Heroes of the Final Frontier (Book #8): The World of Waldyra LitRPG Cycle by Dem Mikhailov

Author:Dem Mikhailov [Mikhailov, Dem]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Magic Dome Books in collaboration with 1C-Publishing
Published: 2025-06-13T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

WE PICKED ONE OF THE DEEP SPACIOUS CAVES at the base of the Rotten Fangs for our camp—just about three paces from the water’s edge. The grotto was fairly bright and empty, easily big enough for our whole crew with room to spare. First thing we did was thoroughly check the sand for danger, but all we found were some crushed shells, a handful of tiny pearls, and various bones—including four skulls, both human and elven. All four had the frontal bone bashed in, which didn’t exactly fill me with confidence about sleeping here, and it gave me a gnawing urge to scratch my own forehead—which I did for a while… until I noticed everyone else doing the same. There we were, standing in a circle around the skulls in the sand, all scratching our foreheads like it was the smartest use of our time.

I let out a long yawn and bounced in place a couple of times to shake off the drowsiness and any thoughts of potential Fading. Then I turned to Zennie, putting on what I hoped passed for a lively grin.

“What sort of creatures live on the Rotten Fangs?”

She gave it some thought. While she counted on her fingers, I sat down, unrolled the map, and checked off another waypoint—we’d left Big Crabby behind. That was both a win and a loss. Good that we’d made progress along the Trail, bad that we’d blown right through another zone without really exploring it. We didn’t gain any XP, skipped potential gear and weapons, didn’t cast any spells or use our skills to level them up—basically acted like layovers at a transfer terminal, not true adventurers. Akmere would not approve.

Zennie held up three fingers and started listing:

“Ignis vesperado—bats with wings of black fire. You can only see the flames at sunset, when they leave their nests. Not at night, and not during the day. The fire trails behind them like a long cloak, carving smoky streaks into the dusk sky. I once dragged one out of its burrow in broad daylight and learned they can’t fly under the sun. But they do bite and scratch like hell—and the wounds they leave catch fire on the spot. Then there are the bloodsucking whip roots—I don’t know their real name. Maybe nobody does. What name could you even give to a spiny root that suddenly lashes out of a crack in the rock and starts whipping around, trying to hit living flesh? I just call them whip roots. And the last bunch, I call them schloombas—ugly beasts with bent claws, slow as hell. Watching them is the ultimate snoozefest—you’ll nod off before they even finish one damn movement. Honestly, they seem to sleep through most of their lives.”

“Sloths?” Doc guessed, then mimed the motion, rolling his eyes back and sticking out his tongue for some reason. “All fuzzy, just hang there for hours…”

“Exactly!” Zennie lit up. “Schloombas are just like that!”

“Slow and hilarious,” Doc nodded. “We’ve got schloombas in our world too! Fuzzy little cuties.

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