When Avin pulled his hand from the water, half of it was gone.
Not bitten. Not burned. Gone.
The clean edge where flesh should have been was smooth and pale, veins exposed like red threads under glass. For a heartbeat he felt nothing—no sting, no pain, just confusion. Then realization struck, and agony came with it like a tidal wave.
The nerves screamed awake. It was as if every muscle fiber was being peeled apart, thread by thread, by invisible hooks. It wasn’t a metaphor—it was his reality.
Avin’s scream shattered the silence of the forest. He stumbled back, splashing wildly like a cat flung into a storm. His voice cracked, raw from terror. But before he could even climb out of the shallows, something caught his leg.
He hit the water again with a violent splash, arms flailing, kicking blindly. His wounded arm seared in the lake’s liquid fire. He twisted, screaming as his body was dragged under. He lashed out with his free leg, striking something slick, rubbery—muscle and scale. The grip loosened, and Avin shot up to the surface, gasping.
He tried to swim, but the water felt thick, clinging to him like oil. The wound on his leg was already burning—bitten, torn open by something unseen. He couldn’t tell if it was poison, acid, or pure pain.
And worst of all, he only had half an arm.
Every stroke sent a pulse of agony up to his shoulder. He coughed as lake water splashed into the wound. His vision blurred, the world spinning between blue and red. He swam harder, faster, the shore just ahead—an arm’s reach—just there—
A glimmer of hope lit in his chest.
He could make it. He could—
The water behind him rippled.
Another bite sank into his same leg.
Avin’s scream came out as a strangled growl. He clawed at the mud, dragging himself forward, sand gritting under his nails. He dug his one good hand into the bank, anchoring himself, but whatever had him was stronger. He felt skin tear, muscle strain—each pull a tug of war between his flesh and the thing beneath the surface.
He looked up—there it was.
Sheathed, lying across his folded clothes under the shade of the leaves, maybe three meters away. His sword—the gift of his brother, the blade Leo had placed in his hands. The one thing that had always answered him.
Avin’s eyes widened with desperation. The beast dragged him back inch by inch. The thought came unbidden, wild: If only I could reach it. This update is available on NoveIＦire.net
Then something flickered inside him—an echo, a memory.
He remembered the bandit. The hopelessness. The crushing grip that had nearly ended his life.
And how, at that moment, his blade had answered his call.
Avin’s eyes flared crimson. He extended his remaining hand toward the sword, blood dripping down his arm like a promise. He poured everything into that motion—his pain, his fear, his stubborn will to live.
It shook violently, vibrating in its sheath. The air hummed, dust rising from the leaves around it. And then, with a whiplash crack, it flew.
The hilt slammed into Avin’s palm, the familiar weight settling in his grip like a heartbeat returning to life. His fingers closed around it instinctively—no hesitation.
"Got you," he hissed, eyes glowing brighter.
He twisted his body, spinning underwater with a grace born of panic and instinct. The blade sliced through the surface in a golden arc.
A shriek bubbled up from below, muffled by the water. The pull on his leg went slack.
Avin broke the surface, gasping, coughing blood and water. He scrambled for the shore, dragging himself through the mud, his sword clutched tight. When he turned back, the lake was a sheet of crimson. His own blood had dyed it.
He collapsed onto the bank, panting. The only parts of him still touching the water were his ruined arm and the shredded leg. The thing that had bitten him was still attached—its head clamped around his calf, unmoving.
He stared at it, chest heaving. Its eyes were wide and glassy, lifeless. The creature’s skin was a sickly green, mottled with lumps like diseased frog flesh. Thin, quivering slits pulsed along its neck—gills. Above those slits was the clean cut his sword had made.
"Fuck..." Avin rasped, voice hoarse.
He stabbed the sword into the ground and used it to pull himself upright, leaning all his weight on it. The ground burned under the sunlight, the heat biting into his skin, but he couldn’t care less. He couldn’t even stand.
Groaning, he dragged his leg closer, inspecting the wound. The beast’s jaw was still clamped tight. He gritted his teeth, grabbing the slick head. With one violent yank he tore it free.
The sound was obscene. Wet tearing, the squelch of blood, the pop of separating flesh.
A fountain of red followed. Blood sprayed up his thigh and soaked the sand beneath him. He fell back with a cry, clutching his leg. The pain was unbearable. The ground beneath him turned dark with spreading warmth.
Then his arm wound burst open again, veins spurting red like split veins of a fruit. His head spun. Every heartbeat felt heavier, slower.
He needed to stop the bleeding.
Avin’s eyes darted across the ground. His gaze landed on his tattered clothes—soaked, dirty, but better than nothing. "Those will have to do," he muttered through gritted teeth. But even he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He needed something else. Something hot.
"Hot," he whispered again, delirious. His eyes flicked to the sand he sat in. The sun had baked it for hours. His pupils shrank. "It’ll work..."
He fell onto his left side, pressing the open wound directly into the hot sand.
The world exploded in pain.
He screamed, voice tearing raw from his throat. The fine grains of sand buried themselves in the open flesh, searing like molten glass. Steam rose. The sound was faint but unmistakable — a sizzle. The smell of burning blood filled the air.
Avin cried until his throat went hoarse, his body convulsing from the shock. But slowly, slowly, his mind dulled the pain. His body adapted to it, or maybe it just broke under the pressure.
He did the same to his leg. The scream that followed was worse—shorter but sharper, the kind that left his lungs empty.
When the bleeding finally slowed to a trickle, he crawled toward his clothes, dragging himself with his sword. He grabbed his shirt, shoved one sleeve into his mouth, and bit down hard. With his sword in his other hand, he slashed through the fabric, cutting it into strips.
With trembling precision, he wrapped one piece around the half-arm stump. It took minutes—his teeth, his one good hand, and every ounce of willpower—to tie the knot. The pain flared fresh with every tug, but he finished it. Then another strip around his leg, tightened until he couldn’t feel the limb at all.
He dropped back onto his spine, eyes staring blankly at the sky. The forest hummed softly, indifferent.
He was drained. Empty. All he wanted was to get out of this cursed place.
The wind shifted. The air grew heavy.
Avin’s head snapped toward the lake.
Ripples spread from the center, wide and slow. Something massive was moving beneath the surface, displacing the red water.
The shape rose from the depths — colossal, scaled, coiling upon itself. Its skin shimmered between emerald and black, eyes gleaming like molten gold. The water dripped from its ridged back in sheets as it stared directly at him.
The thing didn’t blink. It just watched him.
The lake hissed, boiling softly where it touched the creature’s skin.
And Avin, bleeding and trembling, whispered under his breath—