The wrist-thick stake, driven by Logan's ton of focused force, found its target. It plunged deep into a soft, circular orifice and traveled a full meter along the intestinal tract.
The sleeping Blangonga experienced a rude awakening. A sharp, intrusive pain was instantly eclipsed by a sensation of pure, liquid fire. Its thunderous snoring cut off. Its eyes flew open. A roar of shock, pain, and utter violation erupted from its throat, shaking the forest.
"ROOOOOOOAAAAAAGGGGHHHH!!!"
It thrashed wildly on its vine bed, its massive hands clawing behind it. It found the stake, and with a grunt of agony, yanked it free. But the payload remained. The Dragon Pepper paste, ground into a fine, adhesive paste, was now smeared deep inside.
The burning intensified. It felt like a red-hot coal had been shoved into its gut. The searing agony radiated outward. Its fur stood on end.
The King rolled, squatted, and rubbed its posterior violently against the rough vines, a pathetic, desperate attempt to quench the internal fire. The entire nest groaned and swayed under its violent convulsions.
The Conga troop awoke in a panic, swarming to their leader's aid. They chattered and shrieked, leaping about in helpless confusion.
From a safe distance on a high branch, Logan watched. He'd retreated the moment his strike landed. Now, he observed the spectacle, a faint, grim smile touching his scaled lips.
Blinded by pain and humiliation, the Blangonga scanned the darkness. With its troop's help, its furious gaze soon locked onto the pale, shimmering shape of Logan. Recognition dawned—this was the creature it had beaten days before. The source of its current, unspeakable torment.
A new roar, this one pure, undiluted hatred, tore from its throat. Ignoring the fiery agony with every step, fueled by a tsunami of adrenaline, it launched itself toward Logan.
It was shockingly fast for its size, a pink avalanche leaping through the canopy, closing the distance with terrifying intent.
Logan didn't wait. His mocking grin widened. He turned and bounded away, his new spring-loaded gait propelling him with effortless, silent speed.
He was smaller, lighter, built for this. His echolocation painted the path ahead in perfect detail, allowing him to navigate the pitch-black tangle of branches with precision.
The enraged Blangonga had no such advantage. The night hindered its vision; rage clouded its judgment. It crashed through the forest like a wrecking ball, snapping smaller branches, its progress a cacophony of splintering wood. But it refused to give up, its eyes fixed on the fleeing white ghost.
A Conga tried to intercept from the front, leaping at Logan. Logan didn't break stride. He caught the creature in mid-air with his forepaws, endured a frantic scratch across his chest, and with a powerful kick of his hind legs, disemboweled it against his own momentum. Guts spilled into the void.
The brief delay let the Blangonga get dangerously close.
But Logan wasn't trapped. He knew the terrain. He veered sharply to the left.
Ahead lay the Thornspire Vale. A vast gully overgrown with monstrous, ancient brambles. Vines as thick as a man's waist wove a cruel, spiked labyrinth for kilometers. Logan's armored, streamlined body might squeeze through. The Blangonga's bulky, furry frame would be shredded.
The King followed blindly into the trap.
Logan plunged into the thorny maze. Needle-like spines screeched against his enamel scales. In tight spots, he forced himself through, reopening some of his half-healed wounds. It was a price he was willing to pay.
The Blangonga entered after him. It was a disaster. Every thorn caught in its pink fur. Every step forward was a battle against a living wall of razors. Blood welled from a hundred tiny cuts, matting its fur. Yet, its fury was so absolute it barely seemed to notice, swatting mindlessly at the vegetation.
Logan, meanwhile, had scrambled up the steep, rocky side of the gully. He reached a high outcrop and looked down. He let out a sharp,挑衅性的 bark.
The Blangonga, now a bloody, panting mess entangled in the heart of the thorns, looked up. Its eyes met Logan's across the distance, burning with a promise of murder.
Logan gave it a final, unmistakable gesture. He turned his back and wiggled his hindquarters—a universal insult.
That was the final straw. The Blangonga erupted in a mindless frenzy, hurling itself deeper into the thorny hell, caring nothing for the new wounds that opened up. It was a puppet of its own rage, and the strings were cutting it to pieces.
Seeing the beast was truly stuck, Logan decided his work was done. Revenge, for now, was served. He turned and bounded away along the high ridge, disappearing into the night.
Below, the Blangonga's frenzied thrashing gradually slowed. Exhaustion and blood loss finally overrode its fury. It slumped, trapped in a cage of its own making, its body a tapestry of cuts, its rear end a smoldering volcano of pain. It could only watch, seething with impotent rage, as its tormentor vanished.
That night, Logan slept the deep, satisfied sleep of the petty victor.
The Blangonga did not sleep at all. It spent the long, painful hours until dawn wide awake, eyes bloodshot, plotting murder in between waves of searing,辣椒-fueled agony.
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