Chapter 5: First Blood

  Gaia World, Day of The Shattering

  Descending the slope, Pawel instinctively followed the easiest route—a trail worn smooth by wildlife. As he went, thoughts of pursuing small game crossed his mind, only to spark a sobering realization:

  "I can't be the only one hunting here."

  In Poland's crowded landscapes, creatures were accustomed to humans. Even the occasional wolf or boar tended to steer clear, posing little threat.

  But in this unfamiliar realm?

  Anything he encountered might see him as prey—or competition.

  He scanned his surroundings with heightened caution, muttering,

  "Yeah... I need a weapon. A bow's out of reach for now. Spear it is."

  Prioritizing getting something suitable , he soon found a branch about as thick as four fingers and matching his height.

  With his hatchet, he carved a sharp point. "Just a sharpened stick," he admitted, "but it'll do."

  The makeshift spear offered some reassurance, yet every rustle in the undergrowth set his nerves on edge.

  He'd long trained himself to ignore such sounds back home—often just a bird rummaging for insects. Here, though? The possibilities were endless and unnerving.

  As the terrain leveled out, the greenery thickened, the soil turning damp and loamy.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  The foliage grew impenetrable in spots, forcing him to detour until he stumbled onto another game trail.

  It led to a murky pond fed by a trickling stream.

  Relieved to have secured a water source, Pawel decided to scout for a campsite.

  Dusk was falling fast.

  "Best keep some distance from the water," he reasoned.

  "Don't want to cross paths with thirsty beasts at night."

  He settled on a nearby clearing, pitched his tent, and gathered firewood, keeping a firm grip on his spear despite the added awkwardness.

  Tugging at a fallen sapling for kindling, he startled as something erupted from the branches—a dark blur of limbs hurtling toward his face.

  He twisted aside just in time, stumbling back several paces. Fumbling with his ackwardly long weapon, he leveled it at the attacker.

  A tense standoff ensued.

  Pawel sized up his foe: a massive jumping spider, its mottled brown-black body as large as his head, cloaked in coarse bristles that trembled with anticipation.

  Eight thick, segmented legs anchored it to the ground, tipped with curved talons that gripped the earth.

  Its cluster of eyes—dominated by two forward-facing black beads—fixed on him with predatory focus, as if calculating his every weakness.

  Pawel had always appreciated arachnids for controlling pests, and jumpers in particular struck him as almost endearing with their inquisitive stares.

  But those were thumbnail-sized; this monstrosity sported fangs like daggers, five centimeters long.

  Shock flooded him, adrenaline surging like fire in his veins.

  The initial evasion had bought a fragile pause, both combatants locked in a wary gaze.

  The creature twitched subtly, angling its body to scrutinize different parts of him—a classic jumper's habit of pivoting to focus.

  The impasse shattered as the arachnid darted sideways, so swift Pawel struggled to track it with his spear.

  It zipped back the other way, testing his reactions.

  Seizing the moment, Pawel lunged forward, thrusting to impale it. But the beast leaped rearward with ease, issuing a hiss like escaping steam.

  Another deadlock.

  After a brief lull, the creature charged low, skittering across the ground.

  Pawel retreated frantically, desperate to keep it from his legs. His foot caught on a root, and he tumbled backward.

  From his fallen position, he swept the spear horizontally, connecting with a solid smack that sent the spider flying.

  It collided with a tree trunk in a resounding thud, tumbling upside down and flailing to right itself.

  Pawel scrambled upright, spotting his opening. He charged, spear poised to pierce—and at the final instant, the beast flipped over and sprang aside.

  No quarter given, Pawel swung wildly.

  SMACK—it evaded, but one leg now dragged, slowing its movements. Another swing—SMACK—miss. SMACK—miss. SMACK! The blow landed true, eliciting a shrill squeal and crumpling its exoskeleton.

  He retracted the spear and drove it home with force. The creature thrashed, ichor oozing onto the shaft and soil, but Pawel pinned it firmly.

  Uncertain how to finish it, he hesitated.

  Releasing the hold risked giving up the advantage, so he dragged the impaled foe toward a hefty branch. One-handed, he wielded the spear like a leash while grasping the makeshift club with the other.

  He battered the arachnid relentlessly, shattering limbs one by one.

  It alternated between hisses and squeals with each strike, tenaciously clinging to life through blow after blow. Only after every leg was mangled and its guts spilled did it finally still.

  Insects proved infuriatingly resilient.

  Despite his fitness, the frenzy of nerves, exertion, and fear left Pawel breathless.

  He slumped down, spear released at last.

  Just as relief beckoned, the corpse erupted into violet mist, billowing toward him.

  "Oh fuck! No! Fuck!" he shouted, crab-walking backward—but the haze overtook him, seeping into his skin and vanishing.