Logan stood on the branch, his gaze a cold promise. He struck first, becoming a white blur of motion. His claws and tail-strike scythed through the chattering horde. Conga after Conga was battered from the trees, their shrieks of pain echoing through the green twilight.
Then, a new roar shook the canopy.
From deep in the forest, a crashing, thundering approach. Leaves exploded outward as a massive figure bulled its way through. It was a Conga, but magnified to a terrifying scale. Over ten meters long, with limbs like tree trunks and a belly swollen like a giant fermentation vat. The signature yellow head-crest had been hardened with resin into a sharp, conical horn.
A Blangonga.
The true king of the troop.
Logan's focus narrowed to a razor's edge. The creature looked ridiculous, but its power was no joke. It moved with shocking speed for its bulk, leaping between colossal branches like a grotesque, pink-furred meteor. It zeroed in on Logan and launched itself in a crushing, aerial body slam.
Logan was already moving. He pushed off, his feline agility carrying him to a neighboring tree as the Blangonga descended.
CRACK-BOOOM!
The branch Logan had stood on—a meter thick—snapped like a dry twig under the impact. The King and the shattered wood plummeted to the forest floor in a shower of splinters and leaves.
The Blangonga rolled and was back on its feet instantly, shaking off debris. It fixed its beady, furious eyes on Logan and roared. The sound was a physical force, shaking leaves from nearby trees.
Logan knew this was a different order of threat. That size meant overwhelming power. He couldn't afford a single mistake.
He began to move, using the complex lattice of branches as his arena, staying light, staying mobile. The Blangonga gave chase, its leaps causing the entire section of forest to shudder. It was terrifyingly agile for its mass.
Suddenly, the King halted. It glared at Logan, a low, guttural sound rumbling in its chest. Then, it began to beat its massive fists against its torso—THUMP-THUMP-THUMP—a primal drumbeat.
The scattered, surviving Congas reacted instantly. They scrambled, not to flee, but to gather ammunition. Nuts, stones, broken branches—anything heavy was scooped up and hurled in a concentrated barrage toward Logan's position.
The air became a deadly storm of projectiles. Logan twisted and dodged, but he was a large target. Impacts thwacked against his scales. They didn't pierce, but the cumulative force was draining, and his enhanced senses were overwhelmed by the chaos.
He needed a plan. A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention.
Peini.
The foolish, brave whelp had circled around, trying to flank the Blangonga. Before Logan could issue a mental command to stop, she lunged, aiming for the giant ape's hamstring.
The Blangonga sensed her. It spun with surprising speed, one massive arm swinging in a backhanded swipe. The blow caught Peini mid-air, sending her tumbling across the forest floor with a pained yelp.
Something in Logan snapped.
He stopped evading. He charged toward the monster.
As he closed the distance, he leapt, his wrist-scythes extending with lethal intent, aimed for the thick neck. The Blangonga raised an arm to block. The blades bit deep into flesh and muscle, spraying blood.
The King roared in pain and rage, its other fist hammering down. Logan twisted aside, the blow missing him by inches. His tail stabbed forward, aiming for the soft underbelly, but the Blangonga shifted its bulk, and the spike only scored a shallow line across the tough hide.
The fight became a brutal exchange. Logan was faster, his weapons sharper. The Blangonga was stronger, tougher, and terrifyingly resilient.
Can't keep this up. Peini's hurt.
He needed a finish. He gathered himself, muscles coiling for a decisive assault. The Blangonga seemed to sense the shift, bracing itself.
Logan launched like a white javelin, scythes leading. The Blangonga roared, raising both fists for a colossal, crushing slam.
Then, a new, horrific scent hit Logan's nostrils—a foul, acrid, eye-watering stench that cut through the forest smells.
He realized the danger a second too late.
The Blangonga pivoted with a grunt, its backside now facing Logan's charge.
BRRRRAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPTT!
A thunderous, obscene sound erupted. A thick, yellow-green cloud of noxious gas billowed forth, a miasma of pure, fermented corruption.
Logan had no time to react. He flew straight into the cloud.
The world dissolved into a burning, choking haze. The stench was overpowering, a physical assault that made his head swim and his eyes stream. Visibility dropped to zero.
Through the fog, a massive arm materialized. It swung horizontally, connecting with Logan's side with the force of a falling tree.
WHUMP.
The impact lifted him off his feet. He crashed into the trunk of an ancient tree with a sickening crunch, the wood groaning in protest. He slid to the ground, leaves and bark raining down around him.
Agony bloomed across his ribs. His pristine white scales were cracked and shattered in places, oozing blood. A coppery taste filled his mouth.
A limping, whimpering shape nudged his side. Peini. Her eyes were wide with pain and fear.
The message was clear. They had lost. To stay was to die.
Logan pushed himself up, every movement a firebrand of pain. He nudged Peini with his battered head—follow—and turned away from the clearing.
He didn't run. He couldn't. He half-stumbled, half-dragged himself into the deeper gloom of the forest, Peini hobbling beside him.
Behind them, the Blangonga let out a final, triumphant bellow. Another, smaller puff of yellow gas punctuated its victory. As a territorial herbivore, driving off the threat was enough. It did not pursue.
They fled, two wounded creatures, the scent of their blood a new danger painting a trail through the primeval woods.