The thing in the clearing looked like a Forest Prowler—if Prowlers were overgrown scarab beetles with mandibles longer than my forearm. Its carapace glistened like wet blood under the crimson canopy, and its six compound eyes locked onto me with unsettling precision. A hiss rattled from its throat, the sound vibrating through the ground like a plucked bass string.
"Alright, club," I muttered, hefting my Ebon Mite-upgraded weapon. "Let's see if 3.1% mastery means shit."
I edged forward, my armor clicking softly. The Prowler mirrored me, its spiked legs sinking into the loam like it was testing the soil. Then—movement.
It lunged faster than anything that size should move.
I twisted, but the Crawler breastplate threw off my balance. A searing pain lanced up my thigh as its mandible screeched against the chitin plating. The impact knocked me back a step, but the armor held. No blood. No tear. Just a jagged scratch in the hardened shell.
"That's what I'm talking about!" I barked, adrenaline surging. I kicked out, my boot connecting with its underbelly—softer there, vulnerable. The Prowler skittered back, mandibles flexing in agitation.
I pressed the attack.
My club came down in a brutal arc. The Prowler dodged—but not fast enough. The Mite-carapace edge sheared through its left mandible, sending the chitinous blade spinning into the undergrowth.
The creature screeched, a sound like nails on glass, and stumbled. I didn't let it recover. One more swing—crunch—and its head collapsed like a rotten pumpkin.
Silence.
I stood there, panting, waiting for the telltale ping of a quest update.
Nothing.
"The hell?" I nudged the corpse with my boot. No notification. Just iridescent guts oozing into the dirt. "So you weren't a Prowler. Fantastic."
I wiped ichor off my club, scanning the trees. The forest watched, indifferent. Somewhere deeper in the crimson gloom, something else moved—something that made the leaves tremble without wind.
The real hunt wasn't over.
The weight of my armor pressed down on me like a second skin as I slumped onto a gnarled root. Hours of fruitless hunting had left me no closer to finding either the Forest Prowler or Mud Lurker. My breath came in ragged gasps, the humid air thick with the scent of decaying leaves and something metallic.
While I rested, I finally did what I should have done days ago - properly explored my system menus. The glowing interface flickered to life, and there it was, almost like the system wanted me to find it:
[CREATE OUTPOST]
"Creating an outpost might actually be useful," I muttered, wiping sweat from my brow. "But what's in it for me?"
The benefits appeared as I focused on the prompt:
[OUTPOST CREATION]
Gain recognized territory Establish safe zone boundaries Unlock basic storage functions
My eyes scanned further down to the upgrade requirements:
[UPGRADE TO VILLAGE]
8,000 Shards Population: 20/20
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Shards? What the hell are shards?"
The system responded with infuriating calm:
[SHARDS: SYSTEM CURRENCY]
Acquired through slaying certain monsters Traded for goods and services
"Fantastic," I growled. "So I can claim some dirt for free, but to make it actually useful, I need things I don't have and people who don't exist."
The forest around me seemed to pulse in agreement, the crimson leaves rustling despite the absence of wind. My rest time was up - the hunt wasn't going to complete itself. Pushing off the root, I hefted my club and stepped back into the waiting jaws of the wilderness.
The spider-thing moved with unnatural silence through the undergrowth, its eight segmented legs picking through the crimson foliage with disturbing precision. I held my breath as it paused near a rotten log, its bulbous abdomen pulsing with each breath. The moment it raised its front legs to clean its dripping fangs, I struck.
My club came down with all the force of my upgraded strength, crushing its thorax with a sickening crunch. Ichor sprayed across the forest floor as its legs spasmed wildly.
[Quest Updated: 1/2 Forest Prowlers Slain]
"Guess you count," I muttered, using my boot to flip the twitching corpse. The Forest Prowler's mandibles still looked sharp enough to be useful. With a grunt, I snapped off the largest one and tucked it into my belt. The chitin felt strangely warm in my hand, like it was still alive.
The real fight came as the false sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in sickly orange hues.
I smelled the Mud Lurker before I saw it - the stench of rotting vegetation and wet fur hit me like a physical blow. There, wallowing in a algae-choked pond, was something that might have been a boar in another life. Its crimson hide glistened with slime, and when it turned its head, I counted three rows of yellowed tusks in its grotesquely elongated jaw.
"This is going to hurt," I breathed, tightening my grip on my club.
The first charge came without warning. Nearly 400 pounds of muscle and rage plowed into me, sending me flying into a nearby tree. My armor took the worst of it, but it still felt like I bruised my ribs. The second impact drove me hip-deep into the pond's muddy bank, the sucking ooze making it impossible to dodge.
For nearly an hour we battled, the clearing becoming a churned-up wasteland of mud and broken vegetation. My armor gained new cracks with every punishing blow, and twice I nearly lost my weapon in the muck. When my club finally shattered against its armored skull, I remembered the Prowler's mandible at my belt.
The Lurker charged again, its hooves throwing up great clods of earth. At the last possible second, I rolled and drove the chitin blade deep into its exposed flank. Black blood fountained as the beast shrieked - a sound that set my teeth on edge. It took three more desperate strikes before the monster finally collapsed, its massive body twitching in its death throes.
[Quest Complete: New Hunting Ground]
[Rewards: Skinner's Knife, Trapper's Guide]
I barely managed to catch the falling items before they disappeared into the mud. The knife's bone handle fit perfectly in my grip, its curved blade seeming to hum with anticipation. The guide's leather cover pulsed faintly, like it had its own heartbeat.
Panting, I surveyed the carnage. The Lurker's carcass would provide meat for days, and its hide might be useful for repairs. With a groan, I grabbed its hind legs and began the arduous process of dragging it back to my cave. The beast must have weighed over 300 pounds even in death, and every step sent fresh pain shooting through my injured ribs.
The journey back took three times as long as it should have. Twice I had to stop and defend my prize from scavengers - first a pack of those damn beetle-things, then something worse that watched from the trees with too many eyes. By the time my cave came into view, my arms trembled with exhaustion and my new knife's blade was dark with ichor. The cave smelled of blood and damp stone, but for the first time in days, it also smelled like victory.