUD pulses, indifferent to the panic flooding my veins.
[OXI: 1,183/1,200]
I have oxygen. I have time. But against what is waiting on the other side of this tree, I have the life expectancy of a snowflake in hell.
I don’t need to look twice. The heavy displacement of air and the smell of brine already told me enough. But morbid curiosity—that fatal human flaw—makes me risk a second peek for a fraction of a second.
It is magnificent. And it is terrifying.
The Reef Stalker. Rank C. An Alpha Predator.
It’s not just a monster; it is biological engineering designed to kill. Its skin isn’t solid; it’s a living mosaic of chromatophores, pulsing and shifting colors like an octopus, mimicking the bark and the wet leaves with surreal perfection.
But the camouflage can’t hide the structure. Dense muscle, a feline crouch ready to pounce, and a long, rigid tail ending in a bone spike, like a needlefish.
And the worst part... the jaw.
Its lower mandible is bifurcated, splitting sideways like a blooming flower of meat and serrated teeth. Gills along its neck filter the humid forest air, hissing softly.
My phantom scar throbs.
In my past life, back when I was a Rank D, I crossed paths with these things. Even with a full team, enchanted armor, and a bag full of items, I still lost my left arm in three seconds.
It cost every Scale I had to pay an S-Rank Healer to grow it back.
Now? I am a Rank F, alone. A "Shell." If that thing touches me, it won’t just take an arm. It will vaporize me.
A thousand plans flash through my mind. Fire? No time to draw. Combat? Suicide. Diplomacy? It doesn’t talk; it eats.
The conclusion drops like an anvil: Death.
Then, the beast makes a sound.
It isn’t a roar. It’s a wet trill, a guttural click-click-click vibrating deep in its throat. It sounds like a wounded bird, a call to lure the curious. Or, in this case, to announce that the game has started.
It knows I’m here.
My survival instincts, forged in a decade of hell, hijack my nervous system. Fear turns into fuel.
I explode.
Stealth is over. I kick up mud and sprint to the left, running like a desperate animal.
Behind me, I don’t hear heavy footsteps. I only hear the soft thrum of air being cut. I glance over my shoulder.
The beast isn’t running. It’s flowing.
Its skin shimmers, and its natural Stealth Cloak activates. The monster’s massive outline dissolves into the foliage, becoming a blur of distorted light. It isn’t in a rush. It’s calm. Serene. To this thing, this isn’t a hunt; it’s dinner playing hide-and-seek.
Shit, shit, shit!
My lungs burn. My weak legs protest, but I force them past the red line.
I see a break in the terrain ahead. A steep ravine dropping into the darkness of the undergrowth.
It’s my only chance. If I jump, I can slide down, break the line of sight, and use gravity to gain distance. Even if I shatter every bone in my body, it’s better than being digested.
I am ten feet from the edge. I prep the jump.
Then, the air directly in front of me ripples.
There is no sound. Just a chromatic distortion floating in my path, like heat haze on asphalt.
My instincts scream so loud I feel physical pain.
DROP!
I don’t think. I throw myself into a slide tackle, digging my heels into the rotting mulch.
SWISH.
I feel the wind slice a hair’s breadth above my nose. And then, the burn.
A line of fire opens across my chest.
It wasn’t a direct hit. It was the air displacement of the invisible claw passing over me. My tunic tears, and I feel skin parting from sternum to shoulder.
If I had stayed upright, my head would be rolling in the grass right now.
The momentum of my slide carries me over the edge.
The ground vanishes.
I fall, tumbling uncontrollably down the slope. The world becomes a blur of brown and green. I slam my shoulder into a root.
Crack.
My ribs find a rock.
Thud.
The air leaves my lungs.
I keep rolling, protecting my head with my arms, until my body hits something soft and wet at the bottom of the ravine and stops.
I lie there for a second, stunned, the taste of blood and dirt in my mouth.
I check the HUD immediately.
[OXI: 1,050/1,200]
Almost a hundred fifty points gone. The cut on my chest is wide, bleeding, but superficial. The real damage was the fall. I feel my ribs screaming with every breath.
But I’m alive.
"Get up," I snarl at myself, ignoring the sharp stab in my flank. "Get up or die."
I force myself to my feet, swaying. My eyes scan the perimeter like a radar, looking for the distortion in the air, looking for the predator.
The silence has returned. But it’s a heavy, electric silence.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
It didn’t give up. It’s close. Probably at the top of the ridge, watching me crawl like a wounded bug.
Frustration bubbles up in my throat, mixing with the fear.
"Really?" I whisper, wiping blood from my chin. "All the work... the planning, the knowledge... just to die to a random mob on the Academy grounds?"
The universe has a sense of humor. I just wish I was in on the joke.
The System blinks in my peripheral vision. Two warnings.
[Alert: Adaptation Triggered. New Skill Generated. Check your Profile.]
I ignore it. A new skill? What is it? The ’Skill of Being Preyed Upon’?
I don’t have time for your mockery, you piece of digital trash.
I focus on the second warning. The one glowing with a pale, ghostly light.
My passive skill. The one I earned by dying and coming back.
[Skill Activated: TRACE (Echo Sight)]
The world around me turns gray. The forest sounds muffle.
And then, I see it.
A hundred feet away, a bluish, translucent silhouette flickers in the air. It isn’t the stalker.
It’s a human. Or what’s left of the memory of one.
An Echo. Someone died here, recently. The residual ghost is crouched, holding something, looking in a specific direction.
A crooked, bloody smile splits my face.
Death leaves footprints. And I’m the only one who can follow them.
