Vale turned to face the centipedes as they rushed toward him through the sand.
His spear dragged behind him, its tip carving a slow, deliberate line across the desert floor. At first glance, his posture might have seemed careless, almost relaxed, but that illusion shattered the moment one understood what survival in this place demanded.
This hell did not forgive hesitation.
Vale had learned to adapt. To observe. To dissect his enemies until weakness revealed itself. Every hunt demanded readiness for the unexpected, every breath carried the promise of sudden violence.
Until now, he had only fought scorpions.
These creatures were different.
They were easier prey, yes, but no less lethal. One mistake, one mistimed step, and those mandibles would tear him apart. Their strength was undeniable. Their speed was terrifying.
But as that thought settled, Vale let out a faint smile.
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat and inhaled slowly.
Then he leaned back.
A centipede launched itself straight for his head.
Vale twisted sharply, eyes snapping open as he drove his spear upward. The blade pierced cleanly through the creature's exposed underbelly. It died instantly, its body collapsing midair and crashing into the sand in a spray of black blood.
A second centipede surged in from the side.
Vale jumped.
For a fraction of a second, his body was suspended between the corpse of the first and the charging bulk of the second. He twisted midair, landed hard, and planted his feet just as movement flickered at the edge of his vision.
He released his right hand from the spear.
His mechanical arm snapped out and caught a third centipede by one of its mandibles.
The creature was powerful, strong enough to drag Vale several meters across the sand, but his stance never broke. In one fluid motion, he shifted his grip, leveled the spear, and drove it forward, stabbing straight through the creature's mouth.
It roared once.
Then went still.
"Two more," Vale muttered under his breath.
A centipede charged from behind.
Vale pivoted and delivered a brutal sucker punch with his metallic arm. The impact sent the creature flying off course, its body tumbling across the sand. Another lunged from the side.
Vale ducked low, twisted, and thrust his spear upward, impaling it cleanly. He ripped the blade free and turned to face the last of the four.
The centipede shook its head, stunned.
The punch hadn't hurt it much, Vale knew that. But if he'd struck it with his organic hand instead, the result would have been disastrous. The carapace would have shattered bone long before he dealt any damage.
Vale began to circle it slowly, spear dragging behind him once more.
Predator and prey.
The centipede recovered and roared, charging in blind fury.
Vale laughed weakly and raised his spear. "A worm has better survival instincts than you."
The creature slammed into the spear with its mouth wide open.
It killed itself before it ever reached him.
Vale retrieved his weapon as black blood dripped from the blade, soaking into the sand and darkening it further. He stared at the bodies for a moment, then let out a quiet sigh and slid the spear back into its holster.
"Why?" he murmured.
Why were these creatures so determined to kill him and Eskar? Why did they throw themselves at danger without hesitation? Their carapace was strong, but their underbellies were completely exposed. A single well-placed strike ended them instantly.
They had to know that.
And yet, they didn't care.
The behavior unsettled him.
These weren't the instincts of ordinary predators. What they displayed, this utter disregard for self-preservation, were traits reserved for true apex creatures. Beings without natural counters. Without fear. Without equals.
The realization struck like a blade.
Vale's eyes widened as he turned sharply toward Drago. "Sir," he said, voice tight, "you said their bellies were vulnerable because of their age. Right?"
Drago surveyed the battlefield, then nodded slowly. "That's right."
Vale swallowed. "Then… how old were they?"
Silence stretched between them.
Behind them, the wyvern crushed the final centipede beneath its claws, the sound echoing across the desert.
Finally, Drago spoke. "A week old."
Vale exhaled deeply.
That explained everything.
They were infants. Too young to understand fear. Too young to learn restraint. Their adult forms were likely true apex predators, and worse, they were probably born into dominance so absolute that survival instincts were unnecessary.
Even predators had to learn caution.
But only with time.
Vale turned toward Eskar, sighing as Eskar tossed him the onyx blade. Vale caught it cleanly by the handle and sheathed it without a word.
Then he faced Drago again. "Who was their parent?"
Drago hesitated before answering, his voice reluctant. "The Fifth Monarch. The Crawling Death."
Vale's eyes widened briefly before he closed them, irritation flickering across his face. "Will she come after us for killing her offspring?"
Drago shrugged and turned away, already moving. "Probably not. The Fifth Monarch mass-produces eggs. Losing a brood like this won't matter to her."
Vale watched the guardian for a moment as it devoured the remains of the fallen centipedes, then rolled his eyes.
The creatures themselves didn't concern him anymore.
Their parent did.
If a Monarch ever came for them, there would be no clever tactics. No exploitable weaknesses. No running.
Vale turned and followed Drago.
Whoever Drago was, he was extraordinary, and right now, he was their only chance of survival.
Vale glanced at Eskar, who had already returned to his usual silence.
It was strange how quickly calm settled after such violence. Stranger still that he was beginning to accept it.
This was his reality now.
And all he could do was live with it.
The three of them continued walking for a long time, pressing onward until night fell once more and the desert cooled beneath the darkened sky.
When they finally stopped, Vale dropped down onto the sand with a heavy sigh, his muscles aching in protest. He leaned back on his hands for a moment before turning his head toward Eskar.
"Hey," Vale said, his voice rough with exhaustion. "You got any water?"
Eskar glanced at him and nodded. He reached into his cloth armor and pulled out a small metal container. Strangely enough, the armor was still mostly intact, much like it had been when they first arrived. There were tears here and there, frayed edges from battles survived, but nothing catastrophic.
Vale's armor told a different story.
The leather was scuffed and cracked in places, metal plating scratched and dented from repeated impacts. It had protected him well, but the wear was undeniable.
Vale accepted the bottle gratefully, unscrewed the cap, and drank deeply. The water was warm, but he didn't care. He drank until his thirst finally eased, then closed the container and handed it back.
"Thanks," he muttered.
He studied Eskar for a moment longer than necessary. Something was off, something that had nothing to do with wounds or fatigue. Eskar sat quietly, staring out into the dark, his usual composure muted.
Vale hesitated, then spoke. "Hey… is something wrong?" he asked carefully. "You've been really quiet lately."
Eskar turned his head slightly, his eyes a bit wider than usual, as if caught off guard by the question. He didn't answer right away.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I guess you could say that."
Vale straightened a little. "What is it?"
Eskar moved closer and sat down about a meter away. He rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the sand between his boots. The silence stretched, long enough that Vale wondered if he'd pushed too far.
Then Eskar spoke.
"There's someone I'm worried about."
Vale blinked, surprised. "Really? Who?"
Eskar swallowed. His fingers tightened briefly, then relaxed. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, uncertain in a way Vale had never heard from him before.
"It's Nova," he said. "I think…"
He paused, as if testing the words before letting them go.
"I think I'm in love with her."