Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee-Chapter 25: Snowflake in Hell

​My eyes flick to the corner of my vision. The HUD pulses, indifferent to the panic flooding my veins.

​[OXI: 1,183/1,200]

​I have oxygen. I have time. But against what is waiting on the other side of this tree, I have the life expectancy of a snowflake in hell.

​I don’t need to look twice. The heavy displacement of air and the smell of brine already told me enough. But morbid curiosity—that fatal human flaw—makes me risk a second peek for a fraction of a second.

​It is magnificent. And it is terrifying.

​The Reef Stalker. Rank C. An Alpha Predator.

​It’s not just a monster; it is biological engineering designed to kill. Its skin isn’t solid; it’s a living mosaic of chromatophores, pulsing and shifting colors like an octopus, mimicking the bark and the wet leaves with surreal perfection.

​But the camouflage can’t hide the structure. Dense muscle, a feline crouch ready to pounce, and a long, rigid tail ending in a bone spike, like a needlefish.

​And the worst part... the jaw.

​Its lower mandible is bifurcated, splitting sideways like a blooming flower of meat and serrated teeth. Gills along its neck filter the humid forest air, hissing softly.

​My phantom scar throbs.

​In my past life, back when I was a Rank D, I crossed paths with these things. Even with a full team, enchanted armor, and a bag full of items, I still lost my left arm in three seconds.

​It cost every Scale I had to pay an S-Rank Healer to grow it back.

​Now? I am a Rank F, alone. A "Shell." If that thing touches me, it won’t just take an arm. It will vaporize me.

​A thousand plans flash through my mind. Fire? No time to draw. Combat? Suicide. Diplomacy? It doesn’t talk; it eats.

​The conclusion drops like an anvil: Death.

​Then, the beast makes a sound.

​It isn’t a roar. It’s a wet trill, a guttural click-click-click vibrating deep in its throat. It sounds like a wounded bird, a call to lure the curious. Or, in this case, to announce that the game has started.

​It knows I’m here.

​My survival instincts, forged in a decade of hell, hijack my nervous system. Fear turns into fuel.

​I explode.

​Stealth is over. I kick up mud and sprint to the left, running like a desperate animal.

​Behind me, I don’t hear heavy footsteps. I only hear the soft thrum of air being cut. I glance over my shoulder.

​The beast isn’t running. It’s flowing.

​Its skin shimmers, and its natural Stealth Cloak activates. The monster’s massive outline dissolves into the foliage, becoming a blur of distorted light. It isn’t in a rush. It’s calm. Serene. To this thing, this isn’t a hunt; it’s dinner playing hide-and-seek.

​Shit, shit, shit!

​My lungs burn. My weak legs protest, but I force them past the red line.

​I see a break in the terrain ahead. A steep ravine dropping into the darkness of the undergrowth.

​It’s my only chance. If I jump, I can slide down, break the line of sight, and use gravity to gain distance. Even if I shatter every bone in my body, it’s better than being digested.

​I am ten feet from the edge. I prep the jump.

​Then, the air directly in front of me ripples.

​There is no sound. Just a chromatic distortion floating in my path, like heat haze on asphalt.

​My instincts scream so loud I feel physical pain.

​DROP!

​I don’t think. I throw myself into a slide tackle, digging my heels into the rotting mulch.

​SWISH.

​I feel the wind slice a hair’s breadth above my nose. And then, the burn.

​A line of fire opens across my chest.

​It wasn’t a direct hit. It was the air displacement of the invisible claw passing over me. My tunic tears, and I feel skin parting from sternum to shoulder.

​If I had stayed upright, my head would be rolling in the grass right now.

​The momentum of my slide carries me over the edge.

​The ground vanishes.

​I fall, tumbling uncontrollably down the slope. The world becomes a blur of brown and green. I slam my shoulder into a root.

​Crack.

​My ribs find a rock.

​Thud.

​The air leaves my lungs.

​I keep rolling, protecting my head with my arms, until my body hits something soft and wet at the bottom of the ravine and stops.

​I lie there for a second, stunned, the taste of blood and dirt in my mouth.

​I check the HUD immediately.

​[OXI: 1,050/1,200]

Almost a hundred fifty points gone. The cut on my chest is wide, bleeding, but superficial. The real damage was the fall. I feel my ribs screaming with every breath.

​But I’m alive.

​"Get up," I snarl at myself, ignoring the sharp stab in my flank. "Get up or die."

​I force myself to my feet, swaying. My eyes scan the perimeter like a radar, looking for the distortion in the air, looking for the predator.

​The silence has returned. But it’s a heavy, electric silence.

​The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

​It didn’t give up. It’s close. Probably at the top of the ridge, watching me crawl like a wounded bug.

​Frustration bubbles up in my throat, mixing with the fear.

"Really?" I whisper, wiping blood from my chin. "All the work... the planning, the knowledge... just to die to a random mob on the Academy grounds?"

The universe has a sense of humor. I just wish I was in on the joke.

​The System blinks in my peripheral vision. Two warnings.

​[Alert: Adaptation Triggered. New Skill Generated. Check your Profile.]

​I ignore it. A new skill? What is it? The ’Skill of Being Preyed Upon’?

​I don’t have time for your mockery, you piece of digital trash.

​I focus on the second warning. The one glowing with a pale, ghostly light.

​My passive skill. The one I earned by dying and coming back.

​[Skill Activated: TRACE (Echo Sight)]

​The world around me turns gray. The forest sounds muffle.

​And then, I see it.

A hundred feet away, a bluish, translucent silhouette flickers in the air. It isn’t the stalker.

​It’s a human. Or what’s left of the memory of one.

​An Echo. Someone died here, recently. The residual ghost is crouched, holding something, looking in a specific direction.

​A crooked, bloody smile splits my face.

​Death leaves footprints. And I’m the only one who can follow them.