Chapter 3: Battle at the River
The water ran calmly, reflecting the sky like a trembling mirror. Lumian stayed crouched, enjoying the cool sensation running down his throat. The child beside him kept drinking with trembling hands until he was satisfied.
For a brief moment, Lumian allowed himself to feel peace.
A moment, nothing more.
Because then he sensed it.
A thick, metallic, humid smell… fresh blood.
He lifted his head immediately, his pupils narrowing like needles. The wind carried the stench from the deeper part of the river. Lumian turned in that direction, every muscle tightening as a chill spread through the forest.
The water began to stir.
First, a barely visible tremor.
Then, a shadow beneath the current.
And finally, it emerged.
The creature rose, creating a wave that drenched the riverbank. Its long, serpentine body resembled an eel, but as thick as a tree trunk. Its skin was black and slick, marked with pulsing red patches. Two enormous membranous fins protruded from its head, beating like wet wings. Its face… was neither fish nor reptile: it was a grotesque distortion of a piranha, with rows of teeth like broken needles.
It was at least six meters long.
And it was hungry.
The monster roared, a gurgling sound that echoed through the water like underwater thunder.
Lumian responded with a roar of his own, deep, vibrating, instinctive. Not a human scream, but the guttural bellow of a beast marking its territory.
The child gave a voiceless squeal and ran to hide among the rocks.
There was no time to think.
No room for doubt.
The nightmare creature lunged forward, splashing water everywhere. Lumian charged back, sinking his legs into the mud, using every bit of momentum his massive body could muster.
The impact was brutal.
The monster shoved him back several meters, sinking its teeth into one of Lumian's four hands. He growled in pain, feeling blood spill, but he didn't release his grip. He tried to tear the creature off with his other hands while his claws sliced into scales hard as wet iron.
The monster writhed like a living whip, striking him.
Lumian lost balance and fell backward, raising a spray of water and dirt.
The eel saw its chance.
Like lightning, it wrapped its long body around Lumian's torso, squeezing with maddening strength. Its side fins clamped around his neck, pressing, crushing, stealing his oxygen.
Lumian felt the world darkening.
His lungs burned.
His muscles trembled.
The creature tightened more.
More.
Until something inside Lumian awoke.
His attribute [Savage Wrath] ignited like wildfire.
His veins burned, his vision turned red.
Air rushed back into his lungs with the force of a storm.
Strength surged all at once.
Lumian opened all four hands and drove his claws deep, piercing scales, flesh, and bone. He pulled with violence—cutting, ripping, tearing apart. The creature shrieked, a horrible sound, almost human… and its body began to come apart in his grasp.
One final pull.
And the eel split in two.
The pieces fell into the river, hitting the water with a heavy splash. Dark blood spread downstream, staining it like a crimson torrent.
Lumian breathed heavily, panting, his body covered in wounds. His chest rose and fell unevenly as the adrenaline slowly faded.
He stayed still for a few more seconds…
Then lifted his head.
The child peeked from behind the rocks, trembling, but with wide-open eyes. He didn't see a monster.
He saw his protector.
Lumian let out a tired snort and dropped to a sitting position, feeling the weight of his body and the bitterness of victory.
He had survived.
Somehow, once again.
As Lumian still caught his breath and watched the monster's blood dye the river, a familiar vibration ran through his mind.
The spell's voice imposed itself like a cold, omnipresent echo.
[You have slain a Fallen Monster: River Stalker]
[You have obtained a Memory: Fisherman's Garb]
Lumian blinked, surprised.
The child gave a small jump, as if he had heard something too, although it was impossible.
The young man—or the beast he had become—followed the line of thought, focusing on the newly obtained memory. As if responding to his intention, lines of golden runes appeared before his eyes.
Memory: [Fisherman's Garb]
Memory Rank: Awakened
Memory Level: IV
Memory Type: [Armor]
Description:
In a cabin lost among the woods lived a man devoted to fishing. He loved the river, the silence… and his family more than his own life.
One day, he took his wife and children to fish. But in those waters lurked a monster that devoured them without leaving a trace.
Consumed by rage and grief, the fisherman abandoned his trade and began hunting every beast dwelling in rivers, lakes, or coasts. From his kills, he crafted a resistant suit, waiting for the day he would find the creature that took his family.
Lumian froze.
The story was so detailed it felt like a tiny fragment of a real life.
A piece of tragedy turned into power.
The spell always plays with memories… always with pain, he thought.
But in that moment, he was grateful for the equipment, even one loaded with so much sorrow.
At least he wouldn't be naked anymore.
He remembered how the characters in the novel summoned their memories. It wasn't a complicated spell nor an ability: it was a mix of will and calling.
Lumian closed his eyes and thought of the Fisherman's Garb.
He called it.
Bluish sparks appeared around his body, running over him like a liquid mantle. The lights traveled along his limbs, shoulders, torso, covering him completely… then dissipated like foam carried by the wind.
Lumian looked down.
He was no longer naked or covered only in blood and mud.
He wore a dark blue tunic, deep as a stormy ocean. Over it, plates as hard as reinforced coral protected his chest, arms, and legs. His waist was covered with fragments resembling crafted scales.
The most surprising part was how the suit had adapted to his colossal, quadrupedal, monstrous body, as if the memory had been designed for him from the start. There was no awkwardness in the fit, no discomfort.
Only functionality.
Lumian exhaled slowly.
At least now he looked less… vulnerable.
A soft rustle made him turn his head.
The nearby bushes swayed.
The child stepped out, slowly, feet muddy and hands trembling. He watched Lumian's new appearance with a mixture of surprise and reverent fear.
He approached a few steps.
Stopped.
Took two more, hesitant.
Lumian watched calmly. He didn't growl. He didn't move.
He just waited.
And little by little, the child gathered enough courage to approach his leg, reach out with a trembling hand…
…and touch the edge of the blue tunic.
He withdrew immediately, as if he had committed a forbidden act.
But in his eyes, Lumian saw something new.
Trust.
Lumian lowered himself a bit, placing one of his four hands on the ground. He wanted to make it clear he posed no threat. The child approached again, more confidently this time.
Then the bushes on the opposite side burst open.
Something else was approaching.
And the smell… Lumian detected it instantly. It was a salty, dry scent, with a faint hint of blood and iron.
He had smelled it before—when he encountered the hunters.
Shit, Lumian thought. The hunters had arrived because of the noise from the fight, and they would attack him on sight. He had to think fast.
He looked around. He could run back into the forest, but he would leave tracks and they would follow. Lumian studied the trees: their branches were large and their leaves big enough to hide him.
Quickly, Lumian grabbed the child with one of his four arms while using the other three to climb the tree.
Once on the upper branches, he crouched. The child was smart—he stayed silent.
Lumian lowered his body, blending in like another branch.
Almost a minute passed before a group of hunters arrived, wearing metal armor.
By their equipment and smell, Lumian could tell only one of them was dangerous—the leader, no doubt.
Lumian strained to listen to their conversation, and managed.
He held his breath—or whatever his new body did instead—remaining still among the dark leaves. The child, pressed against his side, understood the danger with almost animal instinct; no trembling, no whimpering, only waiting.
Voices came with the metallic clinking of armor.
"Here it happened," said one of the hunters, a burly man with a thick beard. "The water's still stained… by the gods, this was a massacre."
Another, younger, frowned as he inspected the ground scarred by the fight.
"There's no trace of the other beast," he murmured. "Do you think it's still around?"
Before the bearded man could answer, a firmer voice cut in. The leader.
He wore a black iron breastplate engraved with runes and a dark green cloak, silent as a predator. His scent was different from the rest: more concentrated, more dangerous. Awakened. Without doubt.
"Listen," the leader said, crouching to examine a deep mark in the damp earth. "This matches the reports from the previous group. The forest beast. The same that attacked them yesterday."
The bearded man swallowed hard.
"But it escaped, right? They said it fled wounded in this direction."
The leader nodded, touching the mark with his fingers.
"Injured and weakened. It couldn't have gone far. Besides—" he looked around, his instinct sharp as a blade "—these tracks are fresh. Very fresh."
The hunters tensed.
"You think it's still nearby?" the young one asked.
"I don't think," the leader growled softly. "I know."
He stood, his gaze sweeping the trees, slow and precise like a wolf's. Lumian felt a shiver crawl up his spine. The child's heart skipped too.
"Our comrade died yesterday," the awakened man continued. "And I'm not returning without the head of the creature that killed him. We finish this today. Split into pairs. Look for blood trails, recent wounds, new marks. Anything."
The group murmured agreement.
Lumian clenched his teeth. They're following your scent, he realized. They're truly hunting you.
The leader gave the final order:
"Move. The beast can't be far."
The hunters dispersed among the trees, checking roots, trunks, and prints in the damp earth.
When the last one disappeared, Lumian finally allowed his body to relax just a little. The child peered downward with wide, round eyes. Lumian adjusted him silently, preparing to descend in another direction.
He couldn't stay there. He couldn't let them track him.
The night was still against him… but the forest wasn't.
Lumian climbed down slowly, his movements silent like a seasoned predator. He needed to get away before the awakened hunter found something the others couldn't.
And as his feet touched the ground, a dangerous but necessary idea formed in his mind:
Running wouldn't be enough.
Sooner or later he would have to face them…
or hunt them first.