Chapter 23: Cracks and Colors

  Gaia World, Day 11 After the Shattering

  Pawel limped through the undergrowth, each step feeling weirdly uncomfortable, as if his skin was too tight, every muscle stiff and itching for him to stretch, like the next day after going hard in the gym. Even his knee still felt wrong, giving him a strange urge to bend, twist, and flex every muscle and tendon.

  He paused under a low branch, leaned the hammer against the trunk, and rolled his shoulders. Tight cords along his back resisted, then gave with a faint pop.

  "Oohh... like an eighty-year-old grandpa... man, that feels better."

  He bent forward, palms on knees, and stretched his hamstrings to ease the tightness, but the feeling lingered. His entire body suddenly began feeling just like before he started training again, after years of not moving.

  The hammer’s shaft caught his eye. A fracture ran from the head's base halfway down the handle, splintered wood showing pale against the darker bark.

  Pawel traced it with a fingertip. One solid hit and it would shear. He hefted the weapon, tested it against the ground. The crack widened a fraction. It was on its last legs. He set it down carefully.

  He looked at himself next. His shirt hung in ribbons across his chest, the entire thing stained with his blood, the blood of his enemies, and dirt. His pants were even worse—multiple punctures, crusted blood, one knee torn wide enough to show skin.

  Boots still held together, though even those had suffered a small tear. The cold-weather jacket and blouse waited folded in the pack, almost untouched.

  He needed new clothes; if things continued as they were, he'd soon run around with his junk out, butt naked.

  And a weapon that didn’t break so easily, plus something for ranged attacks.

  He really did not want to get close with those thorny things again.

  Armor, maybe. Weapons were perhaps doable, but what to do about armor and clothes?

  "Ugh, I should have skinned that deer I killed." Pawel facepalmed.

  He pushed off the tree and kept moving. Ten minutes later he was exhausted again.

  He stopped again, braced hands on thighs, and drew long breaths. The stiffness had returned—elbows, wrists, lower back.

  He straightened slowly, rolled his neck, felt vertebrae click.

  "What the hell is wrong with me?"

  He caught movement with the corner of his eye and dropped into a crouch, swiftly reaching for the hammer.

  Thirty meters ahead, a clay tadpole wobbled on stubby legs. Pawel relaxed—at this point these were walking pi?atas—they even had candy inside.

  Well, sort of—they were giving magic powers.

  He enabled mana sight to inspect. The monster was filled with sparse brownish mana and had an orange cord flowing from its insides into the distant anomaly.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Interesting. A brown color. Lately purple and green are becoming a rarity."

  Pawel gripped the hammer and advanced.

  The tadpole coiled, preparing to jump, clucked its teeth once, and was promptly turned into paste by Pawel's hammer.

  With an audible crack, the weapon broke into two pieces.

  "Rest in Pieces," he sighed with sorrow, and turned his attention to the despawn magic coalescing into a brown gem.

  "Okay..." he said, "so far every time they are connected to that orange thing they create these crystals."

  Pawel nudged the loot with the broken haft.

  Nothing.

  He crouched, picked it up between thumb and forefinger, expecting it to crumple, like it did to Snack.

  Nothing.

  No pull, no warmth, no absorption. He turned it over. Same heavy, packed-earth impression as the vine’s mana. He slipped it into a pocket.

  He straightened and expanded mana sight to its maximum. Colors swirled—sickly browns, faint reds, streaks of pale yellow, threads of deep indigo—all tumbling over each other until the forest blurred into a kaleidoscope. Purple was almost gone. Instead, other colors and shapes multiplied, filling his senses so much it was blinding.

  He blinked the sight away and started walking again.

  Whatever the reason—magic in this world was changing somehow. Perhaps there even was no magic here at all before the anomaly. It surely seemed so, considering that monsters began appearing only after Pawel's arrival.

  Soon the forest hall opened ahead. Snack spotted him first, hopped twice on bark-plated legs, and launched a loud “Craa!” Pawel dropped the broken hammer shaft beside the fire pit.

  Snack fluttered closer, wings beating hard, then landed on his forearm. The bird’s talons pricked skin but didn’t break it. Pawel scratched under its beak. Snack pressed into the touch, cooing low.

  Satisfied with the greeting, soon after it flew back off, losing interest.

  Pawel started a fire and picked up the remaining meat with the intention of staking and roasting it.

  The meat had darkened; he sniffed and grimaced with disgust.

  "Bah... hopefully cooked it would get better—I'm too hungry, likely I can't even get sick anymore, but the taste... ugh."

  "I need to get the food situation sorted too—another point on the list."

  He skewered it over the fire. When the outside charred, he tore off a piece.

  The taste was about as awful as predicted. He chewed anyway. Fibers caught in his teeth; he swallowed hard. It twisted in his gut but stayed down.

  He ate half the slab, tossed the rest to Snack—eyeing Pawel with accusation. The bird ripped into it, gulping chunks.

  Pawel gathered straight hazel saplings, each wrist-thick. He shaved them with the hatchet, tapered one end to a point, left the other blunt for grip. Six javelins in total. He dried their sharpened ends over the fire, supposed to harden the wood.

  After the new toys were ready, training began.

  First throw: he stepped forward, planted his left foot, whipped the arm over. The javelin sailed fifteen meters, landing roughly around the targeted plant.

  Second throw: better aim, but the point struck slightly sideways, would have not penetrated any real target.

  He hissed, shook the arm out. The full throwing motion with weight was more demanding than he'd expected. Pain flared in his shoulder, untrained for this action.

  Tendons in his forearm burned. He paused, closed his eyes, pushed regeneration. Warmth spread. The ache dulled within minutes.

  He kept going. Throw, retrieve, throw. Each repetition loosened the joints a fraction.

  After a few dozen tests, he decided to make a new set of javelins weighted more to the tip to hit better and continued training.

  The second set was better and the motion felt smoother now, though the shoulder still protested.

  He could afford the continued practice anyway—small tears in muscle or tendons got healed by magic. Possibly it even sped up muscle growth with this healing.

  Evening light slanted through the canopy. Snack had left his perch, hopped across the clearing, beak stabbing at beetles and ants, reminding Pawel of his own hunger—they had no food now.

  The bird moved more and faster than before, talons roughing the soil ,clearly recovered.

  A large beetle scuttled; Snack pounced and gulped it, crushing it in its beak with glee permeating through their link.

  A rustle came from the twigs. The giant jumping spider burst out—head-sized body, eight bristling legs, almost the same as the one Pawel fought as his first enemy.

  It leapt straight at Snack. Pawel grabbed a javelin.

  Snack reacted first. The bird twisted sideways, jumped left, beak snapping on the attacker's leg. The spider’s fangs scraped air helplessly as Snack shook it violently, tearing the leg out and sending the attacker flying away. Snack lunged after it, talons raking the spider’s side and pinning it to the ground, then proceeding to tear its limbs off one by one, all while the spider was thrashing its remaining legs wildly trying to get free and fight back.

  It was completely helpless despite its size. After every limb was torn off, Snack began pecking on the main carapace with growing frustration as it held intact.

  Pawel stood frozen in place with mouth agape, javelin in his hand, paralyzed by his own surprise and the bird's anger mixed with frustration sent through their link.

  Finally the beak punched through the armor. The spider wriggled its stumps still attached to the cephalothorax for one last time and then it stilled.

  Pink mist rose, thin and shimmering, then drifted apart.

  That startled the bird; it fluttered its wings, jumping away, observing intensely with wings spread and up.

  When it understood, Snack sent a big impulse of bundled emotions to Pawel:

  Proud / victory!

  Pawel lowered the javelin. Snack shook itself, folding wings, feathers ruffled, and let out a sharp “Craa!” He stared at the fading mist.

  "Pink. Not purple, not brown or green," he muttered. “What kind of magic would be pink?”

  Snack looked at Pawel expectantly, head tilted, waiting.

  "Good job, buddy!"

  "Looks like I instilled visceral hatred to bugs in you, but good job!"

  He put down the javelin and eyed the scattered materials he’d collected earlier. His mind turned to the cracked hammer; he wanted something similar but sturdier.

  Then to armor and clothes—how to accomplish that with no metal or even leather?

  And worse—very limited tools.

  He picked up a length of vine, tested its strength.

  He smiled thinly. Time to craft.