Chapter 5 – Blood on the Riverbank
Evan's eyes remained locked on the flow of black water as it wound through the dense jungle like a dark serpent. The Negro River. His path to Manaus.
Or at least, that was the plan.
How long would it take to reach the city on foot? Days? Weeks? There were no answers—only questions.
And one of them came bubbling to the surface, more urgent than the others: water.
He could scavenge for food. He could hunt. But drinking from the Negro? Just looking at its murky, ink-like flow made his stomach twist. It didn't just look dirty—it looked cursed.
"Great," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Starvation is optional. Dehydration isn't."
He turned back toward the abandoned tribal village, hoping it held some answers. If people lived here once—if families thrived here—then there had to be a cleaner water source somewhere. A stream. A well. Anything.
The village itself was simple—twelve huts at most. But the simplicity was marred by the horror scattered across the clearing.
Six bodies. Mangled. Half-eaten. Some torn apart as if monsters had fed mid-feast and been interrupted. The grass around them had dried with blood.
Evan felt the pit in his stomach deepen. This wasn't just a camp—it had been a home. A community.
And now it was a massacre site.
Still, he pressed on.
He began checking each hut one by one, eyes scanning for any sign of tools, resources—or most importantly, drinkable water. The deeper he ventured, the more the weight of tragedy settled on him. The next few bodies he found were even worse.
Three were women. Two were children. All brutally dismembered, left to rot like forgotten scraps.
He had to force himself not to look too closely.
Despite the horror, he pushed forward and opened a sixth hut—and exhaled a small breath of relief.
Inside, tucked in the corner, were containers made of hollowed-out tree logs. Primitive, yes—but clever. He lifted one, sloshed it gently.
Water.
He sniffed it. Clear. No smell.
Thank you, old tribes.
He stashed the bottles in his inventory, checking a few more huts for anything useful. Among the simple furnishings and torn blankets, he found spears and axes—tools of both survival and defense. The weapons were handmade, the handles carved from dense wood, the tips sharpened stones bound tightly with vines.
They weren't perfect—but they'd work. He collected them methodically.
By the time he reached the eighth hut, he was growing numb.
Then the door creaked open—and the numbness shattered.
He froze in the doorway.
Inside, sprawled across the blood-soaked floor, lay the bodies of seven children. Two women. Three men.
And four dead Razorlops.
It was carnage. A slaughter.
Some of the adults had weapons still clutched in their lifeless hands. Blood trailed across the walls and ceiling in smears and handprints. The air reeked of copper and rot.
For a moment, Evan forgot how to breathe.
His legs buckled. He stumbled back, hand clamped over his mouth.
Then, he ran outside and doubled over.
But nothing came up. Just dry heaving. His stomach was too empty to offer anything but agony.
He sat there for a moment, fists clenched in the dirt, eyes stinging.
This world wasn't just dangerous. It was cruel.
These weren't warriors. These were families. They fought back. They tried to protect their young. And they died screaming.
Something in Evan snapped.
The grief turned to rage. Grief didn't keep you alive out here. Anger did.
His jaw tightened as he stood. The image of the seven children seared into his brain like a cursed tattoo.
They didn't stand a chance.
"But I will," he muttered.
He reached for his sword, still stained with blood from earlier. Its weight was a comfort. A promise.
Then, like fate itself was answering his fury, he saw movement in the distance.
Three Razorlops.
Two hundred meters out.
Their grotesque shapes roamed the far edge of the village, oblivious to the storm heading their way.
Evan narrowed his eyes.
You motherfuckers are dead now.
No hesitation. No planning.
He sprinted.
His sword glinted as he tore across the field like a shadow unchained. His newly enhanced agility surged through every muscle, every stride more powerful than the last. From walk, to jog, to full-on blur—he devoured the ground beneath his feet.
In just seconds, he closed fifty meters.
But then one of the Razorlops spotted him.
It hissed—a wet, rasping sound—and charged.
The other two looked up. Saw him. Snarled. Then joined the pursuit.
The hunted had become the hunter.
No tricks. No sneak attacks.
Just three beasts, and one furious human with a blade.
Evan didn't care if they outnumbered him.
He wasn't running.
Not anymore.