Meteor Crash on the Swamp Predator
The wind whipping past my cheek is razor-sharp. Every time I blink, the altitude shifts. At this point, is it even a leap anymore? Should I call it a launch? Sky Step is living up to its name. I'm literally walking up into the sky right now. Or... am I walking? Whatever.
My body halts just before smashing into the canopy of the Nakan Jungle. The apex of the parabola. That fleeting moment when all the kinetic energy from my thighs converts to potential energy. Gravity seizes me like a whip cracking down, right on cue.
Shadow Step. No shadow, no step. But I definitely feel myself plunging into the shade.
'Haha! If I drop right in like this!'
Adrenaline erupts like a volcano. The primal substance that turned humans into adventurers numbs my senses. Reality feels distant. Then again, did it ever feel real to begin with? That elite monster at the edge of my vision is proof enough—it's anything but ordinary.
Swamp Predator Garkan. A colossal crocodile evoking the serpents from Norse myth. Its head alone is the size of a semi-trailer, its body twice that, tail three times over. Even from this lizardman-crushing height, it still looms gigantic.
'But a crocodile's just a crocodile.'
A beast born for predation, its eyes evolved purely for the hunt—fixed strictly forward and to the sides. Like a lighthouse. Like a periscope. For spotting prey.
So...
'You won't see me dropping onto your nape.'
I'd thought the same watching the footage. The only way to kill something that massive? Blast it with a super-heavy howitzer before it even notices. I never imagined I'd be the shell.
About a second passes? Gravity keeps accelerating the acceleration, slamming it into me. My long black hair flails wildly. Two more seconds until impact with that monster croc? Saliva slides down my throat. Blink.
In that instant, the target—no, the impact point—lunges toward me. I straighten the dagger gripped reverse in my right hand. My left palm braces the pommel, aligning forearm and blade in a straight line. Blink.
Garkan's thick neck fills my entire field of view.
'Was this insane?'
I feel like a comet.
"Ahahahahaha!"
Kiara was thrilled. To her, Berga was just the priciest new mercenary on the block. She'd toyed with summoning him once. Watching expensive mercs show off was her hobby—well, not quite a hobby.
But for his steep price tag, Berga was surprisingly popular.
'What's this about?'
First came curiosity. Second time, irritation. By the time he was at Ednfelt Wall, obsession—not quite obsession—had bloomed: she had to summon him.
Finally, she called Berga. How strong would he be? How much fun would he bring? Kiara brimmed with anticipation, but the timing sucked. She'd just set up the forward outpost when the wave hit early—and he spawned right in front of the barricade.
'No helping it.'
Not that 2,000 Cron stung. She just regretted their long-awaited meeting fizzling out like this.
But Berga wasn't some flashy poser. The moment he arrived, he bolted straight toward the wave—straight toward her. Then dropped into the battlefield's center. Like a shooting star.
A flashy entrance demanded a flashy fight. He swept the field.
'As much as me.'
Even amid the whirlwind of combat blurring her vision, he stood out crystal clear. Like the only sharp figure in a hazy world.
'What is that guy?'
Those occasional glimpses of his green eyes gripped her heart like claws. She was curious. Wanted to see him again. Cron meant little to a frontline berserker like her.
"Hope you make it worth more than what I spent. Me."
Meeting him again, he wore that same languid, icy expression, spouting dull lines. Handsome, sure—but lacking that heart-piercing spark from before.
'I wanted to see those eyes again.'
"It's coming soon. You heading out too?"
The wave they faced together was off. One of those rare brutes popping up unexpectedly.
He was human, after all. Even a merc.
'Not a warrior like me.'
"Want Berga to sit this one out?"
Meant as pure goodwill.
"That's my line."
She barely remembered what she said next. It didn't matter. That gaze. Cold, bored—for a fleeting instant—then he was gone. Skyward. Like he was a star himself.
Icy, dizzying. Exactly what she'd craved.
As she savored that look...
He plummeted back down amid a massive crash. Like a star again.
"Ahahat! You blew it to bits! Berga!"
True to her words, Garkan's neck exploded like it'd taken a shell. Allies, enemies, warriors, monsters—all froze at the sight.
Only her superhuman hearing caught it clearly: his steady heartbeat amid the croc's shattered corpse.
Kiara charged forward.
A grotesque ringing in my ears. Was it the impact first, or the tinnitus? Logically, impact. Anyway.
Didn't think I'd die. Obviously. This is Berga's body. I'd jumped off walls plenty. A mere 30-meter freefall? My reinforced physique laughs at that.
I scanned around. Vision full of pale pink flesh chunks. Garkan's veins still spurted blood in spots. Wide enough to fit an arm. Above the cavernous esophagus. Exposed white spine, spinal fluid leaking like a fountain from the cracks. Now it felt real.
Elite Monster Swamp Predator Garkan has been defeated!
Summoned units receive compensation proportional to their contribution, as a percentage of summon cost!
The wave has not yet ended!
"Hahahaha..."
Laughter bubbles up. Not from the surreal scene, but because this insane fantasy actually worked. Kiara lit the fuse, sure. But I figured it was the most rational counter anyway. I'd have done something similar regardless.
"Phew..."
Status: not great. Quick, belt pouch... Ha. Arm won't move. Left one's mangled. Elbow bone jutting through flesh. Guess the shock from the dagger transferred over. Adrenaline shower hid the damage.
Hey, blowing open a giant croc's nape and this is cheap damage, right?
'No wonder Cold-blooded gets the most mileage.'
I jam the dagger roughly into Garkan's meat, rummage my belt pouch with my right hand. Drink it? They sprayed sometimes too. But drinking's better. No waste from spills.
One arm busted makes uncorking tricky. Teeth it is. Pop the cork, pour straight into my mouth.
"Kuhuk... Fuck!"
Almost spat it back. The red liquid I barely swallow burns trails everywhere it goes. Like firebrand cauterizing.
"Grrgh... Urk."
Swallowing hot coals? It races from mouth to throat to gut—no, straight to my heart—pulsing through my veins like blood. Accompanied by excruciating agony.
"Gaaaah!"
It hurts. Beyond screams. Like molten lava bullying my bloodstream.
This 100-CronWild Horse potion laps my body once, then pools. In my left arm. Feels like shoving the rag-doll forearm into a grinder and pulverizing it. Healing hurts worse than breaking? Bullshit. Without Cold-blooded, I might've offed myself on impulse.
Or not? Good thing the dagger's out of reach.
After 30 eternal seconds, pain ebbs. Flexing my trembling left hand—back to normal. Solid performance. Just hell to chug.
Explains why units had no heals in-game. Spam potions? Instant madness.
Skill shop opens someday, first buy: pain tolerance.
Calmed, I sweep back blood-soaked hair, yank the dagger free.
30 seconds on a battlefield is an eternity—enemies know it too. Lizardmen presences lurk, waiting chances. They held back from witnessing the impossible. Otherwise, they'd have swarmed.
I grip the dagger again. Use Garkan's corpse as cover, clear the encirclement methodically...
Then—a fierce presence behind me. Another elite? Reposition. Swing diagonal for the neck...
Too late. Faster than calculations, it targets my back. Squishy, soft texture... Huh?
"Berga! You're the best!"
Kiara hugs me from behind.