Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee-Chapter 32: Broken Toy

​I’m still lying in the dirt, staring at the smoky sky.

Lola is crouched beside me, hugging her knees, watching me bleed with the same mild curiosity a child has when watching an ant drown in a puddle.

​A system notification pulses in the corner of my vision, demanding attention.

I ignore it. Right now, I’m holding onto consciousness by a thread.

​My OXI is critically low. My body feels cold, the kind of deep, bone-chilling cold that precedes shock.

​I shakily reach into my inventory, pulling out a handful of Scales. They are gritty, tasting like chalk, but I chew them down wildly, swallowing the dry powder.

​A rush of artificial warmth floods my veins. It’s not a full meal, but it pulls me back from the edge.

​[Consumed: 10 Scales]

[Scales: 27 -> 17 Scales]

[OXI: 98 -> 348/1,200]

​I let out a ragged breath, the color returning to my vision.

Above us, the three crimson pillars still burn against the oceanic sky. A triple beacon. Every predator on this island now knows exactly where we are. We have minutes, not hours.

​"Lola," I wheeze, sitting up slightly, wincing as the bolt in my shoulder shifts. "I need your help. We need to keep moving if we want to silence the noisy ones."

​Lola tilts her head, her big eyes scanning my battered form. "You are too fragile," she states matter-of-factly. "Broken toys are boring."

​I stare at her.

​A broken toy? Is that what I am to you? And here I was thinking I was doing a great job as a single dad in the apocalypse.

​"Just..." I grit my teeth, suppressing a sarcastic retort. "Just check the bodies. We need loot. Scales, healing items, anything useful. Go."

​She wrinkles her nose in disgust, looking at the gory remains of the sniper and the crushed leader. "Ew. Sticky."

​"Go," I order gently.

Hurry. The beacons are a dinner bell, and we’re the main course.

​She sighs, standing up and walking over to the corpses with exaggerated reluctance, poking through their pockets with the tips of her fingers like she’s handling radioactive waste.

​While she plays scavenger, I finally focus on the HUD.

​My eyes widen.

​[Reward: +5% to Rank Advancement (Kill Assist)]

[Reward: +8% to Rank Advancement (Chaos Theory Bonus)]

[Current Rank Status: 18%]

​Eighteen percent?

​I stare at the number.

Usually, grinding through Rank-F takes weeks of survival. Is this the Chaos Theory rewarding me for the chaotic nature of the friendly-fire kill? Or is this "Shell" so pathetically weak that even breathing near a dead Rank-E grants experience?

​It’s terrifyingly fast.

​I look down at Eventide, lying in the dust. I pick it up. A new status line flickers on the weapon’s description, one I haven’t seen before.

​[Devoured Soul: 1/50]

​A chill that has nothing to do with blood loss runs down my spine.

​One out of fifty. What happens when it hits fifty? Does the weapon evolve? Or does it release something I can’t control?

Before I can dwell on it, a second notification queues behind the first. This one doesn’t pulse. It detonates.

[Attribute Adaptation: Agility → D (3★)]

[Condition: Sustained evasive exertion exceeding Shell-class survival threshold. Adaptation forcibly accelerated by Chaos Theory modifier.]

I freeze.

D? Three-stars? 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

Not E-two-stars. Not a marginal tweak. A full letter jump and a ’plus.’

I flex my ankle, then my knee, rolling both joints experimentally. The difference isn’t subtle. The tendons that screamed bloody murder three hours ago respond like oiled cable. My calves feel like they belong to someone else—someone who didn’t spend the last day getting mauled by everything with claws.

My brain catches up to what the System is telling me. This body sprinted from a Rank-C predator, crash-landed down a ravine, fought two close-quarters engagements, and kept moving on fumes.

It didn’t just survive.

Adapted under duress...

The biological equivalent of forging steel by beating it against an anvil until the metal stops complaining.

And the Chaos Theory modifier... of course. The universe’s way of saying "You almost died in seventeen creative ways, so here’s a consolation prize. Don’t spend it all in one place."

"Huh," I mutter, dismissing the window with a flick. "Guess even trash can learn to run."

​"Found stuff," Lola announces, dropping a small pile of items onto my lap.

​I sift through it. 326 Scales. A decent haul. A small glass vial containing a thick, green topical healing potion. And...

​I pick up the last item. It’s a bright blue, glittery hair clip in the shape of a star.

​I look at the massive, headless corpse of the sniper.

Seriously?

​"Cute," Lola says, snatching the clip from my hand and shoving it into her pocket.

​I count out 220 Scales for myself and push the remaining 106 toward her.

"Your cut."

​Lola’s eyes sparkle. She scoops up the glowing crystals, her mood instantly shifting from bored to delighted, like a puppy getting a treat.

Nothing they’re carrying or wearing is gonna do us any good now, and the red tape to reclaim a soulbound item is a massive pain in the ass. So I let it be.

​"Hey, Lola," I ask, looking at her while she counts her shiny rocks. "How old are you, anyway?"

​She pauses, looking up at me with genuine confusion, as if the answer should be obvious.

​"Fourteen," she says.

​I blink. Fourteen?

​She looks ten. Acts eight. But in Thirstfall, growth stunts and trauma can do strange things to a person. Even worse if you are neurodivergent.

​"Right," I mutter. "Fourteen. Okay... hum... I need you to play doctor."

​I unzip my leather jacket, peeling the fabric away from my right shoulder. The crossbow bolt is buried deep, the fletching sticking out angrily. The skin around it is purple and swollen.

​"I need you to pull this out," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "On the count of three. You have to be fast. Okay?"

​She nods, grabbing the shaft of the bolt with both hands.

​"Okay. One... Two..."

​YANK.

​"ARGH-FUCK!"

​The scream tears out of my throat before I can stop it. White light explodes behind my eyes.

​"Oops," Lola says, looking at the bloody bolt in her hand. "It went poof."

​My vision is swimming. I’m laughing. Or maybe I’m crying. I can’t tell. It’s hysteria.

​"Just..." I gasp, grabbing the green vial with my shaking left hand. "I will just put the potion on it."

Bracing for the pain, I don’t even know if I’m telling that to her or to myself.

​I pour the thick liquid directly into the gaping hole in my shoulder.

​HISS.

​The sound is visceral, wet, and aggressive. Smoke rises from the wound as the alchemy forces the flesh to knit together at unnatural speeds. It smells like burning hair and cooking meat.

​"Smells like crackling," Lola observes, sniffing the air. "I like crackling."

​I dry heave, trying to ignore the fact that she just compared my cauterizing flesh to a snack.

​I struggle to stand, pulling my jacket back up. "We’re done. Let’s move."

​"Wait," she commands. "You aren’t finished."

​"What?"

​"The finishing touch."

​She digs into her pocket and pulls out a massive, crinkled adhesive bandage. It’s covered in a print of cartoon teddy bears holding balloons. How she’d managed to scrounge that up in Thirstfall was beyond me.

​She slaps it directly over the healing scar on my shoulder. Hard.

​"There," she says, satisfied. "Now your bacon is packaged. We can go."

​I let out a long, defeated sigh. I look at her—the bear ears, the apathy, the terrifying power.

​For a second, the image overlays with a memory I’ve tried to bury.

​Lili.

​She reminds me so much of her. It hurts more than the crossbow bolt.

​I shake my head, clearing the ghost from my mind. Lili is a baby now, and I need to prepare for her future.

The red light above us is starting to fade, but the damage is done. Our position is compromised. Time to move.

I tap my comms rune.

​"Veric. Status."

​Static crackles, then Veric’s voice comes through, breathless but calm. "Target eliminated. The second one fled when I took down the first. I didn’t pursue. I figured getting third-partied was a high risk."

​"Smart," I reply. "Regroup around the ancient ruins. Follow the smoke."

​"Copy that. On my way."

​I switch channels.

​"Rhayne. Report."

​Silence.

​I watch the small biometric display on my HUD. Her ECG is active. Her heart rate is elevated, but rhythmic. She’s alive. She’s conscious.

​"Rhayne, if you can hear me, tap the rune twice."

​Nothing. Just the low hum of the open channel.

​And then, I hear it.

​It’s faint, echoing in the background of her transmission, but I know that sound. I’ve heard it in my nightmares for ten years—and just minutes ago.

​Click... Click-click.

​The wet, chitinous clicking of a Reef Stalker.

​She isn’t ignoring me. She’s hiding. And something is hunting her.