The power Caelum felt seemed intoxicating; his stabs were now naturally charged with a new force that struck hard and fast. The knife appeared to fade between strikes, trailing lines of distortion. Each violent thrust left after-images burned into reality—movements that lagged half a second behind the actual steel.
Every jab tore the air with a crack like splitting timber, the blade leaving a sharp whistling sound mixed with the tearing of flesh. The salamander bucked with each blow, still alive, but the strikes produced tremors through its entire body. A bitter metallic flavour stuck to the back of his throat, acrid as burnt wire, intensifying with every blow he delivered.
The final strike crushed the salamander's skull. Blood spewed in a geyser that hit against Caelum's skin. A hiss escaped through its fractured jaw, spraying crimson mist which lingered in the air —the final defiance of an apex predator facing oblivion for the first time in its existence.
The result was gruesome; blood was everywhere—some of it Caelum's, but mostly the salamander's. The pulverised remains of the salamander's skull and bone fragments mixed with grey matter and scales in a viscous puddle. His hands quivered violently, and he found he couldn't stop them, even when he held the knife handle until his knuckles went white.
The adrenaline inside him started to dissipate, and the pain of his torn-up leg shot back up through his body. "Arghhg," he let out a stifled sound, trying not to attract any more attention after the fight. His leg came loose with a sound as if he was pulling it from mud—a thick, reluctant squelch. The flesh of his leg was torn and mangled; the lamprey tooth had punched through muscle in ragged rows, each puncture and tear leaking blood.
Caelum rolled over despite the pain and grabbed his trusted spear, slowly rising with its leverage. The clamour of the fight still reverberated through the mangroves, fused with the reek of gore and death—a lure for whatever else prowled these twisted wilds. Leg mangled and coursing with fresh agony, hands unsteady from the electric fury now winding in his veins, Caelum clutched his spear and hauled himself upward along the slick root, each laboured shift stirring the mud below.
Caelum had to find a different way up than in his previous attempts—one that relied less on his leg. Finding a suitable route, he got to work, climbing the root with his upper body and one good leg. The strain on his fingers was the most surprising and taxing part, which he hadn't expected. When Caelum got on top of the root system again, he let out a groan and lay down to rest for just a minute.
The time was just past late afternoon. He had arrived late on day one and had spent at least 48 hours in the rift of his allotted 72 hours. He checked the ARC interface to confirm, and it returned its usual blue display.
ARC — FIELD UPDATE
Estimated Rift Time: 17:54
EVROPA Standard: 15:11
Time spent in Rift: 50:38
Gate Closure Time Remaining: 21:22
Caelum gave a long sigh. He planted the spear in the hard root and hauled himself upright, wincing. Each step back to the hollow became its own battle—weight shifting cautiously from his good leg to the mangled one, his balance wavering on roots and mud beneath his boots, every laboured yard gained through the smothering density of the mangroves.
When he finally arrived at the hollow, Caelum collapsed against the crooked interior wall. With quivering fingers coated with blood and sweat, he fumbled at his pack's buckles and extracted the medkit. The wound was worse up close: ragged punctures and shredded muscle. He tore open a packet filled with antiseptic and gritted his teeth as he flooded the wounds—fiery pain flared, threatening to turn his vision white, but he forced himself to stay alert. He pressed gauze over the deepest gash, the fabric quickly blooming red beneath his palm. Each movement seemed clumsy, his hands not quite his own, still charged with the residual vibration of power.
He searched for the coagulant spray while the foam spread over the torn skin, then wrapped his calf in the compressed gauze, pulling it tighter than was comfortable. Sweat burned his eyes as he worked. Caelum braced his foot against the pack and cinched the tourniquet just below the knee—an ugly, desperate knot, but it slowed the bleeding. "At least the bone wasn't broken," he exclaimed to himself. He took a quivering breath, letting his head thump back against the mangrove's wood. The pain was bad, but the leg would hold for now. He just needed to stay alert, keep the wound clean, and not bleed out before the extraction window closed.
But he would not get to rest for long before the next threat reared itself: a low, grumbling growl—familiar. The Reed-stalker was back, Caelum realised. It must have heard the fight or followed the blood trail back to the hollow. As the growl approached closer, it sounded practically mocking, as if the Reed-stalker knew he was wounded and wouldn't be able to put up a fight like last time.
Caelum knew that, too; he was pretty much forced to stay stationary and grounded. One good flank and it was all over. His mind searched for every factor that could lead to his survival when it struck. He had something the Reed-stalker would never expect from a native of this primordial world.
Caelum didn't reach for the spear. He reached into his pack with shaking hands and found cold polymer and metal: the compact pistol he had received as a last resort. As the head of the Reed-stalker appeared inside the hollow, staring at Caelum, its throat sac grew large and then deflated in repeated cycles—a jeer.
As the Reed-stalker finally got done mocking Caelum, it started moving. Suddenly, a loud pop shook the air, followed by a few more not long after. The Reed-stalker seemed surprised; its arrogance had prevented it from foreseeing that Caelum would have another ace hidden. It roared as it fled out of the hollow, but Caelum knew it was over; he had gotten a couple of good hits in the centre of mass.