My Abyss Survival Diary

Chapter 12 Enemy Attack

Before I knew it, another hour had passed...

Simon sat by the fire, leaning against a wooden stake.

Klein sat opposite him.

He didn't wear a braid; his blond hair was loose over his shoulders, with a few strands hanging down in front of his forehead.

Between two slender fingers she held a small, diamond-shaped gray blade, much shorter than a dagger, with a faded strip of cloth tied to its end.

He was thinking, and as he thought, he played with the blade. The sharp blade flipped between his fingers, from his thumb to his index finger, then from his index finger to his middle finger, around the back of his hand, and then slid back. The movement was very smooth, like water flowing between his fingers.

Simon tilted his head, then suddenly frowned...

Click—

A disturbing sound was mixed in with the wind, like the snapping of a thread, or perhaps the click of some kind of mechanism...

"ah--!"

A heart-wrenching scream shattered the tranquility of the forest!

Klein's fingers tightened sharply, the blade swirling in his palm before he gripped it firmly.

He turned around and banged hard on the tent flap.

"Warning!" he shrieked. "Get up! Someone's stepped on a trap!"

Badar was the first to emerge from the tent. He picked up his shotgun from the side of the tent and cocked it with a click.

Anthony crawled out of the tent, his face filled with panic...

Mr. Bell staggered out of the tent, his thick beard revealing a smile that clearly showed his joy.

"You guard the camp," Klein calmly commanded. "Don't extinguish the campfire, but don't go near it either. Just lie in ambush nearby and don't reveal your position."

Klein turned to face Simon, his golden hair falling over his shoulders, the loose strands gleaming softly in the firelight.

Once again, he reached out to Simon, his fingers long and slender, his nails neatly trimmed, and his palms damp with a thin layer of sweat.

"Mr. Simon..." he pleaded, "come with me to scout ahead."

"Okay." After a moment's hesitation, Simon agreed.

To survive in this abyss, a good campsite is essential.

Even if he doesn't intend to work with Klein and the others long-term, he should at least maintain a good relationship with them.

"Wait a moment!"

Simon turned around and saw that it was Mr. Bell who had called out to them.

"I have a gift for you," Mr. Bell said, handing over the heavy harpoon.

The fork still bore traces of the prey's blood, which had hardened after drying.

Simon reached out and took the harpoon, his fingertips moving from the cold metal blade to the hard wooden shaft, feeling its heavy weight.

This harpoon was a weapon that pleased him. Its weight was just right—not too heavy to tire him, nor too light to cause him to make mistakes. The built-in crossbow also contained an explosive bolt, which could play a huge role in changing the course of the battle at crucial moments.

"This is your weapon, I can't take it."

"This is just a toy I made; I have weapons that are more suitable for me."

Mr. Bell grinned, the firelight dancing on his scarred face.

He picked up a long, narrow cloth bag from beside his feet...

Untie the rope and pull out a bow.

The bow, like him, was rugged and scarred, possessing the unique tenacity and sharpness of a wilderness hunter. The bow was made of dark hardwood, polished to a shine, coated with a thin layer of wax that reflected slightly in the firelight. The bowstring was made of the tendon of some animal, gleaming with a dark yellow luster.

He held the bow with one hand and took out a quiver from the cloth bag with the other, carrying it on his back.

"This is the hunter's weapon."

"Then I won't stand on ceremony." Simon gripped the harpoon tightly, no longer refusing.

Klein was already standing at the edge of the camp. He glanced back at Simon, then turned and disappeared into the fog.

Simon followed, and the two left the camp and entered the jungle.

The soil beneath my feet was soft and wet, and I sank in half an inch with each step, making a slight splattering sound as I lifted my foot.

As dawn approaches, the fog rises and swirls...

It emerged from between the tree roots and squeezed out from the gaps in the branches and leaves, appearing an unhealthy milky white in the dim light of the spores, obscuring the figures of the two people.

As we walked, the trees around us grew denser, their branches intertwined and vines hanging down, weaving an impenetrable net overhead. Glowing spores floated in the air, their blue-green glow illuminating the outlines of the tree canopies, but unable to penetrate the gaps in the forest or brighten the thick darkness.

The air was damp and cold, carrying a sweet, rotten smell and a faint stench of blood...

Klein slowed his pace, his steps were light, and his boots made almost no sound as they trod on the muddy ground.

Her blonde hair was damp and clung to her neck, revealing a small patch of pale skin.

He suddenly stopped, and Simon stopped immediately.

Looking around, he noticed the trap that had wounded the man: between two large trees, a thin cotton rope linked to a crossbow fixed to the tree trunk.

There was a pool of blood on the ground ahead, dark red, glistening stickily in the dim light of the spores.

Following Klein's steps, a clump of ferns emerged from the fog ahead, its large leaves trembling slightly.

My keen hearing picked up on the heavy breathing.

The wounded enemy is hiding here.

Klein stretched out his hand, three fingers, two, one—

He suddenly parted the fern leaves.

A young man who looked to be in his early twenties was huddled behind the leaves...

He lay on his back, trembling violently. His face was ashen and bloodless. He wore a tattered prison uniform with one sleeve torn open, revealing an arm covered in abrasions and bruises. A crossbow bolt was stuck in his right leg, its fletching soaked in blood and turned dark brown.

His entire leg was shaking, not involuntarily, but from muscle spasms caused by excruciating pain...

Klein lunged forward with astonishing speed, covering the man's mouth with one hand and choking him with the other.

The man's eyes were wide open, filled with fear, and tears streamed uncontrollably down his cheeks.

"I ask, you answer..." Klein leaned close to the man's ear and spoke in the softest voice, "Dare to cry for help, and I'll snap your neck!"

"How many people?"

"Twenty-odd people..." The man's terrified voice squeezed out from between Klein's fingers, muffled and unclear, "We were all sent by a man, a sickly man."

The man trembled even more violently, and when he uttered the name, his voice trembled as if he were about to cry:

"He said his name was Theodore..."

"He told us to scout ahead..." His voice trailed off, filled with utter terror. "He said there were good things in the camp ahead, and we'd only be fed if we found them; otherwise, we'd be punished and used to feed the flesh of iniquity!"

Nurturing the flesh of incriminating evidence? Simon didn't know how these two words were put together.

The wind blew in from the fog, carrying the sweet smell of decay and the stench of blood, and the fern leaves rustled...

The man on the ground was still trembling, his eyes darting around in panic, scanning every tree, every shadow, and every wisp of mist around him.

There were figures in the fog! More than a dozen figures gradually emerged from the fog...

The spores landed on their shoulders, illuminating their cheeks, their faces expressionless, worn down by fear and exhaustion, leaving only numbness.

Some people held nail guns with the muzzle pointing downwards; some carried machetes with mud still clinging to the blades; some were empty-handed, their clothes tattered, some used vines as belts, some wrapped their feet with strips of cloth, and some simply walked barefoot in the mud.

They knew they were a suicide squad tasked with triggering the traps, like a herd of livestock being driven, unaware of what lay ahead, only knowing they had no choice but to move.

Simon lay in ambush in the shadow of the tree trunk, gripping the harpoon tightly, his thumb resting on the trigger of the crossbow, ready to fire an explosive bolt at any moment.

The figures in the fog drew closer, and the footsteps grew louder.

Just then, a voice came from the fog...

"Klein."

The voice was soft and slow, with a sickly, languid drawl, like a cat playing with a mouse under its paws.

"haven't seen you for a long time……"