Chapter 20: In the Mire of Strategy

Ethan sat beneath the low-hanging arcane lantern light, the chill of the swamp air clinging to his skin. His breath came slower now, steadier, but his body still ached from the earlier encounter.

He checked over his supplies with a sharp eye: only two vials of Floracure left, four days’ worth of dried food, and two changes of clothes folded neatly in a small pack.

“Two days, tops,” he muttered to himself. “I need to finish this quickly.”

“And there it is again,” Omen’s voice rasped in his mind, clearly irritated. “That same damn urgency. Why are you in such a rush to beat that thing?”

Ethan didn’t reply.

“You keep thinking like that rushing in without a plan, you’ll be killed. Dead. Gone. You’re not invincible, and neither am I.”

There was a beat of silence. The crackling of the lantern filled the gap.

“You need to think, Ethan. Strategize. Stop acting like some cornered animal and start fighting like a Kingmaker.”

Ethan clenched his fists, frustration bubbling up in his throat. “I hate being weak,” he snapped. “Back at the syndicate, all I did was support. Ceris did everything. I just… stood there.”

“And what did you expect?” Omen shot back without hesitation. “You can’t even kill someone without agonizing over it. You flinch at the thought of taking a life. Even crippling someone who’s trying to kill you shakes you. That weakness, that hesitation? That’s what nearly got you killed.”

“Retreating and running away are two very different things,” Omen added, his voice sharp. “Sometimes survival is strategy.”

Ethan scowled. “You’re the one who told me to trust my instincts.”

“And I meant it,” Omen growled. “But instinct without thought is just stupidity. You don’t charge into death and call it bravery. Instinct is only useful if you adapt it to the situation you're in. Brute strength isn’t always the answer, especially not for someone like you.”

“If I hadn’t been co-piloting your dumb brain while you were so dead-set on impressing that overgrown Insect,” Omen continued, tone biting, “you would’ve been impaled in seconds. That thing wasn’t even trying, it was toying with you.”

Ethan exhaled, the last ember of pride flickering out beneath the weight of truth. “Yeah,” he muttered, “you’re right. I hate it, but you’re right.”

He leaned back against a twisted root, eyes narrowing in thought. “Charging that thing in its own swamp... that was foolish. It’s faster, stronger, and knows every inch of this place. If I keep playing its game, I’m dead.”

He clenched his jaw. “I need to lure it out. Somewhere dry. Somewhere I can move freely. Make it fight on my terms not its own.

His eyes drifted across the swamp as he slowly stood up. After scanning the area for a while, he walked to a nearby tree and broke off a sturdy branch. Sitting beside the lantern once more, he unsheathed his dagger and began sharpening the end into a crude spear.

Omen’s voice returned, this time with mild curiosity. “What are you doing now?”

“If I can’t close the gap without getting torn up, then I need something that lets me fight from mid-range,” Ethan muttered. “I’m improvising.”

He worked for some time in silence, carving and testing the balance of the makeshift weapon. As night settled, the swamp grew quieter, save for the occasional chirp of crickets and croak of frogs.

Later, with his stomach growling, he pulled out a strip of dried venison jerky. It was saltier than he remembered, but surprisingly filling. He chewed slowly under the muted glow of his lantern before slipping into the tent he’d set up earlier.

Lying down, eyes on the worn fabric above him, Ethan spoke softly. “Thanks, by the way. For saving me earlier.”

Omen didn’t answer, but Ethan continued anyway. “I think… I got caught up. Wanted to prove I could do this. That I didn’t need Ceris watching my back. That I could be strong enough on my own.”

The next morning, Ethan awoke feeling surprisingly refreshed. The fatigue from the night before had faded, and his body felt light ready.

He sat up in his tent, took a deep breath, and slapped both sides of his face. “Let’s do this,” he muttered.

Outside, the swamp was bathed in morning mist. He moved to his supply kit and checked over the three crude spears he’d crafted the night before. They weren’t perfect but they’d do.

He also took the two remaining vials of Floracure, slipping them carefully into his belt pouch.

“Two chances,” he said quietly to himself. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“Then don’t be foolish with either of them,” Omen’s voice echoed firmly.

With everything packed and his resolve steeled, Ethan stepped away from his camp and began the trek back toward the Swampstalker’s nest.

As he neared the familiar stretch of swamp, Ethan slowed his pace.

Through the thin veil of mist, he spotted it.

The Swampstalker.

It was hunched over the fresh carcass of a deer, ripping into it with its needle-like fangs, twitching occasionally as if still alert even while feeding.

The terrain here was still muddy and wet, but not nearly as deep or treacherous as its own nest. This was the window he needed.

Without hesitation, Ethan hurled one of his crude spears.

It missed.

The spear embedded into the wet ground just beside the creature, startling it. The Swampstalker’s head snapped toward him, its eyes narrowing with a hiss that echoed through the swamp.

It stood slowly, tension rippling through its limbs as it locked eyes with him. Ethan could feel its irritation its meal had been interrupted.

Gripping another spear tightly, Ethan kept his distance. The longer reach gave him a fighting chance, unlike the limited arc of his short sword.

The Swampstalker lunged, rushing with that same copied movement from their last encounter. Fast. Aggressive.

But Ethan had seen this before. Its copied technique was linear too linear.

He sidestepped the rush.

As it passed, Ethan slashed with his crude spear. The tip struck but slid uselessly off the creature’s slick, slimy hide.

“Tch—”

“Slicing won’t work,” Omen cut in sharply. “That hide’s too slick. Too tough. You need to pierce it. Go deep.”

The Swampstalker let out a furious hiss, clearly enraged. Without warning, it charged again this time with its claws raised, poised to slash the moment it made contact.

Ethan held his ground, feet braced in the mud. He lowered the spear and pointed it forward, preparing to use the creature’s own momentum against it.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

As the Swampstalker closed in, Ethan lunged forward with the spear.

But the creature’s claw swung first, slicing the spear clean in half like it was nothing.

Ethan’s eyes widened.

The follow-up slash tore across his chest. Deep. Painful. Blood spilled freely.

He staggered back, gasping, nearly falling as he reached into his pouch. “Ugh!” A guttural cry of pain tore from his throat raw, instinctive, and desperate. With trembling fingers, he pulled out a vial of Floracure and jammed it into his neck.

A hiss. Then relief.

The bleeding slowed. The wound began to close but exhaustion set in. The healing worked, but the toll on his body was immediate.

And the Swampstalker wasn’t done.

It leapt fast, brutal, a blur of green and claw.

In a desperate move, Ethan dove forward, throwing himself face-first into the muddy ground. The creature’s claws sliced through the air just above him.

He landed hard, mud splashing over his face and arms.

The Swampstalker hissed, circling back. Preparing another leap.

Ethan scrambled to his feet.

“It’s coming,” Omen warned. “Don’t drop your guard, it’s not over yet.”

The Swampstalker launched again.

Ethan, eyes locked, reached for his final spear.

As the creature soared through the air, its limbs coiled for another double jump, Ethan anticipated the movement.

The moment it kicked upward for its second launch, Ethan hurled his last crude spear with all his strength.

The tip struck true piercing its abdomen.

The Swampstalker shrieked, a guttural, agonized screech that echoed through the swamp.

Wounded, but not dead, it thrashed midair and tumbled into the mud.

Then—

It ran.

“Don’t chase it,” Omen snapped quickly. “You’re in no condition to fight again. That thing’s wounded, sure, but so are you. You’ve already burned a vial. Your body’s still recovering.”

Ethan stood there, breathing hard, clutching his side.

“It’s retreating to its nest,” Omen continued. “Going after it now would be suicide. Let it bleed, let it panic. You need to rest and plan the next strike. Don’t throw everything away because you think it’s almost over.”

Ethan nodded weakly, still catching his breath. “Yeah… you're right.”

With heavy limbs and a sharp ache still lingering in his chest, he turned and made his way back to camp.

Once there, he wiped himself down with a damp towel, doing his best to scrub away the mixture of swamp muck, blood, and who-knows-what else that clung to his skin.

He groaned aloud as he changed into a clean set of clothes. “Ugh. This is disgusting. I swear I’m covered in mud, dirt… and probably some animal crap.”

He gave himself a final wipe down and collapsed onto his bedroll with a long sigh.

After resting for a few hours, Ethan’s mind drifted back to the fight. He sat up slowly, rubbing his temples, deep in thought.

“That jump of his… it’s powerful, but predictable,” he muttered. “Once he’s in the air, he can’t change direction. And his landings are always straight.”

He glanced at the broken spears and his pack. “If only I had something that could catch him mid-air... anchor him or control the fall somehow.”

He muttered to himself, “A grappling hook… if I had one…”

“Then get one,” Omen interjected dryly. “That village probably has what you need.”

Ethan blinked, then nodded slowly. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

He stood, dusted himself off, and began making his way back toward the village with purpose in his stride.

As he approached the gates, the guards spotted him and straightened up immediately. “Sir Kingmaker!” one of them called out with anticipation. “Is it done? Has the creature been slain?”

Ethan didn’t answer right away. He gave a polite nod, his expression unreadable. “I need to speak with the village elder first.”

The guards exchanged glances, then one stepped forward to escort him.

Soon, Ethan stood once more in the elder’s modest home. The elderly man looked up from a scroll, eyes filled with hope.

“Is it finished?”

Ethan stepped forward. “Not yet. But I’ve seen the creature clearly it’s tall, fast, with a slimy hide. It stalks, plays with its prey... then kills without fully consuming it.”

The elder’s face paled. “A Swampstalker,” he whispered. “They’re not beasts… they’re infestations. They toy with their food. Hunt for sport. Once one settles near a village, they never stop.”

He leaned back in his chair, visibly troubled. “We should begin moving the people leave this place while we still can.”

“No,” Ethan said, firm but calm. “It’s injured. Weakened. I’ll finish the job. But I need a tool, something to control its movement mid-air. Something to anchor or redirect it when it jumps. Only then can I bring it down for good.

The elder stroked his beard, thinking for a long moment. Then he turned to one of the nearby guards. “Fetch the village blacksmith. Quickly.”

It didn’t take long for the blacksmith to arrive an older man with a soot-streaked apron and thick arms, his expression curious as he stepped into the elder’s home.

Ethan wasted no time explaining what he needed a device to catch or anchor the creature mid-air, something with reach and stability.

The blacksmith listened carefully, nodding as Ethan spoke. Then, after a brief pause, he raised a brow. “I think I might have just the thing… wait here.”

He left and returned several minutes later with a large, clunky gauntlet-like device. It was heavy and rugged, with visible metalwork and a crude firing mechanism attached underneath.

“This,” the blacksmith said, carefully placing it on the table, “was something I made years ago for rooftop carpenters. It fires a hook tied to a rope, so they can latch onto something and anchor themselves while working up high. But it was too bulky, too heavy to be practical. It’s just been sitting in my storage ever since.”

Ethan stepped forward and inspected the device. It was crude, the metalwork uneven, the tension coils visibly rusted in places. Honestly, it looked like it would fall apart after one use.

Still, he nodded with a determined glint in his eye. “It’s exactly what I need.”

He strapped the armguard over his left forearm, testing the weight. It was heavier than expected, but manageable.

Without another word, he turned toward the door, ready to head out again but paused.

He looked back to the elder. “I’m going to end this today. Tell the village to prepare a feast.”

The elder blinked. “A feast?”

Ethan gave a faint smile. “Yeah. For when I come back. No more running, no more fear.”

Though hesitant, the elder stared at him then gave a slow, deep bow. “Then I shall prepare a feast worthy of a Kingmaker. Not for a noble, not for a hero... but for the one who stood with us.

Ethan turned toward the door again, this time with a flicker of amusement dancing across his face not arrogance, just a quiet confidence. “I’ll be back quick,” he said over his shoulder.

Without wasting a moment, Ethan headed straight for the Swampstalker’s nest.

“Be careful,” Omen warned. “It’s still wounded, yeah, but this is its territory. Every inch of this place favors it.”

Ethan nodded silently as he weaved his way through the dense, fog-drenched marsh. As he neared the nest, he spotted movement.

The Swampstalker.

It was hunched low, feasting on a freshly caught rodent. It was trying to recover, replenishing its strength. The spear was gone, but its abdomen still bled, green and viscous. The wound hadn’t healed.

Ethan didn’t hesitate. He drew back and hurled his broken spear more as a distraction than a weapon.

The shaft clattered across the mud.

The Swampstalker screeched, its eyes narrowing with fury, and leapt toward him in a blur of motion.

Ethan readied his short sword, pointing it upward as before. It was the same setup bait the creature into a predictable arc.

As expected, the Swampstalker performed its familiar double-jump, aiming to evade any upward thrust.

This time, Ethan was ready.

With a fluid motion, he raised his left arm and pressed the button on the side of the gauntlet. The mechanism hissed and fired.

The hook launched upward with force, coiling around the Swampstalker’s leg. Despite the beast’s slimy hide and tough skin, the hook held.

Ethan grabbed the rope with both hands and yanked hard.

The creature screeched, midair, as its trajectory broke. It crashed face-first into the mud with a heavy, sickening thud. The rope snapped from the force, but the job was done the beast was stunned.

Without missing a beat, Ethan rushed forward.

Omen’s chains writhed, wrapping around his arm.

The morphblade surged to life.

With a scream, Ethan plunged the blade deep into the Swampstalker’s back.

The creature wailed in agony.

But Ethan wasn’t done.

He drew his short sword and, with two precise strikes, severed the Swampstalker’s deadly claws.

It thrashed, but it was no longer a threat.

Ethan stepped back, panting, his eyes fixed on the motionless body. He waited.

No movement.

He knelt down and examined the Swampstalker carefully no breath, no twitch, no sign of life.

It was dead.

The realization washed over him like a crashing wave. His muscles trembled, not from fear, but from release.

Then, he let out a scream.

Not of pain.

But of victory.

A primal roar of triumph and exhaustion, echoing through the swamp.

All the days spent planning, fighting, bleeding he had done it. He had faced death and walked away standing.

He was getting stronger.