The sun's rays pierced through the swamp's canopy, rousing us alongside the cacophony of waking fauna, their croaks and screeches signaling another merciless day.
Yesterday, before night swallowed the swamp, we managed to fill one crate of Crimson Blooms. It was clear as mud that nabbing the other three would be a grind, and today was our last shot to make it happen.
"Popeye, We'll be searching all day, no matter if it gets dark," I told him as he stood watch, already awake from his shift.
"Sounds good. We know where they grow now, so we hunt for similar spots," Popeye replied, slinging his gear into place.
We set out, eyes peeled for the telltale patches of floating marshland where the Crimson Blooms thrived. They tended to cluster on those small, buoyant islands in the swamp's murky waters, usually guarded by some beast or another. That crab from yesterday? It clocked us the second we got too close to its turf.
Our play was simple: spot the guardian animal, swipe the flowers without it noticing, and keep fighting as a last resort. No need to tangle with death unless we had to.
We caught glimpses of other workers, moving in tight-knit groups for survival, their mud-caked suits and grim faces marking them as veterans or lucky stragglers. Noting where they came from, we pushed deeper into the swamp's heart, where Popeye's sharp eyes caught something.
"Think I see something up ahead," he said, pointing to a cluster of floating patches bobbing in the dark water.
I nodded, and we crept closer, cautious as hell. Climbing a nearby tree for a better vantage, I scanned the area. Nothing stirred—no crocs, no snapping plants, despite Tom and Mot's warnings. The place felt too still, like it was holding its breath.
"Clear, I think. No crocs. Whatever's guarding this spot must be out hunting," I called down to Popeye, sliding back to join him as we waded toward the floating island.
The water was a bad spot—exposed, sluggish, perfect for an ambush—but we moved fast, boots sinking into the muck. We reached the patch and there they were: five Crimson Bloom stems, their dark red stalks gleaming like blood in the dim light, begging to be harvested.
Popeye grabbed the shovel from his belt and started toward the closest stem, but before he could dig, a nearby plant twitched—then snapped to life. Jagged, toothy jaws yawned open, masquerading as harmless foliage, and lunged for him with a hiss.
I was ready. After a day of slashing through brush, my machete moved like an extension of my arm. One clean, precise cut severed the plant's thick stem—its "neck"—and the toothy head sailed toward Popeye. He didn't flinch, just smashed it midair with a fist like a sledgehammer, splattering green ichor across the swamp, chunks raining into the muck.
"Close call. If we didn't know about those things, you'd be short a hand," I said, kicking the remains into the water with a grimace.
Popeye nodded, and we got to work. Harvesting wasn't hard: clear the area around the stem, slice the roots clean, and pack the flowers carefully into the crate. Another box filled, and I gave a satisfied nod as we moved to hunt for more.
The day wore on, and luck was on our side—no major threats, just the swamp's usual menace of buzzing insects and slippery footing. By dusk, we'd filled all four crates, beating Jerry's record of three and securing a sweet 4,000 beri payout. Not bad for a day's work dodging death.
Night had fallen, and instead of camping, we opted to haul ass back to the warehouse. Rest could wait; we'd eat our reserve rations—stale bread and bruised fruit, no cooking needed—and crash there.
Everything seemed to be going smooth, but a nagging feeling chewed at me. Most of the flower crew from the last run didn't show up this time. Only one explanation: they were dead. If a scrawny 10-year-old like me could survive, how the hell did grown men and women get taken out? Something was off—something was killing them.
As if I'd tempted fate, bubbles erupted in the nearby lagoon, rippling the black water like a warning.
"Olbap, you seeing this?" Popeye asked, instantly on guard, his massive frame tensing.
"Yeah. Run, now, unless you wanna die—and don't you dare drop a single crate!" I barked, bolting without looking back.
From the lagoon, a shape the size of a single-story house exploded upward, water cascading off its bulk. A giant crocodile, its scales black as midnight, draped in algae and moss like it had been lurking underwater for years, just waiting. Its eyes glinted with predatory focus, locking onto us.
The ground shook with its charge, each step a thunderclap. Olbap and Popeye risked a glance back, faces paling with terror as the beast barreled forward, smashing through trees and vines like they were paper. Nothing slowed it—its thick legs churned the swamp into chaos, flattening everything in its path.
Olbap's mind raced as the croc closed the gap. Keep running like this, and they were dead. He scanned for anything—anything—to slow the monster. Trees, boulders, tangled roots. They veered toward a dense thicket, hoping the terrain might snag the beast's bulk. No dice. It plowed through like a battering ram, gaining ground with every second.
"Olbap, we gotta ditch the crates, or we're not making it!" Popeye yelled, dodging a falling tree as the croc's tail lashed out.
"No way in hell this oversized lizard's making me drop my haul!" I shot back, weaving around a trunk to avoid a snapping bite that grazed the air where my head had been.
"Then what's the plan? We're dead if we keep this up, and I can't see shit except moonlight!" Popeye shouted, narrowly avoiding another tree toppled by the croc's rampage.
Dodging and weaving, I prayed for a miracle. Am I really going out like this? A damn crocodile? In this place? My ambitions, my drive to be the boss—all for nothing because of a fucking lizard? Doubt clawed at my chest, but I shoved it down. No time for that.
I skidded to a halt, spun around, and gripped my machete with both hands, knuckles white. This wasn't how it ended.
"What the hell are you doing, Olbap? You can't win!" Popeye roared, stopping dead to stare at me like I'd lost my mind.
"Maybe I'll die, but this son of a bitch isn't eating me without losing something first!" I screamed, dropping the crate from my back and charging the croc, machete raised.
The beast saw me—a tiny figure running straight at its maw—and opened its jaws wide, ready to swallow me whole. I braced for the end, but then—whoosh—the crate of Crimson Blooms I'd dropped sailed through the air, landing square in the croc's open mouth. Popeye had chucked it.
The croc's jaws snapped shut, crushing the crate, but instead of triumph, it froze. Its massive body shuddered, a pained bellow ripping from its throat as the poisonous flowers did their work. The heat of their venom burned through its maw, searing flesh and sending it thrashing in agony.
Olbap stared, dumbfounded, as the croc writhed, its attack halted by the toxic payload. Before he could process it, Popeye's massive arm hooked around him, yanking him into a dead sprint. The big man had two crates slung on his back and another tied with rope, dangling from his teeth as he ran.
"Popeye, you bastard! Why'd you toss a crate? That's 1,000 beri gone!" Olbap yelled, fury blazing in his eyes as they tore through the swamp.
Popeye didn't answer, just kept running, knowing he'd bought them the seconds they needed to escape. No time for chatter.
What felt like hours later, Popeye's legs gave out, and he collapsed, Olbap tumbling beside him in the mud. Scrambling up, Olbap checked on his partner, heart pounding. With a grunt, he shoved the crates off Popeye's back, careful not to damage the remaining flowers, and rolled the big man over. A quick check—pulse steady. Alive, just out cold from exhaustion.
Olbap sank back, checking the crates. The flowers were intact, thank whatever gods watched this hellhole. Their suits, though? Shredded—torn patches exposing skin to the swamp's hungry bugs. Good thing they'd cleared the worst of the mire; the suits were mostly to keep the flowers' venom off anyway.
Hours later
Popeye stirred, groaning as he came to. Olbap shuffled over, passing him the canteen. After a long gulp, Popeye sat up, wiping his mouth, ready to move. But Olbap stopped short, a memory flaring.
"Popeye, that better be the last time you toss our product," he snapped, glaring. "That's 1,000 beri we needed to clinch Jerry's bet."
Popeye said nothing, just stood and loomed over Olbap. In a flash, his fist slammed into Olbap's gut, the force folding him in half, gasping for air.
"You know why I hit you, right?" Popeye asked, voice hard as granite.
Clutching his stomach, Olbap wheezed, struggling to his feet. "No clue, asshole, but that hurt."
"I hit you because you deserved it," Popeye said, stepping closer. "You talk big—king of the world, everything under your boot—but the second trouble hits, you throw your life away like it's nothing. That's how you plan to climb? By dying? If that's the game, take your machete and cut my head off right now. I'm not following someone who loses it over a few coins and thinks money's worth more than breathing."
Silence hung heavy, Olbap's machete dangling in his grip as he stared at Popeye, who knelt, neck bared, waiting. Minutes ticked by, the swamp's hum the only sound.
Finally, Olbap spoke, voice low but steady. "Thanks, Popeye. This is the last time you'll see me throwing my life away like today. From now on, you're my right hand—till the day you die."
End of the chapter.