Chapter 11: The Catapult of Desperation
The swamp quivered as if it were alive. Ripples spread across the mire, yet in front of the colossal centipede, no insect or animal stirred. Only silence and hidden vibrations.
The centipede's long, thin antennae flicked restlessly, probing the air for its unseen prey. Then its armored body leaned forward, closing in on the faint tremors beneath the mire.
Still searching for its prey, the mangrove's thick tentacles writhed restlessly. The moment they sensed movement, they lashed out, coiling around the centipede's armored body like chains of iron. The swamp erupted with violence. The mangrove's torso split open into a gaping maw, red and wet, spraying a stream of thick crimson fluid across the centipede's black plates.
The liquid hissed as it struck—the swamp filled with the sound of sizzling flesh. But the centipede's natural armor held strong; its black plates steamed but did not melt.
The centipede shrieked, a piercing, metallic sound that stabbed through Soma's ears. Thrashing, it pushed forward, its enormous scythe-like fangs slicing through the air. With one devastating strike, it cleaved the mangrove's trunk in half.
Thud!
The severed upper body of the mangrove fell heavily into the mire, spraying mud and acidic slime. The wounded centipede tore itself free of the lifeless tentacles, then disappeared back into the depths of the swamp like a phantom.
Silence returned—but Soma's situation was worse.
Only his eyes remained above the surface. The mire sucked at his body like a thousand hands pulling him down. His chest burned. His mind buzzed with panic.
No… it can't end like this, he thought desperately.
Closing his eyes, Soma forced himself to calm down. Slowly, he realized something—he was no longer sinking. The more he had struggled before, the deeper the swamp had dragged him. Now, as he stilled his body, the mire seemed to loosen its grip, holding him but no longer pulling him under.
That gave him one small victory. But how could he get out?
Through the brown-black water, he saw the half-cut mangrove trunk lying nearby. Its torn tentacles still twitched, spasming even in death.
Hope flickered inside him.
With a grunt, Soma tore one hand free from the sucking mire and grabbed hold of the mangrove's broken body. The mud clung stubbornly, like glue, but he strained and pulled with everything he had. Inch by inch, his body lifted free until, gasping, he heaved himself onto the mangrove's half-submerged trunk.
For the first time since falling into the swamp, he could breathe without fear of sinking.
Panting heavily, Soma sat on the dead mangrove and thought: How do I escape this cursed red forest?
He scanned his surroundings. As far as his eyes could see, there were no rocks, no solid ground, only endless mire and the looming, twisted forms of red mangrove trees. He clenched the smooth stone in his right hand—the same one he had carried since earlier. At his side, the small pouch dangled, dripping swamp water.
One stone… he thought bitterly. That's not enough to fly out. Not nearly enough.
An idea struck him: perhaps he could use the mangrove's corpse as a raft? But he shook his head almost immediately. The swamp was too alive. Any vibration, any movement on the water's surface would draw predators. He had already seen what lurked beneath. Another centipede could appear.
His options narrowed to nothing. Soma pressed his forehead against his knees. "What… what should I do?" he whispered.
Then a memory flashed into his mind. A scene from an old Bollywood movie—in it, the hero had bent down a coconut tree, turning it into a giant catapult to hurl soldiers into the enemy's fortress. A wild idea sparked in Soma's mind—what if he used the same trick here?
Soma raised his head slowly, staring at the mangrove's half-cut trunk. The idea was insane. Impossible. But it was the only chance he had.
Heart pounding, he opened the pouch at his waist and tore it apart, unraveling it into a long strip of rope. With a heavy throw, he tied one end to the stone, hurled it upward, and looped the rope around the top of the mangrove's broken trunk.
He tested the tension. The wood bent slightly. Hollow, flexible—like bamboo. Perfect.
Now he needed an anchor.
Ten feet away, another mangrove stood. Soma leapt across the mire, landing with a wet splash, but to his shock, he didn't sink. The swamp that had once tried to swallow him whole no longer dragged him under. Amazed, he realized he could now crawl across its surface with effort.
Using all four limbs, he crawled toward the standing mangrove roots. His arms trembled as he tugged the rope, only to realize it was too short. Desperate, he scanned the swamp—and his eyes caught the twitching remains of the dead mangrove. Forcing his way back, he gritted his teeth and tore one of its severed tentacles loose. It resisted, fibrous and heavy, but at last came free—a rope of living wood, strong and unyielding.
Sweat poured down his face as he tied the tentacle-rope to his makeshift line, extending it. Piece by piece, he created a large loop and anchored it tightly around the second mangrove's roots.
Now the setup was complete: a giant bow made of dead wood and rope.
With trembling arms, Soma pulled down on the half-cut mangrove trunk. The wood creaked, curving further and further under the pressure. The swamp groaned with tension, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
When the pull reached its peak, Soma climbed onto the half-cut trunk itself—the broken mangrove he had bent into a bow. He crouched low, balancing carefully, every muscle straining against the tension.
"Please… work," he whispered.
Confirming his direction, he took a deep breath, then released the rope loop.
The world exploded.
The mangrove trunk snapped upward with a violent crack, flinging Soma through the air like an arrow loosed from a bowstring. Wind roared past his ears. His vision blurred. For a moment, it felt as if the swamp itself was falling away beneath him.
Terror gripped him as the swamp vanished beneath, a red nightmare shrinking into nothing. Then, like breaking through a storm into sunlight, his eyes widened. The stench of rot fell away, replaced by clean air that rushed into his lungs. The endless mire was gone—and ahead, the horizon bloomed with green.
When the rush finally slowed, the world cleared.
Beneath him spread open grasslands, stretching like a green ocean. Twin mountains rose in the distance, their peaks sharp against the sky. Trees of every color swayed below, and the air itself felt different—fresh, cool, alive.
Soma exhaled, thanking God that the slingshot plan had worked. A calmness washed over him as he drifted gently toward the ground.
His body still trembled from the wild launch, but the important thing was—he was alive, free of the swamp. Without wasting time, he gathered a few more rocks, gripped them tightly, and let himself drift toward the twin mountains in the distance.
As he glided through the sky, the memory of the desert squirrel's glide resurfaced: that instinctive spread of limbs to catch the wind like a living sail, turning short leaps into long, soaring arcs with barely a stone's push.
As he flew, the landscape unfolded beneath him. Giant, towering trees stretched up between the two mountain slopes. A river glimmered like a silver ribbon, weaving its way through lush grasslands. Patches of flowers—red, violet, golden—bloomed across the meadows, glowing as though the land itself was alive with hidden colors.
Even after everything he had seen in this strange world, the beauty here was breathtaking. His heart lifted for the first time in days. Yet the more he searched the land below, the more unease returned. No roads, no settlements, not even the smoke of a distant fire. There was no sign of intelligent life anywhere.
When he finally descended, he chose the riverside. The water shimmered, clear and cool. To his surprise, his body carried no stench or grime from the swamp—as if the mire had left no trace on him. Still, instinct told him to wash. He crouched down, scooped the clean water in his palms, and poured it over his face and hair. The river was cold, refreshing, almost sacred compared to the filth he had escaped.
But soon, he noticed something unsettling.
The area was silent. No bird calls. No insect hum. No distant roars of predators. The quiet pressed against his ears until it felt unnatural. This was not peace—it was the kind of silence that warned of danger.
As he explored further, he began to notice strange structures dotting the land. Anthills—towering fifteen to twenty feet tall. From their openings, monstrous ants crawled out, each the size of a large dog. Their red, armored bodies glistened under the light, their scythe-shaped fangs clacked together with bone-chilling precision.
Some carried grisly trophies—mangled animal limbs clutched in their mandibles—dragging the remains into the depths of their hills. Soma froze, watching carefully from a distance, but the creatures ignored him. He swallowed hard and forced himself onward, not daring to provoke them.
Ignoring them, Soma washed quickly in the river, then continued his search, pushing deeper into the unfamiliar land.
The silence clung to him like a shroud, broken only by the faint hush of wind trailing his flight—a whisper that seemed too fragile for this vast valley below. He strained his ears, waiting for any sign of life, but the quiet only deepened, pressing against his temples like an unspoken warning.
Then he noticed a flash of light.
From the ground, a sharp beam reflected the sun straight toward him, like a signal mirror. Soma's chest tightened with excitement. Could it be… someone is here?
His pace quickened. He flew toward the glinting light, weaving past towering trees and forcing his way through dense branches. At last, he broke through the canopy—and saw it: A massive tree standing alone, and beneath it—an odd structure. At first glance, it resembled an igloo built of stone.
Soma's breath quickened. A structure meant intelligence, meant civilization. He rushed forward, heart hammering.
Up close, the truth disappointed him. The stone dome was ancient, abandoned for centuries. Moss covered its surface, and deep cracks webbed across its walls. Still, it was impressive. The building stretched nearly twenty feet wide and ten feet tall, shaped oddly like a giant pumpkin. Its roof was capped with thick glass, tilted in such a way that it caught the sun and reflected it skyward—the source of the light he had seen.
"Glass…" Soma muttered. The material seemed far too advanced for the primitive wilderness he had seen until now. His pulse quickened again, this time with curiosity.
He circled the dome until he found a door. Or what remained of it. The thick wooden log had long since rotted to softness. He pushed gently and the entire slab crumbled inward with a brittle crack.
Inside, dust rose in thick clouds, stinging his throat. Insects scattered. The air was heavy with the smell of age and decay. The interior was larger than his small room back home. Sunlight filtered through the glass roof, casting pale beams across broken furniture—chairs, tables, fragments of objects he couldn't even name.
In the center of the round room stood a strange structure made of stone and glass. At first glance, it resembled an oversized chair turned upside down, its base carved from heavy gray rock. Resting within the stone frame were two large, square glass containers stacked one atop the other, each fitted snugly into grooves cut into the stone. The upper container was cracked along the rim but still intact, while the lower one appeared sturdier, its surface coated with a thin layer of dust. Inside the bottom glass box, faint black lines stretched horizontally, evenly spaced from bottom to top like the markings on a ruler.
The whole contraption gleamed faintly in the sunlight filtering through the dome, but its purpose was impossible for Soma to guess. He tilted his head, studying the peculiar arrangement of glass and stone, but the more he looked, the less sense it made. What was it used for? He had no idea. Disappointment settled on his face. Is no one living here after all?
He forced himself to keep searching.
On the left side of the chamber, a large stone object caught his attention. It stood nearly his own height. At first, Soma assumed it was part of a broken pillar. But when he touched it, he realized—the stone was hollow.
Excitement sparked again. He ran his hands along the edges until he found a lid, sealed tightly shut. Soma braced himself, pushing and pulling with all his strength, but the lid refused to budge.
"I'll have to break it…" he muttered.
He hurried outside, grabbed a heavy rock the size of a human head, and returned. With a grunt, he brought it down hard against the lid. Bang! Dust sprayed. He struck again, and again, each blow echoing in the hollow chamber. Cracks spread across the stone until, at last, with a sharp thud, the lid split into two heavy pieces.
With a grunt, Soma dragged the broken stone lid aside and peered into the hollow.
It was a storage chest. Tools lay piled within, but most were rusted beyond recognition or shattered by time. His heart sank—until he spotted something small in one corner.
Another stone container, this one no larger than his hand. He lifted it carefully, pried it open, and froze.
Inside lay two notebooks.
One was bound in thick beast hide, scarred but still intact. The other was plain paper, astonishingly well-preserved except for minor damage. Soma's hands trembled.
This can't be possible… he thought. How could a paper notebook from the 21st century be here?
His mind spun with impossible questions. He forced himself to breathe deeply, clearing his thoughts. He had to focus.
He opened the first notebook—the one bound in leather. The pages were brittle, many ruined by age. Out of fifty-seven pages, only a few were readable. His stomach sank, but he continued, turning carefully.
Then he opened the second notebook.
The very first page made his blood run cold.
Bold letters stared back at him:
"Haris Jaswan, Date: 2001 August 10."
Soma's hands shook violently. His eyes widened.
It was his grandfather's notebook.