Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee-Chapter 36: The Weight of a Tear

That scream doesn’t leave my ears. It burrows in, nesting behind my eyes like a parasite.

I break into a dead sprint.

Behind us, another red beam pierces the canopy. The whale cries out—the same raw, gut-deep sound that’s becoming the heartbeat of this massacre.

Suddenly, the global comms channel overrides my earpiece. The cold, aristocratic voice of the Chief Instructor echoes through the jungle, sounding almost bored.

"Attention, Cadets. Six active teams remain in the Battle Grounds. The final five teams standing will secure their placement in the Top Grade class."

A brief, static-laced pause.

"Well... The current mortality rate stands at seventeen percent. An unprecedented metric in the academy’s history, but acceptable for the caliber of this test. The tides are changing. We need soldiers, not students."

A faint scratching sound follows, the rustle of papers near an open mic. "Good God, the sheer amount of paperwork this is going to generate..." the Instructor mutters, his voice dropping to a weary, unintentional whisper.

Then, the sharp click of the comms returning to focus. "Good luck to those remaining."

"Acceptable, for whom?" I grit my teeth, pushing my aching legs harder. What good is a Top 5 spot if I let an ally bleed out in the dirt?

In Thirstfall, reputation isn’t just built on survival; it’s built on a twisted sense of karma. If I want people to follow me later, I can’t let Rhayne die today. It isn’t in my plans.

I glance at the HUD.

Her EKG is still pulsing—a chaotic, erratic rhythm—but the comms channel is completely dead.

"Rhayne, do you copy?" I whisper, trying one last time.

She can’t speak.

She can’t even click her teeth anymore.

I raise a fist, signaling Veric and Lola to halt as the sound of rushing water grows deafening. We crouch behind a thick cluster of fern-like vegetation at the edge of a steep drop-off.

"Listen carefully," I whisper, my lungs burning. "The target is down in that ravine. Veric, you are the vanguard. When I give the signal, you drop down and plant your feet. I will pull the Reef Stalker’s aggro and kite it directly into your shield. Do not budge."

Veric grips his mud-caked tower shield and nods, his expression grim. "It won’t break my line."

I turn to Lola. "The second that thing hits Veric’s shield, it’ll be stunned. I want you to blow its head clean off. Understood?"

"Can I use Lullaby?" She asks excitedly with her eyes wide open.

"Sure. You need it."

Lola pats the massive barrel of her rocket launcher. "Boom," she agrees softly.

I check my OXI after creeping to the edge of the ridge and peer down into the Ravine Waterfall.

[OXI: 1,099/1,200]

It is breathtakingly beautiful. A hidden sanctuary enclosed by high, moss-draped cliffs. Silver water cascades from the ancient rocks above, feeding a crystal-clear pool at the bottom that glows with a faint, natural luminescence. It is a slice of paradise untouched by the rot of the world.

But the beauty is instantly tainted.

At the base of the waterfall, resting on a smooth, sun-warmed boulder, is the Reef Stalker.

It’s curled in a feline crouch, its skin a living mosaic of chromatophores pulsing to perfectly mimic the stone beneath it. Its dense, muscular body rises and falls as the gills along its neck hiss softly with every breath, accompanied by a faint, guttural click-click-click. It’s asleep.

Then, I look up.

Suspended directly above the monster, swaying slightly in the misty breeze, is Rhayne. Her weight pulls against thick boughs jutting from the waterfall’s sheer cliffs, the wet bark slick beneath her bindings.

She is hanging upside down, a thick rope tied tightly around her ankles, her arms bound behind her back. Her face is pale and badly bruised, her eyes wide with unadulterated terror as she fights with every ounce of her remaining strength to suppress a sob.

My blood turns to ice, then boils over into pure, murderous rage.

Live bait.

Veric looks at me. I can see the math behind his eyes. Duty versus disgust.

I hold up a hand—wait—signaling him not to do anything reckless.

He simply gives a grim nod.

Of course, this isn’t the Stalker’s doing; monsters don’t tie intricate knots.

Somewhere in the shadows of this ravine, the team that strung her up is lying in wait. They aren’t just hunting the beast—they’re farming it.

Rhayne is the dinner bell, meant to lure the monster into a vulnerable strike or, worse, to draw her own allies into this vertical kill zone.

To them, she is a multi-purpose lure: a way to bait a monster’s hunger and a hero’s desperation in one fell swoop.

I scan the cliffs, my mind racing through tactical variables, calculating the fastest way to butcher the invisible cowards before the monster.

I won’t take that bait as they planned.

Lola lets a sigh slip—a sound low enough to keep the beast from stirring, yet just rhythmic enough to separate itself from the ravine’s white noise.

A faint whimper catches my attention.

Rhayne heard Lola. From her inverted position, she has managed to twist her neck just enough to see the ridge.

She sees me.

Relief washes over her bruised face. The emotional dam breaks. She starts to cry, completely in silence, her body trembling violently with the effort of keeping her sobs locked in her throat.

But gravity is unforgiving.

A single drop—a mixture of cold sweat and desperate tears—slides down her forehead, runs past the bridge of her nose, and falls into the empty space below.

Time seems to slow to a crawl.

The droplet falls twenty feet.

Plop.

It lands dead center on the Reef Stalker’s snout.

The rumbling breaths stop.

The soft hissing of its gills stops.

The living mosaic of chromatophores along the beast’s spine ripples as its dense muscles twitch. Slowly, its soulless tiger shark eyes snap open, and it tilts its massive head upward, while its bifurcated jaw parts with a low click.