Stung by its recent scare, the Hermitaur had become skittish, lurking in the deep, dark water. It wasn't until the fifth day that a ripple finally broke the surface, revealing its domed carapace.
This time, it was far more cautious. It nibbled at the food scraps while its stalked eyes swiveled constantly, scanning for any sign of danger. The slightest rustle in the bushes would send it scuttling back into the safety of the depths.
Logan was a model of patience. He simply maintained the daily ritual. Complacency bred in comfort, even for animals. The crab knew only that a free meal arrived reliably. It didn't realize it was being coaxed, day by day, closer and closer to the shore.
Tonight was the culmination. The Hermitaur emerged from the deep channel as usual, its eight sharp legs carrying it with a slow, deliberate crawl toward the shallows.
The bait tonight was placed just a little farther up the bank. As the crab closed in, its rounded shell broke the water's surface. It failed to notice the unusually thick, dense clump of "weeds" on the nearby shore, swaying gently in the night breeze.
Logan, hidden within the foliage, didn't blink. His focus was absolute. The moment the crab's attention locked wholly on the food, he struck.
He exploded from the brush. His powerful legs launched him in a perfect, arcing pounce aimed directly at the center of the crab's exposed back.
Cold moonlight washed over his obsidian scales. His tail spike gleamed. Beneath his skin, his electrocytes hummed with pent-up energy.
The Hermitaur sensed movement and tried to rear back. It was too late.
Logan's body—now nearly forty kilograms of hardened muscle and bone—slammed onto its carapace. The impact drove the crab's legs down, mashing its underbelly into the silt and sending up a cloud of mud.
Panic seized the crustacean. Its claws flailed wildly, trying to reach the predator on its back, but its own anatomy made its carapace a defensive fortress it couldn't attack.
Logan swiped a heavy paw at a probing pincer. Claws met chitin with a sharp crack that echoed in the silence.
Then, he unleashed his true weapon.
The stored electrical potential discharged. An invisible wave of current pulsed from his body, racing through the water—the perfect conductor. It engulfed the Hermitaur in an instant.
The effect was catastrophic. The crab's body went rigid, then convulsed violently. Its legs thrashed in uncontrolled spasms, utterly disabling it.
In that window of paralysis, Logan's tail rose like a scorpion's sting. It whipped over his head in a dark arc and plunged downward, aiming not for the armored shell, but for the vulnerable, fleshy joint of an eye stalk.
The needle-sharp tip pierced the thin membrane with ease. The thirty-centimeter spike drove deep into the crab's internal cavity.
Tail muscles contracted. A full dose of neuro- and hemotoxin flooded directly into its core.
The Hermitaur's convulsions intensified into a final, violent shudder, then stilled.
A blue notification appeared.
Slayed Hermitaur. Evolution Points +2.
He bit down on one of the creature's spindly legs and hauled the heavy carcass onto the bank. Shaking water from his scales, he turned his attention to the prize: the shield.
It was fused to the carapace by a layer of thick, rubbery adhesive. It took considerable effort to pry it loose. He washed it in the stream, scrubbing away loose silt and rust with a wad of coarse grass until the metal was as clean as centuries of submersion would allow.
The long erosion had blurred the design etched into its surface. Only the faint outline of a sun-like emblem remained.
Is that from the First or Second Fleet?
He scratched his head. The lore from his game life was frustratingly vague when applied to tangible reality.
Doesn't matter. The important thing is confirmation—Astera is established. I don't have to worry about Zorah Magdaros's migration or that cataclysmic storm... yet.
He set the historical puzzle aside. More immediate concerns awaited: dinner.
He'd never eaten a crab this large. In his past life, this would have been a luxury worth a small fortune.
Reality quickly tempered his enthusiasm. Crustaceans were famously shell-heavy and meat-light, with minimal fat. While shrimp had plump tails, crabs were mostly legwork for little reward.
It was a laborious process, dismantling the Hermitaur. The meat from the massive claws and the scant bit of "crab butter" inside the main shell were decent. The rest was mostly disappointment.
A small consolation arrived: Consumed Hermitaur Flesh. Evolution Points +1.
Three points total. He knew exactly what to invest in next: an organ many in his past life had desperately tried to reduce.
Fat.
For an animal, a guaranteed daily meal was a fantasy. Seasons of plenty were always followed by lean times. Fat was the ultimate survival buffer—energy stored during abundance to be burned during scarcity.
Logan didn't know if the New World had harsh winters, but he vividly remembered the ravenous, gut-wrenching hunger that accompanied major evolution. A dense, efficient energy reserve would make that process far more tolerable.
The familiar warmth gathered in his subcutaneous layer. The soft, white adipose tissue began a miraculous transformation. It was as if subjected to immense heat and pressure, melting and condensing toward a central, more organized structure.
The fluffy fat morphed into a dense, semi-solid gel. His recently filled-out frame visibly slimmed down as the volume of his energy stores condensed.
When the change was complete, his body fat had been converted into a thin layer of high-energy gel. It was incredibly efficient, packing more potential calories into less space. More than just fuel, its tough, elastic nature added a new layer of impact-absorbing padding beneath his scales.
Combined with his hyper-efficient digestive system, he could now gorge himself and potentially go a week or more without another meal—a formidable survival advantage.
---