John materialized into a fetid bog. A thick, cloying shroud of mist and noxious vapors clung to the stagnant water, the air a suffocating blanket of mildew, rot, and decay. His skin burned, an angry red flush spreading across his hands and arms as if he'd been scorched. Each breath was a searing torment, tearing through his lungs. Poison, he realized, his mind reeling. The underbrush and shrubs around him stirred, a low, insistent rustling that sent shivers down his spine. Then, it emerged from the murky water: a monstrous centipede, ten feet of segmented, black-armored horror, its beady red eyes burning with predatory hunger, its massive pincers clicking like sharpened steel. And then he saw them—countless eyes, glowing like malevolent embers in the surrounding shadows. Crap. The attack was instantaneous.

The first centipede lunged, its attack a blur of segmented motion. John met it head-on, his punch a thunderclap of force that shattered chitin and sent fragments scattering. The dying insect’s high-pitched screech joined the rising cacophony of its brethren, a chorus that seemed to summon reinforcements from the murky depths. Thousands, tens of thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands—John couldn’t even begin to estimate. A steely determination hardened in his eyes. This was a trial by fire. He didn’t even consider his fly rods; this was about testing the limits of his own body. He charged into the teeming mass, a whirlwind of brutal efficiency. He kicked, punched, battered, and slashed, the relentless swarm biting, cutting, and tearing at his flesh. Each impact was punctuated by a slow, sickening sizzle, the acrid smoke of burning chitin and insect flesh thickening the oppressive air. Several times, without conscious thought, his body executed the double step and blink step, hovering momentarily above the fetid water—movements he’d struggled to master now flowing effortlessly from him. There was no time for strategy, only instinct, only survival. It was an overwhelming onslaught, a relentless tide of chitin and pincers. He’d always understood the metaphor of the elephant and the ants—why should a single elephant fear a few ants? But now, faced with this endless swarm, John understood the underlying truth. With a hundred million ants, even the mightiest elephant would be brought to its knees. John felt the first pangs of fatigue, the weight of the sheer numbers beginning to press down on him. He understood the elephant’s wisdom, not just intellectually, but viscerally.

The onslaught intensified. Smaller centipedes, no bigger than his hand, darted between the larger ones, their bites injecting a burning venom that spread through his muscles like liquid fire. He swatted them away, his movements becoming faster, more desperate. He felt a sharp pain in his leg as a larger millipede, thick as a tree branch, clamped its mandibles down, its hundreds of legs digging into his flesh. He roared in pain and rage, grabbing the creature and tearing it away, leaving ragged wounds in his leg. He stumbled, sinking deeper into the muck, the stagnant water now reaching his knees. The stench of the bog intensified, mixing with the acrid smoke and the metallic tang of his own blood. He felt the first stings of exhaustion, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He spun, narrowly avoiding a swipe from a centipede’s pincer that could have severed his leg. He brought his heel down on another, crushing its segmented body with a sickening pop. He ducked under a millipede that was as thick as his arm, its hundreds of legs scrambling over the muddy ground. The air was thick with the stench of crushed chitin, venomous secretions, and the acrid smoke of burning insect flesh. The bog itself was a treacherous battlefield; each step threatened to sink him deeper into the muck, slowing his movements and making him even more vulnerable. He felt bites and stings all over his body, some burning like fire, others causing a numbing coldness to spread through his limbs. He was running on fumes, his movements becoming sluggish, desperate, each swing of his fist a monumental effort. He blocked a spray of venom that hissed as it landed on the water beside him, sending up small plumes of acidic steam.

Another wave of insects crashed against him, a living wave of chitin and pincers. He felt a sharp sting on his neck, followed by a wave of dizziness. More venom, he realized, his vision starting to blur. He knew he couldn't keep this up much longer. He was starting to slow, his movements losing their power and precision. He stumbled again, this time falling to one knee in the muck. The insects swarmed over him, their bites and stings intensifying. He could feel their weight pressing him down, threatening to engulf him completely. He could end this. The thought pulsed in his mind, a desperate plea for sanity. What am I doing? he thought, a wave of self-loathing crashing over him. This isn’t bravery. It’s stupidity. This stubborn pride is going to get me killed. He staggered back, narrowly avoiding a collision with a moving tree root that had suddenly emerged from the swamp. The realization was a sharp, painful awakening. He finally relented. A wave of profound relief, mixed with a bitter taste of self-reproach, washed over him as he summoned his bamboo fly rod.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

He finally relented. A wave of profound relief, mixed with a bitter taste of self-reproach, washed over him as he summoned his bamboo fly rod. The simple, familiar weight of the rod in his hand brought a sudden clarity, a sense of control he’d almost forgotten. He gripped it tightly, the polished wood a comforting contrast to the muck and grime that coated his skin. As the first tendrils of power began to flow through him, the low, guttural rumbling intensified, growing into a deep, resonant groan that seemed to emanate from the very earth itself. The ground beneath John’s feet began to tremble. He looked up, his gaze drawn to the edge of the bog. The trees… they were no longer simply shifting. They were moving, slowly, deliberately, their massive roots tearing free from the mud with a wet, sucking sound. They were Ents, ancient beings of wood and earth, their bark-like skin gnarled and twisted, their branches reaching towards the sky like gnarled, grasping claws. They were enormous, towering over even the largest of the insects, their presence radiating an ancient, hostile power.

The insects, sensing a new, far greater threat, began to scatter, their clicking and screeching turning into a panicked scramble. But the Ents weren't interested in the insects. Their eyes, deep pools of ancient malice, were fixed on John. The nearest Ent, its face a rough carving of a grimace in the bark, its branches twitching like whips, took a lumbering step towards him, its massive foot crushing not insects, but the very earth beneath it, sending tremors through the bog. Other Ents followed suit, their movements slow but implacable, their massive limbs reaching for him, not to protect, but to seize. The air filled with the sounds of snapping branches, grinding roots, and the deep, resonant roars of the Ents, a sound that promised nothing but violence. The scattered insects, caught between two titans, were crushed indiscriminately. The Ent that had first moved towards John loomed over him, its shadow falling like a shroud. It didn't speak, but John felt a wave of ancient hatred, a deep-seated animosity that chilled him to the bone. It raised a massive, root-like hand, not in offering, but in threat.

The Ent that had first moved towards John loomed over him, its shadow falling like a shroud. It didn't speak, but John felt a wave of ancient hatred, a deep-seated animosity that chilled him to the bone. It raised a massive, root-like hand, not in offering, but in threat. John gripped his bamboo fly rod, the familiar weight grounding him in the face of this colossal adversary. The Ent’s hand descended like a falling tree trunk. John barely managed to roll aside, the impact creating a crater where he’d just been standing, sending mud and stagnant water spraying outwards. The air was forced from his lungs, and he felt the ground tremble beneath him. Another Ent, its branches like gnarled clubs, swung at him from the side. John brought his fly rod up in a desperate block, the impact jarring him to his core. The rod held, miraculously, but the force of the blow sent him skidding backwards, his feet sinking deep into the muck. He could feel cracks forming in the rod’s bamboo shaft, a grim reminder of the sheer power he was facing. He knew he couldn’t withstand many more blows like that. He tried to use the double step to escape, but the uneven ground and the constant tremors made it difficult to maintain his balance. A massive root snaked out from beneath the mud, tripping him. He fell heavily, landing in the stagnant water with a splash. Before he could rise, another Ent stomped down nearby, sending a wave of foul-smelling water crashing over him. He gasped, choking on the stagnant liquid, his skin burning from the contact.

He scrambled to his feet, spitting out the foul water, just in time to see the first Ent’s hand descending again. This time, he couldn’t dodge. The massive hand connected, sending him flying through the air. He crashed into the base of another Ent, his body slamming against the rough bark. Pain exploded through him; he felt bones break, his breath leaving him in a ragged gasp. He slumped to the ground, his vision blurring, the world tilting around him. He could feel the life draining from him, the darkness creeping in. Then, a strange warmth spread through his body, originating from deep within. The pain receded with impossible speed, the broken bones knitting themselves back together in what felt like mere seconds, the ragged gasps becoming steady breaths. His vision cleared, the world snapping back into focus. He looked down at his body, expecting to see the horrific injuries he’d sustained, but there was nothing. No cuts, no bruises, no broken bones. It was as if the injuries had never existed. It was as if… time had rewound. He stood, slowly, testing his limbs. Everything felt… normal. He felt a strange pull, a drain on his energy, but otherwise, he was whole. What… what was that? he thought, his mind reeling. The feeling of time reversing was incredibly strong, yet something felt… off. There was no disorientation, no sense of lost time, just a feeling of being… repaired. Then, a chilling realization struck him. It wasn't time. It was something inside him. Nanites, he thought, the word surfacing from some deep recess of his memory. They’re repairing me. But… at what cost? He felt a distinct drain on his internal energy, as if the nanites had consumed a significant portion of it to perform their rapid repairs. It cost me time… time I didn’t want to waste, he thought with a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d survived, but at a cost.