Chapter 254: Stories, Old and New |
I stared at the odd four-legged reptile in front of me. It's an interesting natural adaptation. A large desert reptile adapted for endurance rather than speed, it is shaped much like a horse, with long limbs and a strong spine built to bear riders. Fat stored along a dorsal ridge serves as both energy and water reserve, while its webbed, padded feet spread its weight across soft sand, preventing it from sinking. Scaled skin reflects sunlight, and a network of blood vessels beneath regulates heat, allowing it to function in both scorching days and cold nights. It exhales little moisture, excretes waste as dry crystals, and can seal its nostrils and eyelids against sandstorms. Though cold-blooded in ancestry, slow muscular thermogenesis grants it limited internal warmth, making it the ideal reptilian counterpart to a camel, and ideally suited as a mount for the desert’s harshest reaches.
I am surprised, honestly, it’s the first time I have been impressed by a truly naturally adapted creature. I mean, it has been domesticated and bred into this form to some extent, but on the other hand, cosying up to another species like the Vulpus is a natural, symbiotic adaptation. So I’ll count it as natural, and anyone who disagrees can bite me… or maybe I will bite them?
It is a fascinating creature; it can carry riders, haul cargo, and even be slaughtered for meat, with its hide used for clothing. It’s a multitool creature… honestly, a potential stopgap creature for my hive.
I opened my mouth and closed my jaws around the creature, swallowing it whole, and listened for that voice.
Achieved [Lacerta Genome] Level: 5 / 10
No significant adaptations acquired
Essence Schematic Updated
Well, that’s the story most of the time nowadays; there are no more exciting evolutions. Most of the advantages will come from careful iteration, such as how every new desert hive creature now has webbed feet to help them run across the sands and heavier, front-sloped armour that is good at deflecting shots.
Still, nature has a sense of humour. You can always find some neat ideas buried in a biome if you bother to look. Take this odd sand shrew. I recently saw an ugly brown thing about the size of a cat that spends its life burrowing through the dunes. It’s got spikes along its rear and thick, frontal scales that flare open when threatened, turning its whole body into a living wedge of sloped armour. Each scale works like a detachable plate, shedding off when struck without hurting the soft body beneath. Ingenious, really, evolution’s equivalent of reactive plating, tucked away in a creature that looks like it should be squashed under a boot.
Well, let’s see what else this world has in store. I’ve heard whispers of a Dark Naga by the sea. I flexed my wings, the muscles going taut, then slammed them downward. The air split with a sharp crack as I shot up, a thunderclap of motion echoing across the dunes. Sand exploded beneath the downwash as I shot upward, tearing through fog and wind alike. The desert fell away in a blur of gold and shadow, and I banked toward the shoreline.
I channelled ether into my wings to go faster in a matter of minutes. I soared past the shore. I extended my wings and slowed to a calm holding pattern above the coast. Now that is interesting, the coastline wasn't a neat little line of beaches. It was a jagged, sheer cliff covered in that same black obsidian from the mountain pass. The obsidian had formed long, towering spikes, like whatever blast had hit the continent had physically scorched the crust of the continent.
I banked toward the cliff and latched onto the rock face. It was smooth and hard and fought my blades with a surprising resistance. My blade cuts through most things, but this black glass took it like a challenge. I drove the tip in with a single hard strike and sparks flew as the obsidian fractured along the blow.
“Tough stuff,” I muttered, scanning the fissures. Pity it was so ether charged it leaked like a bleeding star. Not very useful honestly, too stable to be a power source and too irradiated to handle by hand. I could shove a shard on the end of an arrow and send it at someone, sure, but it would irradiate everything around the impact.
Whatever land I get wouldn’t be that useful. So instead of it fucking that guy in particular, it's like fuck that place in particular forever. Maybe I could use it against heaven or any grinding conflicts, just start lobbing this shit over fortifications and sit there. The Ether radiation would kill everyone before long. Still a bit extreme though like trying to save the house from a thief by burning it down… hmm maybe I’ll table this for now.
I looked around at the sweeping cliffs and spotted some odd things in the cliff face. I flew over to one of these parts, and as I scanned the obsidian, I noticed one part looked weird. I transformed one of my arms into a long pick and hacked at the obsidian surface, and to my surprise, I saw what looked to be half-melted metal wall.
Huh, what is this?
I transformed a hand into a blade and cut into the darkened metal and found it to be tough but slowly I started to saw my way through the metal. Eventually, I managed to peel one side off and I peered inside to see it was a room. Well it was a vault more accurately, judging by how its contents were all smashed against the far wall I guess this room must have been ripped form its foundations and hurled at speed into this cliff, or at least pressed hard enough that it fused into the rock.
I did a quick scan and I didn't see that many rare artifacts, mostly broken arcane devices and gold.
Can someone get over here and collect all of this?
I said into the hive mind and a quick wave of assent was received. Alright, that’s that. I’ll file this away for now.
Now for the main event, let's go look for Dark Naga…
◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.♚.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦
O’Neer grunted, snatching his hat from his head and waving it in a lazy arc at the approaching rangers. The lead ranger did the same, a mirrored gesture, before both men settled their hats back into place.
“Stay put,” O’Neer said, digging his heels into his mount’s flanks. The creature lurched forward, its scaled legs thudding over the sand with a slow, rolling power. Heat shimmered off its back as O’Neer rode ahead.
When he drew close, a familiar grin met him. So they were near the base after all. “Wyatt, you old shithead,” O’Neer called out, voice roughened by dust and distance. “Didn’t think you’d still be breathing.”
“Right back at you, you crazy bastard,” Wyatt shot back, flashing his fangs. “How’s that cushy eastern post treating you?”
O’Neer barked a laugh. “Got soft. Figured I’d come west and remember what sand in the teeth feels like.”
Wyatt’s eyes flicked to the caravan behind him. “So what brings the famously reckless Captain O’Neer crawling back out here? Those strange folks I see trailing behind you?”
O’Neer hesitated, then reached into his coat and pulled out a metal canteen, polished and marked with the faint sigil of the Imperial line. The sun caught the silver rim as he tossed it toward Wyatt. “Drink up,” he said. “You must be thirsty.”
Wyatt caught it one-handed, turning it over once. The seal on the lid made his brow twitch , recognition at the craftsman ship, and something like suspicion. He unscrewed it anyway, sniffed, then took a slow pull.
When he lowered it, his voice came out quieter. “That’s… clean.”
“Clean and cold,” O’Neer said with a grin. “The kind they bottle in the east. Those folks beyond the range, they’ve got rivers that shine like mirrors, or so they say. They came bearing gifts.”
Wyatt raised a brow. “What kind?”
“Water,” O’Neer replied, lips quirking.
Wyatt snorted. “Other than that.”
“Food,” O’Neer said, voice taking on a weight. “Canned stuff mostly, meat, fruit, even soups that don’t spoil. Tastes like nothing we’ve got here. Then there’s the medicine, real healing potions, not the watered-down sludge our apothecaries make. Fix a fever in minutes, mend a cut in seconds.”
He glanced back toward the caravan, where the glint of metal caught the sun. “They’ve got tech too. Guns that don’t need powder, armor that treats bullets like brittle blades thrown at granite cliffs. And magic, their kind of it. Actually works.”
Wyatt let out a low whistle. “Quite the haul.”
“Yeah,” O’Neer muttered, eyes narrowing at the horizon. “And maybe, if we’re lucky, a path past the range. Greener lands. But you and I both know… gifts like these don’t come free.”
“Aye, what do they want?” Wyatt asked.
“The General in? Best to ask him,” O’Neer said, his tone flat. “Their price is steep, old friend.”
“It involve kneeling?” Wyatt asked, his lip curling into a snarl.
“Yeah,” O’Neer replied, voice low. “But they’re not fools. They don’t expect us to swallow pretty words about compassion. They offered to send the General, and a few of us officers to their empire. Let us walk the streets, talk to anyone we want.”
Wyatt’s eyes narrowed. “Recon, then. Free reign?”
“Free reign,” O’Neer confirmed with a nod. “At least, that’s what they say.”
O’Neer said, eyes narrowing as he turned and watched the caravan shimmer in the heat. “Don’t see why they’d lie, though. Killing us back in their empire doesn’t get them anything. We’re not worth the bullets or the hassle.”
He spat into the sand, the gesture half-shrug, half-warning. “If they wanted us dead, they could’ve left us to rot out here.”
Wyatt gave a short nod, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hat. “Fair enough,” he said, voice low and rough. He shifted in the saddle, the leather creaking.
O’Neer leaned forward slightly, lowering his tone. “One more thing. They’ve got a hive of monsters running loose out there, and here too. Came with the expedition. All under the thumb of some Ancient. They call him the Great Beast of the Elysian Woods. Thing woke up a few years back, like it crawled out of hibernation just to remind the world who owns it.”
Wyatt’s brow creased. “Hive?”
“Yeah,” O’Neer said. “Not beasts like ours. Smarter. Organized. They move like soldiers, think like tacticians. In three years the eastern lands are his in all but name. And he’s not alone. He’s got a queen at his side. Pretty, they say, but she’s no ornament. Runs the empire beside him, and from what I hear, she’s got more magic in her veins and more brains in her head than all of us put together.”
He gave a dry chuckle, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Her empire runs like clockwork. Everyone prospers, no one goes hungry. But the ones who rebel?” He tapped the side of his temple. “They end up very, very dead, and not always in ways you can bury.”
“How you figure this out? Doubt the delegation would be honest if they want new servants,” Wyatt asked.
“Asked around the camp. Grunts, scribes, logistics workers, all say the same thing,” O’Neer replied. “How, and I quote, the Empress is the best thing to happen to Elysia and Western Voleria. Bread in every belly, wine on every table, and criminals fear her like she’s a wrathful goddess.”
He grunted, shifting in his saddle. “Stories matched up uncannily well. Too neat, maybe. But the way they said it… didn’t sound rehearsed. Sounded like they believed it.”
“Still, if I were the Empress, I’d send only the loyal this far out,” Wyatt said, his tone thoughtful but edged.
“That’s what I figured too,” O’Neer replied. “But bottom line, they’ve got plenty, food, water, magitech, more than we’ve seen in years. And they’re offering to let us cross the range, see the empire for ourselves.” He said eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t sound like slavers to me.”
“That’s how they get you,” Wyatt replied wryly, his smile thin as paper.
“Yeah,” O’Neer muttered. “But we all know the fog’s creeping, and we’re running out of watering holes out east.” He spat into the sand, jaw tight. “I’d like to say we should bargain from a position of strength, but I don’t see us being strong in any sense the Empire would respect. Millions under arms, from what I hear. And that’s not even counting the hive, which, from what I’ve seen and heard, is their real army.”
The last words came out as half a growl, half an admission, the kind that tastes bitter in a soldier’s mouth.
“The general will want to hear about this,” Wyatt said, a trace of bitterness cutting through his usual calm.
“Aye, way above our pay grade,” O’Neer replied, resting his arms on the front of his saddle.
“We don’t get paid, O’Neer,” Wyatt said dryly.
“Figure of speech,” O’Neer grunted.
For a moment, neither spoke. The wind pressed at their coats, and the desert stretched silent before them. Their mounts shifted restlessly, tails flicking at the biting flies. It was the kind of quiet that came before a decision the kind that carried weight, but no promise of good outcomes.
“What was that saying?” Wyatt asked as he shifted in his saddle, squinting at the horizon.
“What? That out here in the wastes you don’t complain about getting fucked in the ass because at least you’re not being spit-roasted?” O’Neer replied, tone flat as sandpaper.
Wyatt blinked, then gave a rough chuckle. “Never heard that one before, but no. Was thinking of that card saying, you can play a bad hand and win once in a while, but if you always get bad hands, you lose more than you win on average.”
O’Neer gave a dry snort, half amusement, half resignation. “Story of our lives, huh?”
The air between them felt heavier after that. Even the mounts seemed to sense it, stamping idly at the cracked ground as if looking for water that wasn’t there.
Wyatt sighed slightly before nodding.
Yeah story of our lives…
At least this story will be interesting to the General…