Gaia World, Day 11 After the Shattering

  Pawel sat nearby, watching Snack closely. The bird’s feathers ruffled as it shifted, its new bark-like leg plating scraping softly against the dirt. He reached out tentatively, but Snack pecked at his finger—sharp enough to draw a pinprick of blood. Pawel yanked his hand back, wincing.

  “Easy there. You’re not so tiny anymore.”

  Snack cooed weakly, then slumped again, eyes half-lidded. Pawel frowned, assessing the situation.

  The immediate danger was behind them, but the bird needed rest. Forcing it to move or act could exhaust it further. Still, Pawel itched for action—more monsters meant more power, especially after seeing how dramatic changes could be.

  He glanced around the camp. Dense vegetation at the edges offered enough cover, and Snack’s talons could handle a stray tadpole if needed. It could hop away or perch higher up if danger approached.

  He sent a pulse through their bond: stay, rest.

  Snack bobbed its head once and settled deeper into the shade. Pawel nodded, grabbed his hammer and spikes, and strapped on his pack, leaving extra meat near the bird.

  “You’ll be fine. I’ll be back soon.”

  He headed out, boots crunching through leaves, aiming for the predatory vine from yesterday. This new enemy still needed to be dealt with, and Pawel hadn’t yet tested his planned method for handling it.

  The trek dragged on—an hour of uneven terrain. He paused once, spotting a clay tadpole wandering aimlessly. Pawel charged, hammer swinging wide. The spike penetrated deeply, killing the creature before it could even react.

  It dissolved into the air, producing mist of a new shade of blue instead of the familiar purple anomaly. The sight stopped Pawel short.

  “It’s all changing… but why? What does it mean? At first it was all purple, like the anomaly. Now there are all kinds. Does this mean it’s stronger?”

  He felt the usual influx of power—the kind not tied to ability creation. It didn’t feel stronger or different in any way. He also noticed there was no blue mana inside him now.

  Eventually, Pawel shrugged and continued on.

  As he neared the glade, he heard characteristic chattering—there was fighting ahead.

  Pawel crouched behind bushes and peered out.

  The predatory vine was battling four clay tadpoles. Two were already entangled, wriggling and trying to break free, but the snake-like brambles were relentless. They coiled tighter around the tadpoles’ bodies, thorns dragging against clay skin, tearing away large chunks while simultaneously strangling their prey.

  Two more creatures nearby were drawn by the movement and wobbled forward with their typical noises, trying to get into jumping range. The first of the two leapt, likely targeting the twisting vines strangling the initial victims.

  Surprisingly, some of the crawling plants reacted before being touched.

  The vine whipped upward, snatching the clay tadpole midair by its leg with shocking speed. Thorns embedded themselves deep. The tadpole thrashed and tore free, but not without leaving chunks of clay behind.

  It staggered, its leg weakened, but before it could do anything more, all the surrounding vines surged upward and crowded around it, momentarily immobilizing it in the same crushing hold as the others. One of the earlier victims expired and dissolved into purple mist.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Pawel’s eyes widened.

  Energy visibly flowed into the vine’s pod and seeped into it.

  “Monsters… can hunt each other for power.”

  The last tadpole charged the pod, using the opening created by the fight. It jumped onto the vine’s light-green core and bit into its slick surface. The vine spasmed. One tendril separated from the group restraining the trapped prey, coiled around the attacker’s tail, and yanked it back, flinging it into a tree in a spray of green sap.

  Pawel tightened his grip on the hammer. He scanned the area for additional threats and moved closer for a better view, fascinated by the situation.

  Meanwhile, the two immobilized tadpoles hanging midair had their skin shredded by the rubbing thorns, spilling brown innards onto the ground like worn-out rags. Purple and green mists appeared and seeped into the vine’s core.

  The pod pulsed with faint green light and began spasming repeatedly.

  Freed from its quarry, all remaining tendrils shot outward and coiled around the last surviving assailant, which was still struggling to recover after being thrown into the tree. They yanked the helpless creature back and rolled along its length, completely enveloping its small brown body.

  All the vines grouped together around the plant’s core, forming a tall cone. Pawel couldn’t see what happened to the final tadpole, but the brown liquid flowing out from the crushing mass made its fate clear.

  The vines retracted from every side, coiling into a tall cocoon around the pod, shifting and sliding like a nest of snakes. Thorns scraped against each other with a loud, grating noise. Soon after, the living construct toppled onto its side, seemingly losing the roots that anchored it to the ground.

  Separate sprouts emerged from six points of the egg-like shape—four along its longer sides and one at each end.

  Tendrils multiplied, growing and tightening together, forming an increasingly dense structure.

  Then it struck Pawel.

  “It’s shaping itself into an animal form!”

  The brambles packed tightly, the now barely visible bright-green pod sinking deeper into what looked like a forming chest.

  He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the transformation.

  Over the course of minutes, a beast made entirely of brambles took shape.

  Only as it began to rise on newly formed legs did Pawel snap out of his fascination and curse.

  He’d waited too long.

  “I need to attack first!”

  He burst from cover, hammer raised.

  The still-forming “head” rotated to “look” at Pawel, though there were no eyes. The hammer smashed into what should have been the side of its skull, tearing and unraveling part of its head.

  The creature was lighter than Pawel expected for its size. It was thrown off balance and shoved back two meters, leaving torn plant matter in its wake.

  Not wanting to give it any more time, Pawel dashed forward, preparing a wide overhead swing. The headless wolf-like thing managed to roll with the fall, spring to its feet, and immediately leap at him.

  At the last second, Pawel shortened the swing and turned it into a downward stab with the weapon’s handle. The shaft drove deep into the creature’s back, but the thornbeast still slammed into his chest.

  The force of the lunge ripped the hammer from his grip, sending both of them crashing to the ground. Thorns raked across Pawel’s forearms and chest, the cuts burning instantly.

  The good news: no snout or maw had formed yet—nothing to bite with, only thin plant shoots whipping around, still trying to grow thorns.

  The bad news: a wolf-shaped mass as large as Pawel himself, bristling with spikes, landed on top of him, tearing flesh almost everywhere.

  Pain and momentary panic surged as the writhing thorns came dangerously close to his eyes.

  He thrashed chaotically for a moment, tearing his skin even more, then forced himself to calm down. Coiling his legs, he drove his knees upward and shoved the beast off.

  One particularly vicious thorn punched through his skin and straight into his kneecap. The pain flared through his entire leg, forcing a groan from his throat.

  With the monster’s weight off him, Pawel tried to stand and reach for the hammer, but his wounded knee buckled. He collapsed back to the ground—this time with the weapon in his grasp.

  Expecting an immediate follow-up attack, Pawel rolled over, raising the hammer’s handle defensively. But the assault didn’t come.

  Instead, the beast struggled to maintain balance, its head reforming sluggishly. There were no organs or bones to shatter, but the first hammer strike had clearly disrupted something vital.

  Using the brief pause, Pawel pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the hammer’s handle.

  He inspected his knee despite the pain.

  A snapped thorn, nearly ten centimeters long, protruded from it at a ninety-degree angle.

  “Well… that can’t be good,” he muttered, trying to sound tough. His voice came out high and shaky.

  Taking a deep breath, he used the hammer as a cane and closed in on the beast, determined to exploit its confusion. He raised the hammer for another wide overhead swing, trying to keep his weight on his healthy leg. The movement was clumsy, and to avoid losing balance he had to put pressure on the injured one, aggravating the pain.

  He completed the strike anyway—less accurate than intended.

  Instead of a headshot, the blow struck the creature’s body, driving the spike and hammerhead deep inside with a solid thud and the sound of snapping twigs. The monster’s legs buckled, and it was forced to the ground. The impact loosened the vines around the strike point, revealing a bright green core beneath—still resembling the original predatory vine pod.

  Almost immediately, the “wound” began knitting itself closed, vines tightening around the embedded weapon.

  Pawel yanked the hammer free, muscles straining against the plant’s grip. Thin tendrils snapped, and the sudden release sent him stumbling backward. He would have fallen, unable to support himself on the wounded leg, but a tree stood behind him. He braced against it and steadied himself.

  Then he struck again, hammer crashing down onto the partially exposed core.

  The surrounding vines unraveled further, and the spike grazed the bright green, moist surface. The same-colored fluid oozed from the rupture.

  He hit again.

  And again.

  Finally, the exposed core shattered.

  The crushed pod sprayed green liquid and strange innards—disturbingly like alien organs. The creature’s entire body began to unravel, vines losing tension and falling apart.

  When the thornbeast fully collapsed, it dissolved into familiarly verdant colored mist that suddenly surged into Pawel. The movement startled him, knocking him flat and drawing a sharp yelp of pain.

  Gasping, he forced himself into a sitting position, still clutching the hammer, and scanned the area for further threats.

  Seeing none, Pawel turned his attention to his injuries.

  The splinter jutting from his knee sent cold shivers down his spine. This was the first time he’d been so seriously wounded.

  It could be crippling.

  If he didn’t bleed out first from the dozens of other cuts and punctures covering his body.