Logan's gaze snapped toward Peini, a flash of concern cutting through the fight. In that split second of distraction, a Great Jagras lunged onto his back.
Its eyes burned with frenzy. Claws scrabbled frantically against his enamel-hard scales, producing a sound like grinding stones. Jaws snapped shut on his shoulder.
The composite armor held. He felt only a deep, bruising pressure. Assured Peini was holding her own for the moment, he retaliated.
He unleashed the current.
A visible surge of blue-white electricity erupted from him, arcing over his scales. The air filled with a sharp CRACKLE and the acrid smell of ozone and singed flesh.
The Jagras biting his shoulder convulsed as if struck by a live wire. It released its grip with a pained shriek and tried to scramble back.
It didn't get far. Logan's forelimb, tipped with claws that were no longer simple keratin hooks, lashed out. They were now retractable, sickle-shaped blades of the same enamel composite, their edges serrated by a self-sharpening, shedding process.
The strike caught the Jagras across the face.
Riiip.
The effect was horrific. Flesh peeled back in deep, parallel gouges. A geyser of blood erupted into the air. One of the creature's eyes vanished in a burst of fluid and tissue.
In raw strength, speed, defense, and weaponry, the Jagras pack was outclassed. The skirmish ended as quickly as it began. Within moments, three lay crippled or dying on the trampled grass. The survivors, seeing the slaughter, lost all nerve. They scrambled up the nearest trees, fleeing through the canopy along the thick vines.
Logan let them go. He turned to Peini, inspecting her closely.
The fight had been brief. She had a few shallow scratches along her flanks, nothing serious. Her blue eyes were wide with adrenaline, not pain. Logan felt a surge of relief, mixed with curiosity. Is a Zinogre whelp this formidable at just over a month old, or is Peini special?
It didn't matter. They were both alive, and dinner had been interrupted. There was fresh meat available.
The Jagras meat, however, was foul. Logan took one bite and recoiled. The flesh had a distinct, stomach-turning acidity. Remembering their scavenger diet—often including the regurgitated meals of larger monsters—killed his appetite entirely. He and Peini consumed only the most nutrient-rich organs for the Evolution Point gain, then left the rest for the carrion feeders.
The new points were immediately invested. Logan focused them on his forelimbs, specifically the wrists. A memory surfaced from his gaming days: a favorite monster, the Nargacuga. The sleek, panther-like wyvern whose wing-arms terminated not in simple claws, but in retractable, blade-like sickle-claws formed from hardened flight bones.
He wanted that.
The familiar warmth gathered in his forelimbs. Over the next three days, a profound change took place. Beneath the scales on his wrists, bone cells proliferated rapidly. Twin, sharp protrusions pierced through the skin, sheathed in a web of capillaries. They grew like obsidian spikes, extending nearly two feet, curving slightly backward.
The capillaries secreted a clear fluid that hardened into the same pearlescent, enamel-like coating as his scales. Powerful new muscles anchored at their bases, granting precise control. They were not clumsy extensions, but integrated weapons—retractable wrist-scythes.
He examined his new tools with keen interest. They were semi-transparent white, lethally serrated along the inner curve. He flexed a wrist; the blade shot forward with a soft shink. He retracted it. Perfect.
He tested them on a nearby vine as thick as his arm. A casual swipe. The serrated edge sliced through it cleanly. The cut ends fell apart, revealing a smooth, glassy surface.
Peini watched, fascinated, nudging the retracted nub with her nose. She had the makings of similar weapons—the iconic dewclaws of her species—but they were still soft, hidden buds.
After a few days of acclimatization, they resumed their journey along the coastal fringe.
The landscape shifted. The canopy thickened, reducing the world to a green, dappled twilight. Ahead lay rugged hills. Near the shore, cliffs rose, their bases carved by wind and waves into strange, mushroom-like stone pillars.
And then, nestled between two towering rock faces, he saw it.
A massive ship lay beached on its side, like a slain leviathan. Its hull was a testament to violence, riddled with gaping holes. Tattered sails hung from shattered masts, telling a silent story of a cataclysmic storm.
Astera?
To get a better look, Logan scaled a giant, moss-covered tree. The morning sun broke through the canopy, bathing him in warm light. His golden eyes, evolved for extreme light-gathering, dilated. The distant scene snapped into sharp focus.
Around the wreck, a clearing had been carved from the forest. Stumps stood in neat rows. A rudimentary settlement had taken root: simple tents, rough-hewn log cabins, and lean-tos. Ingeniously, a water wheel had been constructed under a nearby waterfall, its steady thump-thump-thump providing primitive mechanical power.
Tiny figures—humans—moved through the camp. There were perhaps two or three dozen. Some hauled timber. Others worked with tools, expanding structures, forging a foothold in the wilderness.
From the camp's size and stage of development, Logan pieced it together. First Fleet. But not the first year. They've had time to establish themselves. This is Astera in its early, struggling adolescence.
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