Chapter 17: New Life
Gaia World, 6 Days After the Shattering
Pawel woke to the soft rustle of leaves and the distant gurgle of the stream, his body stiff but not aching as badly as the day before. The forest hall stretched around him, its towering tree pillars casting long shadows in the early light. The open ground felt secure—bare enough to spot threats from afar, yet ringed by dense foliage that provided natural barriers. This would do for a base, at least until something forced him to move.
He set to work methodically, dragging fallen branches to form a low windbreak around a central spot near the stream. It wasn't much—a crude semicircle of wood and ferns—but it offered cover without trapping him. Wood for fires came next; he gathered armloads of dry twigs and thicker logs from the edges of the hall, stacking them in a neat pile. The stream provided clean water, and he refilled his bottles, sipping it greedily, now confident in his magically obtained ability.
Exploration came in short bursts, never straying far. He mapped the immediate area in his mind: the stream's bend to the north, a cluster of particularly lush berry bushes to the east—still not ripe, but they would be soon—and a rocky outcrop to the south that might serve as a lookout. Caution ruled every step; the anomaly loomed in his thoughts, with its constant potential for something new to spawn, this time bigger.
Game logic would naturally dictate exactly that to happen.
Snack perched nearby, its mottled feathers fluffed against the morning chill. The bird hopped awkwardly, wings flapping uselessly when it tried to gain height. Too young to fly, Pawel figured, watching it peck at the ground. He carved off a strip of leftover lizard meat from the previous day's kill, cooked over the embers of last night's fire.
"Here, you greedy thing," he muttered, tossing it over. Snack snatched it mid-air, tearing into it with that hooked beak.
Feeding became a ritual, strengthening the tentative bond between them. Pawel experimented with his mana sense during these moments, closing his eyes to focus on the bird's faint verdant aura. He pushed simple intents—stay, come here—reinforcing verbal commands with emotional nudges laced with calm reassurance. Snack tilted its head, cooing softly, and sometimes responded: a hesitant hop closer, or a pause in its fidgeting.
There was no clear usage of magic, just a subtle exchange of feelings through Pawel's growing new senses. It was similar to how different mana flows around him gave him different impressions, without any active ability or internal mana used. Everything was connected through these natural mana flows.
He tried coaxing Snack into his backpack for travel, rolling the top into a nest again. The bird squawked in protest, flapping wildly and scrambling out.
"Fine, picky bastard," Pawel grumbled, but he adapted.
He lashed a sturdy branch across the backpack's top, creating a perch that jutted over his shoulder like a makeshift falconer's arm. With patient coaxing—bits of meat as rewards—he trained Snack to balance there while he moved. The bird gripped the wood tentatively at first, but soon settled, its weight a warm presence against his shoulder as he paced the camp.
By midday, Pawel turned to weapons. The hammer had proven its worth, but what if he dropped it in close quarters? Fists were completely ineffective even against clay tadpoles.
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He selected two straight branches, each about fifty centimeters long, and sharpened their tips with his hatchet into crude spikes. Looping cords through holes near the bases, he fastened them to his belt—quick to draw, easy to use.
He tested them with a few quick thrusts and strikes.
"Feels strong, but we shall see in combat," he muttered.
The anomaly expanded with loud cracking sounds that afternoon.
Pawel expanded his mana sense; the orange-wire filaments, those probing tendrils, were more numerous than before, their artificial presence twisting his gut.
Only a few minutes later, he heard familiar chattering. The creatures wobbled on their stubby legs, knee-high and glistening like wet clay, their triangular teeth clacking in menace.
Pawel didn't wait for them to close in.
"Time to hunt," he murmured, picking up his hammer.
He approached deliberately, hammer held in both hands.
The first tadpole spotted him, crouching low with that telltale chatter. As it launched—propelling its flattened body three meters through the air—Pawel sidestepped and swung the hammer in a practiced arc.
The spike end caved in its head with a wet splash, purple mist billowing as it dissolved.
Confidence surged as he engaged the next two. He had refined his swings through repetition during downtime in his camp: shorter wind-ups, better footwork to avoid overcommitting.
One tadpole lunged for his leg; he jabbed it with the now-sharpened hammer handle, piercing its clay hide and killing it.
Seeing that there was only one last one left, he confidently let go of the hammer and reached for his new wooden spikes.
He baited it into a jump, dodging and countering mid-air. Clumsiness faded with each kill—his movements smoother, less frantic. But the penetration felt too shallow.
A second of inquisitive observation proved that to be true. The monster tried to right itself up.
Pawel did not give it a chance for that; he kneeled and jabbed it with both wooden spikes interchangeably until it stopped moving, and as he stood up, it was already dissolving.
Snack hopped down from the perch, eyeing the fading purple mist with curious tilts of its head. It cooed softly, as if intrigued by the ethereal haze. Pawel paused—did the bird see it too? He filed the thought away, absorbing the released energy. The last one flowed into him, promising progress.
Gaia World, Day 7 After the Shattering
Routine solidified. Mornings started with fire-building—flames crackling to boil water and cook whatever meat remained. Pawel foraged sparingly, adding roots and other edibles to his meals for variety.
Snack demanded its share, growing bolder in its demands, its body filling out slightly, though still far from flight-ready.
Exploration extended a bit farther, always with hammer ready and spikes at his belt. He avoided the anomaly's edge, but its influence grew undeniable: more tadpoles spawned sporadically, their chattering echoes carrying through the trees. Pawel hunted another pair deliberately, using the spikes for quick jabs in tight spots. The fights honed his reflexes; he anticipated their jumps now, turning defense into offense. Confidence bloomed—not arrogance, but a quiet assurance that he could handle these "overgrown Chihuahuas."
Bonding deepened very quickly. Pawel practiced conveying intents during quiet moments: safe, follow. Snack responded more readily, perching without coaxing and even nuzzling his hand for food.
Pawel wasn't sure if it was through magic— or just emotional threads strengthening naturally, a companionship born of survival with magic only easing the communication.
Day 8 After the Shattering
The day passed in a steady rhythm: gathering wood, tending the fire, a short hunt yielding one more tadpole for energy. Pawel's swings felt natural now, his body adapting without the initial awkwardness. Strength edged up subtly—lifting the hammer was easier, but nothing he couldn't attribute to daily labor.
As evening fell, Pawel settled by the dying fire, Snack nestled nearby. The night was quiet, the stream's murmur a soothing backdrop. He closed his eyes, slipping into meditation. Mana flows unfolded: the steady green pulse of the forest, earth's unyielding brown below, air's fleeting azure above.
But the anomaly expanded its influence. Orange mana thickened, its wire-like tendrils closer still, feeling utterly foreign—artificial, like something engineered rather than grown. Disgust churned in his gut at its probing advance. New colors flickered from its side: faint purples and reds, swirling in unfamiliar patterns, hinting at changes brewing.
What fresh horrors might they spawn?
