I’ve seen plenty of strange creatures in my life. Some of them with strange abilities that make little sense. Some hardly distinguishable from the environment they live. But I don’t think I’ve ever come across such vast swarms of suicidal creatures as this. Bugs they may be, but even bugs have some level of self-preservation.

The higher we climb, the more bugs rush past us. Only in areas along my scales where the sticky substance isn’t too thick can the insects chew through it without getting stuck. Unfortunately, this means I’ve become just as much an attraction for these creatures as the walls themselves.

Scia clings to my back with a wing over its eyes. Strange, most other bats I’ve seen would love this feast of bugs. Maybe this little one only eats fruits. Why cover the eyes, though? Bugs — no matter how many millions — are hardly something to fear.

This time, I actively avoid thinking about how Scia shies away from bugs rather than my own intimidating form. The little bat is foolish and contradictory; there’s no point fretting over its lack of intelligence.

When I first started climbing through the swathes of bugs, I noticed nothing strange, but as the swarm thickens, something odd becomes apparent. There is a rippling of space billowing off each of the bugs. Individually, it’s impossible to notice, but the adding effect of so many in proximity makes the peculiar spatial effect obvious.

The oddity is subtle, not blocking sight at all, but with the spatial fabric essentially moving forward and back in rapid repetitive cycles, I cannot ignore it.

I’ve seen this before.

Before the Titan took my home from me, this same ripple was at the top of that impossibly large voided column. Though, it wasn’t as intense back then as it is now.

Does this mean I’m finally beyond the border? The ripple could be coming down from above as it did last time, and the increased number of bugs is just a coincidence. If only the bug swarm isn’t so thick, I’d be able to see what is above.

What kind of world lies beyond what I know? What is that ripple? For all I know, there’s a whole world to explore if I only push this final distance. A place impossible to imagine.

Curiosity floods my mind.

I freeze.

The last time I was this close, the pain of failure had been far greater than I could have expected. Curiosity is a curse that only results in disappointment. Why am I letting myself fall for the same intrusive emotion that has already hurt me? I already know where this leads me, so why am I diving back into it again?

I should back off now, while I still can. Don’t let the malicious side of sapience win.

My head twists down past my body, which pushes against the walls in a helix. The sight of the path I’ve already trod isn’t attractive at all, but it is what I need. Though, the moment I move, I hesitate. Curiosity clings to my thoughts and I cannot completely dispose of it, regardless of how bad I know it is. I want to know what lies above.

Paralysed by indecision, I flop between curiosity and my hatred for the emotion. It isn’t until Scia raises their head, squinted eyes peeking beneath a wing, that I consider any other thought. The little bat chirps, confused at my lack of motion. The action is innocent, but I take it as an accusation of why we’re stopping when she put all that effort into finding the way.

It’s probably just my mind placing questions where they don’t belong, but it does make me reconsider why we’re doing this. Curiosity or not, I need to find my way beyond the borders. I’m doing this to prove my emotions don’t hold sway over my actions; to prove my spite for the Titan’s words won’t keep me still. If I let the fear of emotional pain stop my progress, then I have lost.

I won’t let the vindictive side of sapience win.

In a motion fuelled by newfound dedication, I snap upward, tearing through the last of the tunnel before crashing into open space. I float in the air for a few moments, just taking in the massive cavern around me, before I crash back to the earth. Surprisingly, the ground isn’t hard. I’ve landed on a soft bed of platelet mushrooms that surround the hole I just came from.

This space is massive. Larger than any other cavern I’ve seen beside those submerged in the crippling depths or magma oceans. The ceiling is far higher than even my full length could stretch. Along the stone above, there are large, spider-like beasts. The abdomen is fatter than any other arachnid I’ve seen, and considering the sheer size of the creature, it’s no surprise I haven’t seen them down in the distorted tunnels.

The swarms of bugs are far more numerous up here. Most hover above my head, but they all stay below a certain height. They funnel down into the shaft I came from and extend to each side further than I can see. There are no walls, only the ceiling and the soft ground beneath me. As I look around, it is obvious the fungi only encircles the hole and doesn’t actually cover everything.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The bugs still swarm me, the viscous liquid sticking to my scales irresistible to them.

I don’t have time to bask in this new place as motion from the tunnel tugs at my attention. Where the fungi bend down into the tunnel I came from, the platelet mushrooms convulse. They bend and spasm like an animal’s throat attempting to swallow, but choking instead.

In a moment, the struggle bursts and the resin lining the inner walls explodes out. It rains down on us. Scia squeaks in surprise, and blinks into the air to avoid it while I’m drenched. She blinks back an instant later, doing her best to cling to wherever the juice is thinnest.

Annoyed that all the scales I’d tried to keep clean until now are filthy while this bat still gets off without so much as a touch, I roll over. She squeaks as her feet pull out from beneath her. I hiss in laughter at the sight of the little creature now equally drenched. Her eyes glare up at me before she blinks away. My laugh is quick to cut off when I notice the liquid doesn’t follow. She appears on my back, clean once again.

I’m about to throw her back in, but a shriek pulls me away. Above, one of those arachnids scuttle over the rock until they’re right above me. Then, with a push of its long narrow legs, it pounces.

Oh? Is this what I’ve been waiting for? A beast strong enough to challenge me? A creature as large as this will have the power to back up such a fearsome appearance, surely. This won’t be another fight bullying the weak.

There’s not much time before it crashes on top of me, so I brush Scia off my back. The bat whimpers slightly as my tail hits its broken wing. I wince, but it would be much worse for them if they stayed with me in this fight.

Why am I worrying about the little pest at a time like this? Not important. Focus.

I notice her panicked gaze as she looks up right before she blinks beyond the edge of the fungal bug trap, but as soon as she’s out of the way, all of my focus returns to this falling giant. The arachnid is about as large as my formerly favourite cavern, so regardless of any strange abilities, it has at the very least its mass in its favour. Taking the impact of its fall would be stupid while I’m this small.

In a single, smooth motion, my length bunches up and springs me to the side. Thankfully, the action whips away a good portion of that sticky liquid, along with many of the bugs trying their hardest to chase me. The arachnid hits the ground before I do, but the earth is still shaking when I land. Not letting that stop me, I slither to its side, where one of its long legs pierced deep into the stone.

The creature feels larger up close. Few creatures I’ve come across in the past — besides the Titan — have been this large, particularly because the size makes traversing the spatial bends much more difficult. Good luck catching prey if they can all disappear from your grasp with little more than a twitch.

Apparently, up here, where there are no distortions and the cavern is wide enough not to pose a problem, creatures as large as this can thrive.

Beyond. Is there a name for this beast? I want to know what to call this competitor.

Nareau.

Good. Now, let’s see if this Nareau is strong enough to have gained sapience.

The arachnid is too slow to pull its leg from the earth, giving me the perfect trunk to climb. While I could grow to my maximum size and fight mass against mass, I want to improve my capabilities at the more comfortable size. That will never happen if I always rely on weight to kill challengers… not that I’ve many such opportunities.

Of course, I understand there is a certain weight at which no matter how hard I try I’ll never be able to harm the larger beast, but until this Nareau proves I need to bring out more of myself, I’ll keep to the size better for traversing distortions.

The arachnid doesn’t bother shaking me off its leg. Instead, it brings up its neighbour limb to brush me off. As rapid as the leg rushes down on me, it has nothing on the speed of most creatures down below. The sight of the leg does give me pause. It is a long pillar that tapers into a point. With all that weight bearing down on that sharp appendage, it’ll be difficult for the scales of my current size to stop it.

Leaping away, I cast my eyes around for usable bends, only to find none. How could I forget where I am? Sudden hesitation hits me. Without the environment I’ve always fought in, can I really take on this predator?

This is the first time I’ve had an opportunity like this in a long time. I’m not about to pass it up because I’m disadvantaged.

My tail snaps around the trunk before its second leg can hit me and I flick myself toward the next limb. I spin through the air for a moment; the uncontrolled action is so much more disorienting without the stabilising effect of my distortions. When I feel the leg hit my midsection, I wrap around it and reorient myself.

A glance up at the head makes me reconsider my plan to reach its neck. Biting into the neck of prey, then choking off their circulation with constriction is my typical strategy, but the combination of its immense body and exoskeleton means that isn’t an option. Not unless I put in the effort to break the shell first.

The limb I cling to crashes into the earth. It cuts easily through the soft fungi, only for it to blow outward as the stone explodes below, flinging debris everywhere. The millions of flying bugs continue unperturbed as many of their kind fall dead, endlessly diving beneath the earth.

I tighten, twisting in on myself until I hear cracks from the limb. Only moments after the sound reaches my ears does the exoskeleton shatter and I crunch through the weak, inner flesh. The leg buckles. I hit the ground as the Nareau collapses before it can readjust its weight. The arachnid shrieks, flooding the air with its pressure as the noise thrums through my spine.

I dash away from the broken limb, brushing off the effect of its unrefined presence, and barely avoid its fangs as is slams its head into the earth. More of the fungal bug trap is destroyed, soil flung everywhere.

After gaining some distance, I cast my gaze over my adversary. The one leg hangs limply, but it rises unperturbed. Well, it obviously isn’t completely uncaring of the crippled limb if the raging shrieks that vibrate the air are any indication. It raises its head high, and rips its legs through the earth with each step, quaking the soil beneath my belly.

Each destructive step displays the power of its weight, but the Nareau is clunky and unstable. While fast, any time it strikes with one of its long legs, it risks fracturing the ground it needs to walk. If not for the eight legs — seven now — it probably couldn’t be this unrestrained.

So far, the Nareau is a disappointment. If I take three more legs from it, I won’t even need to rely on distortions or size.

Above, a second arachnid scuttles across the ceiling. In a blink, it leaps down.

Oh? Maybe this will be fun?