The wind changed. The stinging grit of sand was gone. Gone, too, was the rancid stench of monster blood rotting beneath the scorching sun. The air here smelled of wet stone, a faint trace of perfume, and something entirely repulsive: prosperity.
Before me loomed the towering city gates—a stark dividing line between the hell of the desert and the illusion of civilization.
I stopped just at the boundary of the road.
Behind me lay a long, dragged trench in the sand. Five hundred kilograms of scorpion carapace and pure crystal, wrapped tightly in the hollowed-out hide of a desert worm. On the sand, the dried, mucous-coated skin acted like a sled, minimizing friction. Efficient.
But ahead of me lay the city's main thoroughfare. White cobblestones, laid out with neat, mathematical precision.
Rough. Unforgiving.
A generalist understands basic physics. Dragging a half-ton load on a soft makeshift sled across rough stone was pure stupidity. The coefficient of friction would spike drastically. The resulting heat would tear the hide, ruin the road, and generate noise pollution that would draw the guards' attention for all the wrong reasons.
I let out a breath. The smoke from my cigarette danced for a fleeting moment before being swallowed by the city breeze.
Crouching down, I wedged my shoulder beneath the makeshift rope of monster intestines binding the massive bundle.
My muscles tensed. This body of mine, which passively absorbed any crystal it touched, pumped an unnatural strength through my muscle fibers.
Lift.
"Hmph."
The colossal bundle lifted off the ground. Five hundred kilograms of sheer death now rested squarely on my back. Its massive black shadow swallowed my silhouette, making me look like a solitary ant hauling the carcass of a giant beetle.
I stepped inside.
THUD.
My footsteps were heavy. The paving stones ground softly beneath my boots, bearing a weight that had no business being there.
The crowds parted. Their clean, naive faces drained of color. It wasn't mere awe I saw in their eyes, but a primal dread. It was the fear of herbivores watching a predator drag its kill back to the den.
"Look at that..."
"Is that... a desert worm's hide?"
"He's carrying it all by himself?"
I paid them no mind. My gaze remained fixed straight ahead. At the far end of the thoroughfare, a palace stood arrogantly atop a hill, fronted by a statue of a hero thrusting a sword toward the heavens. A symbol of protection for those who had forgotten how to survive on their own.
A patrol marched past. Their armor was polished to a mirror shine, devoid of a single scratch. Ceremonial weapons.
The illusion of safety, I thought.
They lived in a beautiful soap bubble, blissfully unaware that a single, tiny needle from the outside world could pop it all.