"I don't want to do this, but after the bloodbath last time, I've got no choice but to spell out the dangers and how to harvest Crimson Blooms," Tom said, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Mot.
"Exactly," Mot chimed in. "First, let me break down how to collect the flowers. It's simple if you do it right, but screw it up—cut the wrong part—and you're dead. Crimson Blooms are wicked poisonous, and their thorns'll punch right through those suits.
You gotta get close and yank 'em out by the roots. They're easy to spot—nothing else looks like 'em. Long, dark red stems, about the size of that kid over there," Mot said, glancing at Olbap, who just looked down at himself, sizing up his own frame with a raised eyebrow.
"But don't think it's a cakewalk just 'cause the flowers stand out. The real threat's not the plant—it's the swamp's wildlife and the damn terrain. All kinds of critters out there—insects that'll sting or bite, and if they get you, good luck walking away. So stay sharp.
Oh, almost forgot: two big threats you need to watch for—crocs and carnivorous plants that blend in like they're harmless. You've got two days to finish and get back. Show up late, I'm not sticking around to fetch you. Good luck out there. Move," Tom finished, turning on his heel with Mot to head back into the warehouse.
I shot a look at Popeye, who was hauling four crates—two slung on his back, one under each arm like they weighed nothing. I gave him a quick nod, and we set off. The tools they'd handed us were a joke: a stubby shovel and a machete for passing through brushes. That's it.
These bastards expect me to wade into a death-trap swamp with just a blade? At least give me a shotgun, a Thompson, hell, even a revolver—something with punch. But a machete? Come on. Good thing Popeye's here. Guy's a walking tank—bet he could take a croc or a man-eating plant without breaking a sweat.
Mot said the flowers were distinct, but right now, staring into the swamp's murky green haze, nothing screamed "Crimson Bloom." Just endless reeds, slimy pools, and air so thick it clung to your skin like damp rot.
"Olbap, think we can beat Jerry's record?" Popeye asked, his voice low but curious, like he was weighing my answer.
"Popeye, it's not about if we can—it's that we will. We're not gonna stay scraping by on 1,000 beri a crate, risking our necks while the guys at the top rake in millions off our sweat," I said, slashing through a tangle of vines blocking our path, the machete's edge glinting dully in the filtered sunlight.
"You really think we can climb the ladder and be like Jerry one day?" Popeye pressed, stepping over a gnarled root.
"Let me ask you something, Popeye. Ever look at people who've got it all—food, money, women, houses, land, anything you could want—and feel a itch of envy for it?"
"Envy? Don't know what that is, but I don't think so," Popeye answered, his brow furrowing.
"Envy's wanting what someone else has. People deny it, swear it's not them, but deep down, there's always something you crave," I said, pausing to meet his eyes. "It's human nature."
"So, envy's bad then?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.
"Most folks say it is, but I see it as fuel—shows you what you're chasing. A man without desires, dreams, or goals? He's just a walking corpse," I told him, holding his gaze steady.
Silence fell between us, broken only by the swamp's chorus—croaking frogs, the whine of mosquitoes buzzing uselessly against our suits' flimsy protection. A few tried their luck, but the chemical-treated fabric held—for now.
"So what's your dream, Olbap? Your goal?" Popeye asked, breaking the quiet.
I stopped, turning to face him square. "I'll tell you straight, Popeye. My dream, my goal, is to have the world under my boot. I want my name to echo everywhere—every island, every sea. Step one: I'm taking Red Tide for myself. I'll run it, own it, spread it across the globe. After that? I'll find ways to keep climbing till there's nothing left to conquer."
The swamp itself seemed to hold its breath—frogs stilled, bugs hushed, like the world waited for the moment to pass. Even Popeye stood frozen, his massive frame looming as he processed my words.
"Oh, and one more thing, Popeye," I added, voice low and sharp as a blade. "Betray me, and I'll kill you with the same hand that fed you." I turned and kept walking, machete swinging to clear the path, leaving him to chew on that.
Hours trudged by, and we found nothing no even a flower close to what we need. Combed every inch we could, eyes peeled for that telltale red stem, but nothing. Exhaustion crept in, heavy as the swamp's humid grip. We needed a break. Dropping our crates on a patch of semi-solid ground, I perched on a moss-slick rock to rest my aching legs.
Glancing skyward, I pegged it at around 4 p.m. If we kept this pace, night would hit by 8, and no way we're stumbling around blind in this death pit. The dangers only got nastier after dark.
Sipping from my canteen, I noticed Popeye staring off, lost in thought since our little heart-to-heart. Can't blame him. A kid you met a week ago lays out his plan to rule the world and threatens to gut you if you cross him? I'd be on edge too. From what I've seen, Popeye's a street kid like I was—big and tough enough to fend off the worst, but that innocence clings to him. His size kept the wolves at bay, but not the fights; he knew how to throw down. If I'm building a organization, loyalty's non-negotiable. you Let 'em grab your hand, and next time they're yanking your whole arm—gotta set the pecking order early.
Staring at the canopy, a faint rustle snapped me alert—behind Popeye, who was too deep in his head to notice. A massive, swamp-green claw, glinting like wet jade, lunged straight for him.
"Move, Popeye! We're under attack!" I shouted, snatching two crates and diving aside. Popeye reacted fast, rolling clear with the other two, saving our haul.
Dumping the crates in a safe spot, I gripped the machete and closed in on the threat. A giant crab—three meters tall, five wide, moving with the weight of a damn truck. Its swamp-green shell blended perfectly with the muck, lying in wait until we dropped our guard.
"Popeye, don't let those claws grab you—you're done if they do. Aim for the soft spots, not the shell. Even your steel fists won't dent that armor," I called, sprinting toward the beast.
A claw swung for me, fast as a guillotine. I slid under it, boots skidding in the mud, and slashed at the crab's underbelly. The machete bit, but only grazed—green blood oozed, shallow and useless. Pissed now, the crab thrashed, trying to pin me with its bulk. I danced back, dodging stomping legs that'd crush me flat if they landed.
This was bad. If it kept coming, I was toast. Searching for an opening, I caught Popeye charging like a bull, slamming a fist into one of the crab's rear legs. The blow staggered it, a dull crack echoing, but the beast righted itself, undeterred.
"Olbap, I've got it distracted!" Popeye roared, hammering same leg with a strike that sent a sickening crunch through the air—still not enough to break it.
The crab wheeled on Popeye, its focus shifting to the bigger threat. I scanned for a weak point, eyes locking on its underbelly. Crabs are tanks, but there's always a weakness. Dodging a leg that nearly took my head off, I slid low again, machete gripped tight. With every ounce of strength, I swing a horizontal slash across its abdomen—barely a scratch.
One cut wasn't enough? Fine. Keep carving till it cracks.
Ignoring the risk of Popeye getting flattened, I struck again—same spot, same motion. Again. And again. Green blood sprayed, mixing with the crab's guttural screeches as it felt its guts being sliced open from below. I kept swinging, blind in the fountain of gore, until a claw loomed—too fast, too close. No dodging this time. I braced, crossing my arms as the impact hit like a cannon, sending me flying into a stagnant pool.
Gasping as I broke the surface, my arms were numb, screaming from the blow. No way I could land the finishing strike. Ahead, Popeye was in the thick of it, pummeling the crab's legs—one shattered completely with a wet snap, dropping the beast lopsided.
"Popeye, hit the underbelly—it's open! Hold on, I'm coming!" I yelled, clawing my way out of the muck, but the swamp's greedy floor sucked at my boots, slowing me to a crawl.
Finally free, I realized the swamp had gone quiet—too quiet. The crab collapsed, lifeless, and then—whoosh—Popeye heaved it skyward, emerging from beneath, drenched in green blood, muscles straining as he hoisted the carcass like a trophy.
"Dinner came to us," I said with a grin, wiping mud from my face. Popeye glared at the crab, equal parts disgust and irritation at the mess coating him.
"You sure this thing's edible?" he asked, skeptical.
"Tricky, but I know a way. Legs and claws are meaty—crack the shell, and it's all yours. Use the shovel or rocks. If I dull the machete, we're screwed for clearing paths," I said, pointing him toward the water to rinse off.
We built a fire from nearby branches, roasted chunks of crab meat skewered on sticks, and ate like kings, the rich, briny flavor a far cry from tavern scraps. Bellies full, we pressed on, and finally—there it was. A flash of deep red, stark against the swamp's dull greens. Like Mot said, the Crimson Bloom's stem was dark as dried blood, bamboo-thin, topped with a vibrant cluster of flowers that screamed danger and value in equal measure.
Popeye dug around the base with the shovel, exposing gnarled roots. I sliced them clean with the machete, and we bagged our first flower—step one of many. Hours later, we'd filled one crate, three to go, but dusk was creeping in fast.
To sleep, we set up shifts—two hours each. I took first rest, Popeye kept watch, then swapped. Enough to keep us sharp for day two.
End of the chapter.