This time, Logan had been thoroughly humbled. He'd underestimated the Blangonga. In the game, it was a comical, if dangerous, obstacle. In reality, it was a force of nature.
But on reflection, it made sense. A silverback gorilla stood under two meters tall and could exert two tons of force. A Blangonga stood nearly ten meters tall and moved with terrifying agility. The raw power difference was astronomical.
The fact that he and Peini had survived a direct hit from the beast was a testament to their own evolved resilience.
The most infuriating part, however, wasn't the injuries. It was the smell. The Blangonga's gas attack had a tenacious, clinging quality. Hours later, the foul, fermented stench still clung to them like a second skin.
This, ironically, offered a silver lining. The overpowering odor masked their blood scent. They moved through the forest like walking stink bombs; any predator that caught a whiff lost its appetite instantly.
Soon, Logan found a refuge beneath the massive, sprawling roots of a great banyan tree. The aerial roots had woven together to form a natural, hollow chamber, spacious enough for them both.
Peini's injuries were lighter—likely just grazed by the swinging arm. She limped but was otherwise functional. She pressed close to Logan, whining softly, and began to gently lick his wounds. The sensation was a mix of sting and strange comfort. He closed his eyes and let his body work.
His enhanced metabolism and regeneration kicked into high gear. White blood cells and clotting agents flooded the damaged areas, dissolving bacteria and forming a tough, protective scab layer.
Miraculously, nothing was broken. By the next day, the bleeding had stopped. By the third, scabs were forming. By the fourth, fresh, pink skin was visible beneath.
His first act upon being mobile was to find a shallow, rocky stream. He scrubbed himself obsessively with sand, mud, and abrasive moss, until the last lingering traces of the foulness were gone.
That pink-furred bastard. This isn't over.
The saying about revenge being a dish best served cold didn't apply. He wasn't human anymore, and he had a long memory. He'd spent his recovery nights plotting.
Direct confrontation was impossible. The size disparity was insurmountable for now. He needed an… alternative approach. Poison? Or perhaps…
His gaze fell on a plant growing from a crack in the streamside rock. Its leaves were a glossy, dark green. From it hung several small, intensely red peppers.
Dragon Peppers. Lore said a single bite felt like a wyvern's fire breath. They were a key ingredient for Hot Drinks.
An idea, deliciously petty and perfect, ignited in his mind. But it required preparation.
With only the basic four Evolution Points from the days of inactivity, he invested them: two into Enhanced Mobility, two into Silent Movement.
The warmth concentrated in his limbs and spine. The elastic tendon-webs around his joints thickened and extended. Thick cords of sinew wrapped his vertebrae from neck to tail. The pads on his feet transformed into a springy composite of fat and dense connective tissue.
The effect was profound. When he moved, kinetic energy from his footfalls and joint flexion was absorbed by these stretched tissues and released back into his next motion. He moved with a new, bounding, almost weightless efficiency—like a superball, gaining height from its own rebound.
While his body adapted, he foraged. Dragon Peppers rarely grew alone. Over two days, he found seven plants, harvesting over a dozen of the viciously red fruits.
He used flat stones to grind the peppers into a fine, fiery paste. Next, he selected a wrist-thick branch. His wrist-scythes made short work of it, stripping the bark and carving one end to a sharp point. He etched deep grooves along its length.
He spent two more points on Manual Dexterity, refining the muscles and nerves in his forepaws until they had an almost human-like precision and grip strength.
He carefully smeared the Dragon Pepper paste into the grooves of the spear, then wrapped the business end in broad leaves to preserve the payload.
That night, the sky was a slate of impenetrable cloud, blotting out moon and stars. A gusty wind soughed through the trees, a portent of coming rain.
Logan nudged Peini, instructing her to stay hidden. Then, coiling his tail around the leaf-wrapped spear, he vanished into the storm-dark forest.
The blackness was perfect cover. The wind masked any sound. He moved with his new, springy gait, a pale ghost flitting through the upper branches.
It didn't take long to return to the Conga territory. He opened his mouth slightly, emitting a pulse of ultrasonic sound. Simultaneously, he switched his vision to infrared.
The sleeping Congas, nestled in the branches, were revealed as orange monkey-shaped blobs. His echolocation painted their positions in his mind.
He ignored them. His padded feet made no sound as he navigated the arboreal highway, avoiding the sentries, delving deeper into the fruiting woods where the king would hold court.
After over an hour of stealthy travel, he found it.
Three massive broadleaf trees grew close together, their branches intertwined by a thick mat of vines, forming a vast, natural hanging nest. In its center, a colossal orange heat signature lay sprawled on its back—the Blangonga. One arm rested on its enormous belly. The sound of its snoring was a low, rhythmic thunder.
The opportunity was perfect. Logan climbed one of the supporting trees, then inched out onto the thick vine network, a tightrope walker in the dark.
He reached the sleeping giant's side. With the delicacy of a surgeon, he used his dexterous forepaws to unwrap the leaf from the tip of his spear, revealing the red-pasted point.
He took aim, not for a lethal spot, but for a very specific, very vulnerable area just above the base of its tail.
He drove the point home with all his strength.
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