Chapter 14 The Burning Titan
The armored bull's corpse steamed in the swamp heat, its ribcage cracked open like a shattered fortress. Three saber-tooth tigers tore into it with frenzied hunger, muzzles buried deep in the ruined belly as they ripped meat and entrails from bone. The sound was wet and feral—tearing, gnashing, the crunch of splintered cartilage.
Then—
Thwip!
An arrow whistled through the air and grazed one tiger's ear. The beast snapped its head up, a guttural snarl ripping from its throat. Blood dripped from its fangs as its eyes burned toward the direction of the shot. The other two tigers lifted their heads, growling in unison, hackles bristling.
A second arrow screamed downward. Its tip glistened with a sheen of acid. It struck true—straight into a tiger's eye.
The creature howled, a roar of rage that broke into a shriek of agony. The acid hissed and bubbled, burning flesh from within, melting soft tissue until its brain boiled. The tiger thrashed wildly, convulsing, before collapsing into the mud with one last rattling breath.
The other two stalked forward, searching for the unseen hunter. Their growls deepened, muscles rippling beneath their matted fur—until the sky itself answered.
Thwip! Thwip!
Two arrows fell from above like judgment. One pierced a throat, the other lodged in an open jaw. Both tigers staggered, choking on their own blood, until their bodies gave out. They crumpled silently beside the armored bull's remains.
From the sky, Soma descended.
The bow hung loosely against his chest, still vibrating from its last shot. His face was calm, almost eerily detached, as he gazed at the carnage below. Three souls—bright, fist-sized orbs—rose from the tigers' corpses and floated toward him. Without hesitation, they sank into his chest. The brief flash of light vanished, leaving him unchanged. Soma's expression did not shift.
He tightened his grip on the smooth stone. With a sharp flick, he hurled it forward—and in that same instant, the recoil yanked against him like a snapped bowstring. The force didn't push the stone away, but instead launched his body in the opposite direction. This was his slingshot technique: every throw became propulsion, every shot a step through the air. Momentum built with each release, carrying him faster and faster toward the igloo house.
As he flew, Soma's thoughts darkened.
It's been more than ten days since I destroyed the anthills near the riverside. The rest are deeper in the jungle… but without water, I can't kill them. Useless.
His jaw clenched, his face tightening with frustration.
Including the three tigers he had just slain, his total stood at only seventeen souls. Pathetic.
Too slow. I need something bigger. A better way to harvest them.
Back at the igloo house, he unrolled the map and spread it across the stone floor. The faded ink showed three circled regions where beasts gathered in great numbers.
The first: the endless dark forest to the southwest.
But if I ignite fire there recklessly… no. If the flames spread, the whole ecosystem could collapse. That risk is too great.
The second: the grasslands surrounding the twin mountains.
Beasts roamed in their thousands, but the open plains gave them too much freedom.
Unless I set traps or ambush them one by one, most would escape. Not worth it.
The third: the valleys between the mountains.
Ants. Anthills everywhere. But most were already destroyed.
Soma exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple, staring at the map until his vision blurred.
And then—the thought came.
The endless mangrove swamp. The red forest. And at its very heart—the colossal crimson tree.
No other place in this world held as much life. The giant tree was more than wood and bark—it was a fortress, a living city teeming with creatures. A harvest unlike any other.
But how could he kill them?
Nothing short of fire could wound the crimson titan. And fire could not survive here, not in the swamp, where every root drowned in mire and methane choked the air.
He lay back on the cold stone floor, exhausted, eyes drifting upward. Through the cracked glass ceiling, a beam of sunlight refracted sharply against the dome's edges. It bent, concentrated, and struck a nearby branch. Smoke curled upward where the beam touched, leaving a thin, white scar of burned wood.
Soma's eyes flickered with sudden joy. His lips parted, a sharp grin breaking across his face.
What if I do the same?
If he forged great lenses of glass, if he positioned them in a circle around the giant tree, tilting each one until their light converged at its roots… the sunlight itself could become his fire. Endless. Merciless.
A smile spread—hungry, almost feral.
It could work. And because of the swamp, he wouldn't need to fear the flames spreading beyond his target.
He rose with a sharp laugh and seized his stone. In the next instant, the world blurred—he launched himself toward the swamp.
Using his slingshot as a propeller, Soma cut through the sky faster and faster, the air tearing past his ears. At the midpoint, he slowed, descending toward a riverbank. The ground trembled faintly beneath his feet as he landed.
The smell hit him first. The air was thick with rot—sour, heavy, clinging to his throat like damp cloth. Beneath him, the river crawled sluggishly, its surface coated with scum, its waters dark and heavy as if choked by centuries of decay.
Soma crouched on the sand and stretched out his hand. The earth shifted under his will, but at first the shapes were clumsy—warped lumps of glass that cracked the moment they caught the light. He ground his teeth, trying again. The second attempt bent too thin, fracturing at the edges. The third was fogged, useless. Only after several tries did the glass settle into something workable: rough, uneven discs. Not perfect, but enough to bend sunlight. Eight of them, each as tall as he was, jagged around the rims yet still catching the sun, scattering beams in blinding flashes.
He gripped the first disc. Its weight dragged at his arms, but his matter-born weapon bent just enough to yield under his touch. Carrying it carefully, he flew into the swamp's heart.
And there, rising above everything, was the colossal red tree.
Even after all he had endured, the sight stole his breath.
The trunk was vast, a wall of crimson that stretched into the clouds. Its bark gleamed faintly, as though blood itself pulsed beneath the surface. Branches spread outward in grotesque arcs, clawing at the heavens, their silhouettes like ribs and claws. Thousands of creatures nested in its limbs. Snakes coiled around branches. Spiders the size of men clung to webs stretched between boughs. birds screaming into the air. Insects swarmed in clouds so dense they shimmered like smoke.
A living city. A fortress of beasts.
Hovering above, Soma dropped a stone onto one of the mangrove's thick branches. For a tense moment, he watched. The twisted limb shuddered faintly under the impact… then lay still. No twitch, no lash of hidden tentacles. Dead.
Only then did Soma descend. He lowered the first glass disc, wedging it firmly against the twisted roots of a dead mangrove. Adjusting its angle carefully, he tilted the curved face until a brilliant spear of light flared outward, stabbing at the colossal red tree's base. The bark hissed faintly where the concentrated beam touched.
One by one, Soma carried the other seven discs, straining with effort each time, his breath heavy and his muscles tightening with each descent. He flew in a wide circle, lowering and adjusting each disc until all eight beams converged on the same spot at the tree's massive base.
Eight spears of sunlight burned into the crimson bark, crackling faintly in the heavy air.
Soma stepped back onto the trunk of a dead mangrove, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his labor. He wiped his hand across his mouth, eyes fixed on the giant.
Now… all that's left is to wait.
He sat on the trunk of a dead mangrove, his expression blank, watching. Hours crawled by. The swamp steamed in the heavy air, but the red tree remained silent—its bark dark, unyielding, ancient.
Almost a whole day. Nothing. Not even a thread of smoke.
At last, Soma rose and returned to the igloo to rest. He lay flat on the stone floor, eyes closed, listening to the rhythmic dripping of water inside his grandfather's repaired clock. Drop after drop, the waterline crept toward the twenty-fourth mark. A small smile touched his lips. The day is over.
He refilled the glass vessel, slung his bow across his shoulder, and flew back to the swamp.
Day Two.
Nothing. The crimson bark shimmered faintly under the sunlight, but no fire caught. Soma grew restless. To pass the time, he hunted three-eyed frogs, their croaking a grim chorus to his waiting.
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Days Three to Six.
The same. Endless routine. Waiting. Watching. He marked the hours by the slow drip of water in his grandfather's clock, each cycle ending when the line reached the twenty-fourth mark. After every full measure, he refilled the glass, then returned to check the converging beams.
Still, doubt lingered. What if the bark never caught fire? What if all this waiting was for nothing? Each time he looked at the unchanging roots, the question pressed heavier against his chest.
---
On the seventh day—something shifted.
Soma narrowed his eyes. At the base of the crimson titan, right where the sunlight converged, a thin curl of smoke rose. Weak. Fragile. Almost invisible.
Then it thickened.
His chest shook with laughter. "Finally… it's working."
At the end of the cycle, the first flames licked the roots. Slow. Relentless. Creeping up the trunk like veins of living fire.
The swamp reacted violently.
Insects and leeches writhed in the mud, their bodies boiling. They burrowed desperately into the mire, trying to escape the searing heat.
Above, flocks of birds burst from the branches, wings thrashing in chaos. Their screeches filled the air as they vanished into the smoke-choked sky. Beetles and moths scattered in glowing swarms, their shells sizzling as heat overtook them.
From the higher limbs, hundreds of human-sized spiders and serpents hurled themselves into the swamp, splashing into the black water in their frenzy to survive.
The vibrations called hunters.
Alligators the size of wagons surged through the mire, jaws snapping like iron gates. They dragged panic spiders beneath the surface, water frothing red. From the depths, armored centipedes rose, their segmented bodies twisting, crushing serpents in their coils before tearing them apart piece by piece.
The swamp became a battlefield. A massacre.
And from the carnage—souls.
Thousands of glowing orbs tore free of dying bodies, fist-sized spheres of light spiraling upward like a storm. They swirled, collided, merged, and then, helplessly, rushed toward Soma.
He stood unmoving, face calm, as the luminous tempest poured into him. One after another, the souls pierced into his chest, icy fire flooding his veins.
---
By midday of the eighth day, the giant tree was no longer a tree.
It had become a bleeding titan.
Flames split its trunk, pouring upward in rivers of fire. Veins spat flame instead of sap, every crack in its bark glowing like molten wounds. The canopy collapsed in waves of embers. The swamp roared with heat and screams as the red tree fell apart in burning ruin.
The swamp screamed with fire and death. But above the inferno, Soma floated in stillness, his gaze fixed on the titan's collapse.