Stay calm. Think. He strained against the bonds. Useless. The webbing felt like flexible steel cables. He tried to focus his internal awareness, access his status. The purple tinged interface flickered weakly.
~ Character Status: Luke Renoka ~
~ Level: 9 ~
~ HP: 14/100 ~
~ MP: 5/85 (Slowly regenerating) ~
~ Stamina: Critically Low ~
~ Status Effects: Snared (Severe), Bleeding (Moderate), Suffocating (Minor) ~
~ NOTE: PERMANENT DEATH ACTIVE. RESPAWN UNAVAILABLE. ~
His blood ran cold. 14 HP. Suffocating. His chest burned. The flashing notification a stark reminder: No respawn. If he died here, truly died, trapped and helpless in this sticky tomb, Jason and Irara were doomed. His sacrifice, Jason’s sacrifice, would be for nothing.
A surge of desperate adrenaline cut through the fog of pain and exhaustion. He couldn’t give up. He wouldn’t die like this. He tested the bindings again, searching for any give, any weak point. His right arm was pinned tight against his side, but his left, the one that had dropped the Anelace, had slightly more wiggle room near his hip where his remaining dagger was sheathed.
Could he reach it?
He strained, twisting his torso fractions of an inch, muscles screaming in protest, the webbing cutting into his skin. His fingers brushed the worn leather hilt. Almost. He contorted further, ignoring the agony lancing through his side. His fingertips closed around the grip.
Slowly, painstakingly, he began to draw the his remaining Analace Dagger. The serrated edge caught on the tough webbing. He froze, listening. The chittering outside the cocoon seemed distant now. Had they left him? Or were they waiting? He couldn’t risk making noise.
He changed tactics, using the tip of the dagger, pressing it against the strand binding his wrist. He sawed back and forth, tiny, agonizingly slow movements. The blade was sharp, designed to pierce chitin, but the webbing was unnervingly resilient. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool dampness of the cocoon. Minutes stretched into an eternity.
He saw flashing notifications – Status Effect: Suffocating (Minor) – but mentally shoved them aside with a surge of frustrated panic. The System stating the obvious was useless when his own body was screaming the truth far more effectively. His lungs burned, aching with a desperate need for air they couldn’t draw. Each shallow, frantic heave of his chest met the unyielding, vice like compression of the hardened webbing wrapped tightly around his ribs. It felt like being crushed slowly, the pressure radiating outwards, making his vision swim. Black spots began to dance at the edges of his sight, coalescing, threatening to swallow the dim light filtering through the translucent strands. The muffled chittering from outside faded into a dull roar dominated by the frantic, panicked hammering of his own heart against his sternum. A dull throb started behind his eyes, escalating quickly towards a blinding pressure. Got… to… cut… free… The thought was fragmented, desperate. His movements with the dagger became jerky, less controlled, fueled by pure survival instinct. Finally, rewarded by sheer, agonizing effort against the tightening darkness, a single strand parted with a faint, decisive snap. Hope, sharp and desperately needed, surged through the fog of oxygen deprivation, momentarily clearing the encroaching blackness. He worked faster now, fueled by that small victory, sawing at the next strand, then the next, ignoring the screaming protest of oxygen starved muscles. Slowly, painstakingly, he freed his left hand from the sticky prison. Relief washed over him, so potent it left him lightheaded, the world tilting dizzily as precious air began, just barely, to seep back into his tortured lungs.
Now for the rest. Wedging the Analace tip beneath the thick, hardened bands crisscrossing his chest felt like trying to thread a needle in the dark while being strangled. The angle was atrocious, forcing his freed left arm into an unnatural contortion. With limited leverage, each sawing motion was short, jerky, inefficient. The dagger’s point scraped against his own Wanderer’s Cuirass, sending useless sparks fizzling in the gloom. Worse, the blade occasionally slipped, the poisoned tip digging uncomfortably close to his ribs, sending jolts of fear through his already frayed nerves.
He worked with painstaking slowness, teeth gritted, ignoring the fire screaming in his arm and shoulder muscles. The black spots pulsed at the edge of his vision, threatening to return, fueled by the exertion and the still restricted airflow. Sweat, cold and clammy despite the suffocating closeness, stung his eyes. Careful. Slow. Each parted fiber of the webbing felt like a monumental victory against the crushing weight and the encroaching darkness.
Finally, with a louder snap, the last thick strand across his sternum gave way. His chest expanded violently as his lungs spasmed, dragging in a ragged, desperate breath. Raw, cold air rushed in, glorious and agonizing all at once, making him cough uncontrollably for a moment. The crushing pressure eased. In his internal awareness, the angry red Status Effect: Suffocating (Minor) notification flickered and vanished. Progress.
He forced himself to pause, just for a heartbeat, letting his hammering heart slow fractionally, allowing the precious oxygen to penetrate the fog in his brain. He strained his ears, listening intently past the ringing sound his own blood made. The chittering outside wasn’t distant anymore. It was louder, sharper, accompanied by distinct skittering sounds, the scrape of chitin on… webbing? Clicking mandibles, seemingly right outside his cocoon. They’re close. They haven’t left.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Panic, sharp and galvanizing, spurred him into renewed, frantic action. No more careful sawing. He hacked now, less precise, driven by the urgent need to be free before they decided to tear open the cocoon themselves. He attacked the strands around his thighs, the tough fibers resisting, forcing him to put his full, albeit weakened, strength behind each cut. Then, twisting awkwardly, he reached the bindings immobilizing his right arm, sawing with desperate speed until, finally, it too came free.
Just as he freed his right hand, a new sensation registered. A faint vibration through the ground beneath his cocoon. Footsteps? Heavy ones. And… voices? Human voices? Hope warred with fear. Rescuers? Or scavengers?
He sawed frantically at the last strands holding him captive. He needed to be free, armed, ready for whatever was coming. He pushed himself out of the sticky remnants of the cocoon just as light spilled into his prison. He blinked, eyes watering, as the webbing was torn open from the outside.
“By the Maker’s anvil! What is that?” a rough voice exclaimed.
Luke scrambled backwards, bringing his remaining Pincer Dagger up defensively, blinking against the sudden brightness. Standing in the breach were five figures clad in Jefferson Imperium blue, swords and shields raised, faces grim. And among them, looking shocked but immensely relieved, was Lestor.
“Luke!” Lestor cried, rushing forward, pushing past the cautious soldiers. “You’re alive! We found your dagger back there… thought the bugs had finished you for sure!”
Relief, potent and overwhelming, washed over Luke, making his knees buckle. “Lestor why’re you here?”
“Saw one of yer daggers up on the plains.” Lestor gripped his shoulder, steadying him. “Couldn’t leave you out here.” He looked Luke over, his expression shifting to alarm. “Maker’s breath, you look like hell warmed over. Mark, the potion!”
Mark, the jovial veteran Luke recognized from the camp, quickly produced a small vial filled with swirling, iridescent liquid. “Here ya go, lad. Imperial Field Draught. Heals you up right quick, fills yer mana too. Down the hatch.”
Luke hesitated, eyeing the potion warily.
“Trust me,” Mark insisted. “Standard issue. Works wonders. Got a hell of a cooldown though, locks you out from other potions for a day or two, so make it count.”
Luke nodded gratefully and drank. The potion tasted vaguely of berries and ozone. Instantly, warmth spread through his body, knitting wounds, soothing aches. His HP and Mana bars surged back to full in his internal awareness. The exhaustion lessened, replaced by renewed vigor.
~ Status Effects Cleared:~
~ HP Restored: 100/100 ~
~ MP Restored: 85/85 ~
~ Stamina Restored ~
~ New Status Effect: Potion Cooldown (Severe - 48 hours) ~
“Better?” Lestor asked.
“Much,” Luke confirmed, feeling almost human again. He looked around. They were inside a large, hollowed out mound, clearly one of the main Formica chambers. Sticky webbing coated the walls, and the air hummed with latent insectoid energy.
“Alright, enough reunions,” Mark interrupted, his voice businesslike again. “We stirred the nest coming in here. Soldiers are reporting Formica swarming the entrance tunnel. We need to move, now.” He handed Luke back the recovered Anelace dagger. Luke sheathed it gratefully across his back alongside its twin, the familiar weight settling him.
Just as Mark spoke, the chittering outside intensified into a furious roar. Formica Soldiers began pouring into the chamber from multiple tunnels Luke hadn’t noticed before.
“Formation!” Redwood bellowed, his massive axe whistling as he cleaved the first soldier in half. Silva and Hark raised their shields, forming a defensive line beside him.
“Luke, stay back!” Lestor yelled, unleashing a fireball that engulfed three more attackers. “We’ll handle this!”
But Luke shook his head. He owed these men, owed Lestor. He wouldn’t hide. He drew the Calista's Analace, the poisoned tips gleaming. “We fight together.”
He activated Basic Evasion and darted forward, weaving around Redwood’s massive form. He used Synaptic on a charging Soldier, the purple pulse causing it to stumble sluggishly. He followed up with Distortion on another, its movements becoming erratic. Then he lunged, daggers flashing, exploiting the openings created by his skills and the soldiers’ defense.
He stabbed a slowed Soldier in the eye joint, dodged under a distorted one’s wild mandible snap, and slashed the leg tendons of another trying to flank Hark. He wasn’t a frontline fighter, but he could disrupt, disable, create chaos. He focused on applying the Pincer Daggers’ poison, letting the venom do its work while the soldiers delivered killing blows.
The fight was fierce but short lived. The Imperium soldiers were experienced, working together seamlessly. Redwood was a whirlwind of destruction, his axe carving huge chunks out of the swarm. Mark fought with disciplined efficiency, shield blocking, sword finding gaps. Hark and Silva held the line stoically, repelling attackers. Lestor’s fireballs provided devastating area control. And Luke, using his unique skills, acted as a force multiplier, debuffing enemies, creating openings, finishing off the wounded.
Within minutes, the chamber floor was littered with dozens of twitching Formica carcasses. The soldiers were breathing heavily, but mostly unharmed.
“Not bad, kid,” Mark admitted, clapping Luke on the shoulder, harder than intended. “You fight weird, but you ain’t useless.”
Luke grinned, feeling a surge of pride and camaraderie. As the adrenaline faded, he remembered the strange loot from the earlier Formica kills he’d made before being captured. He quickly touched a nearby corpse.
~ Loot Acquired: Formica Chitin x1, Formica Mandible x1 ~
~ Hidden Quest Progress: Formica Bait 1/?? ~
Formica Bait? He quickly looted another.
~ Loot Acquired: Formica Chitin x2 ~
~ Hidden Quest Progress: Formica Bait 1/?? ~
Not every kill dropped it. Interesting. He quickly explained the hidden quest prompt to Lestor and the soldiers. Mark’s eyes lit up with avarice. Redwood grunted thoughtfully. Silva and Hark exchanged glances.
“Formica Queen...” Mark mused aloud. “The loot from a Rare Boss like that... chitin, venom, maybe unique gems... worth a fortune back at base.”
“But dangerous,” Redwood cautioned. “Summoning her in her own nest? Suicide.”
“Maybe not,” Lestor interjected, glancing at Luke. “We know her nest layout now, found the kid here. And Luke has that weird looting thing. If he can gather the bait quickly while we cover him...”
Greed warred with caution on the soldiers’ faces. The potential reward was enormous, enough to significantly boost anyone’s savings towards the Fare, or just ensure comfort in this harsh world.
“What’s the plan, Lieutenant?” Redwood asked Mark, deferring command.
Mark looked at Luke, then at the littered chamber. “Alright, kid. You think you can gather enough of this ‘bait’ while we clear the path and watch your back?”
Luke thought of Jason, of the ticking clock on his main quest. This was a detour, a dangerous one. But the potential rewards – XP, loot, maybe even progress towards his Class – were too significant to ignore. And he owed these men. “Yeah,” Luke said, his voice firm. “I can do it.”
Mark grinned. “Then let’s go huntin’ for bait. Squad, move out! Let’s clear these tunnels!”
The group moved deeper into the Formica nest, weapons ready, driven by a mix of duty, camaraderie, and the universal motivator: the promise of rare loot.