Time flowed like the quiet stream. Days slipped by.
Each night, Logan returned to the shimmering creek, using his venom to harvest crustaceans. The calcium-rich diet accelerated the regeneration of his scales.
One morning, as the first rays of sunlight pierced his den, the dull grey sheath covering his body finally began to peel away in large sheets.
The new scales beneath gleamed in the dawn light. Fortified by extra protein and calcium, they were thicker, broader, and a shade darker, each one rounded and glossy like a black pearl. Their overlapping, shingled arrangement provided a new level of integrated defense.
He stretched, listening to the satisfying, dry rustle of scale against scale. His reflection in the stream now showed a creature with the beginnings of a predator's formidable presence.
His body had grown further during his recovery, his total length now nearing two meters. His torso was more powerful, his limbs thick with muscle. His long tail swayed like a serpent behind him, the foot-long black spike at its tip a promise of lethality.
All the Evolution Points earned during this period had been distributed evenly across his physical attributes, reinforcing bone density, muscle fiber strength, and organ efficiency.
This newfound strength gave him the confidence to revisit the Pteryx cliffs. This time, he would strike at night.
As the sun sank toward the horizon like a perfect molten yolk, staining the clouds orange and red, the Pteryx began returning to their roosts. The cliffs became a cacophony of shrill cries. They tore at the day's catch, scattering fish scales, and defecated freely. The sea wind carried the potent stench downwind.
Disgusting creatures. The ones on the upper ledges are fine, but the lower tenants must live in constant fear of aerial bombardment.
Gagging, Logan relocated to a spot upwind.
When the sun finally vanished beneath the waves, the cliffs grew quieter. Though the stars were brilliant, for the visually-dependent Pteryx, it was still too dark for clear sight.
He waited two more hours for full confidence before beginning his ascent. His hooked claws found purchase on cracks and outcrops as he scaled the rock face in utter silence.
He soon reached a ledge. An adult Pteryx was curled in its nest, its long neck tucked under a wing, chest rising and falling gently with sleep, oblivious.
At the perfect distance, Logan's tail snapped forward. The spike traced a black arc in the moonlight, plunging into the delicate joint where the Pteryx's wing membrane met its shoulder. Tail muscles contracted, injecting a full dose of venom.
SKREEEEE!
The Pteryx awoke with a shriek of agony. Its right wing jerked spasmodically. It tried to beat its good wing to take off or strike, but the neurotoxin disrupted its coordination. It stumbled, unbalanced.
Logan didn't give it a chance. He launched himself from the cliff wall, landing squarely in the nest. He braced against a wild, flailing wing-strike and slammed his full weight into the creature.
The Pteryx, built for flight, was absurdly light—maybe ten kilograms. Logan, at nearly thirty, was a battering ram in comparison. The impact sent the bird-wyvern tumbling off the ledge.
It beat its wings frantically in the air, but the damaged, poisoned wing refused to cooperate. It crashed to the ground below with a sickening crunch, a wing bone snapping, a white shard piercing through the membrane.
Logan scrambled down after it. Seeing it still struggling, he ended it swiftly—his long canines found the gap between vertebrae in its slender neck and severed the spinal cord. He then dragged the corpse away into the night. From the cliffs above, alarmed cries rose briefly, then faded back into uneasy silence.
He hauled the Pteryx to the stretch of stream where he'd seen the Hermitaur. With a claw, he slit the belly open and tossed the unwanted entrails into the water.
The scent of blood spread, attracting small fish and tiny crustaceans. The Hermitaur did not appear. Logan wasn't concerned. He settled on the bank to eat his fill.
Beyond the breast meat and select organs, the Pteryx offered little—mostly hollow bones and stringy meat. All the scraps and remains went into the water. Whether the crab came or not, he was establishing a pattern, building a lure.
In the following days, this spot became his designated "feeding ground."
Each night, he brought offerings—picked-clean Pteryx skeletons, rodent offal, even scraps scavenged from an Anjanath's abandoned kill. These "gifts" accumulated on the stream bed, creating a small, nutrient-rich ecosystem.
Patience was rewarded on the seventh night.
As Logan dropped another offering, the water's surface rippled unnervingly. The usual swarm of small fish vanished in a panic.
In the moonlight, a large, dark shape detached itself from the silty bottom and rose—the Hermitaur, its crimson carapace now speckled with glowing algae. Its massive claws seemed to gleam with a dull red sheen.
The crustacean approached cautiously. Its right pincer, the smaller one, reached out and clamped onto a Pteryx bone with a distinctive click-clack. The rusted shield on its back shifted with the motion, the faded guild emblem just visible in the pale light.
Logan held his breath, his tail going rigid. The waiting game was over.
He produced his own dinner—a fresh Pteryx liver. He had prepared a long, thin vine cord. Tying one end to the liver, he tossed the morsel into the water near the crab.
The scent of blood and rich fat was irresistible. The Hermitaur dropped the bone and turned toward the new prize.
Logan began to slowly, gently pull on the vine, reeling the bait back toward the shore. He controlled the speed, making it a tantalizing, retreating feast. He himself retreated into a thick stand of riverside shrubs.
The lure of easy food, combined with the established pattern of free meals, had dulled the Hermitaur's caution. It began to follow, climbing out of the water and onto the sandy bank, one heavy, deliberate step at a time.
Soon, it was at the very edge of the shrubs, its compound eyes fixed on the prize just beyond the foliage.
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