NOVEL NEXT Chapter 122: I survived. But at what cost?
The swamp heaved again, quivering as if it had been holding its breath. The conch bellowed, shrill and commanding, and the next swell rolled forward. This time, it was Archibald's wave that towered higher, a green-and-brown monolith of sludge, draped in vines and drifting reeds like banners in a storm. Its crest frosted with fungal foam, it was a wall of muck that threatened to swallow anything smaller in its path. It stunk, though.
Archibald, perched on Sir Archiboard with the composure of a duke addressing a royal court, leaned into the wave. The doily at his rear fluttered madly but somehow still clung to his movements as if it were sentient. He tilted forward ever so slightly (possibly less than 6 degrees) and the wave bent to his command. That level of grace seemed preordained. A rogue reed snagged the edge of his board, but he lifted his root-stamped hoof, pivoting with aristocratic flair. The swamp erupted in a chorus of gurgles and burps, a cheering tide for this absurd display of swampboard mastery.
That slight tilt really got him moving so fluidly on the wave! Maybe I can help out too. I just need a well-timed Adjustable Angle…
Blorbo felt Marin's grip tighten instantly, a prelude to the next challenge. The wave beneath them was smaller, though still formidable, sloshing with a churning rhythm that forced him to engage every fiber of his inverted being.
Marin leaned forward, weight balanced perfectly atop Blorbo's belly, legs (handles) pressed with precision against the table's limbs. A shove here, a torque there; Blorbo's corners dug into the wave as if the molecules themselves obeyed Marin's will.
Yeah! Take that, stupid wave! Eat turd!
The wave churned, green-brown and frothy, but Blorbo sensed a new menace beneath the surface. Something sticky had begun to rise. A viscous, dark smear slithered along the underside of his belly, clinging like a limpet on steroids. It was… foul. Foul and insistent. The corrosive residue that had sped him up now trembled under its touch.
[Effectiveness Reduced: Godly Swampsubstance]
[AGI Boost: 140%]
Nooooo! The effect is not permanent!
If this thing latched fully, it wouldn't just erase the Godly Swampsubstance; it might even add weight, drag, and a new, horrifying wobble.
Blorbo panicked internally. What can I do? Precise Pounce? Impossible. My legs are pointed to the sky. Surface Wobble? No, that would pitch Marin forward into the fungal scum. Adjustable Angle? Not enough. This is… worse.
The thing writhed under him, sticky tendrils tugging at his grain like it had a personal vendetta. The smell reached him secondhand, nauseating through the wood fibers: swamp rot and something unmistakably… turd-like.
Consume, Blorbo realized, his internal voice dropping to a whimper. I'll have to… swallow it.
He hesitated. It looked exactly like a turd. Possibly also tasted like one. Yet there was no alternative. If Marin lost his balance, the next torque or shove could send them spinning into the frothy abyss.
[Mandatory Quest Received: Eat the Turd.]
Objective: Eat the Turd.
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Reward: Nothing.
Failure: Death.
Blorbo braced himself. A slow, inevitable internal stretching began as he opened his 'mouth,' the edges of his inverted surface sucking upward toward the intruding sludge. The tendrils resisted, squelching against his grain. He grimaced and swallowed.
The taste was… indescribable. Worse than mud. Worse than old algae. Somewhere between 'please no' and 'never again.'
But it seemed like his sacrifice had allowed Marin to pilot him with perfect timing. The shove! The torque! Blorbo felt the wave respond to Marin's command once more. He had removed the menace from under his belly, even if it had left a lingering, unpleasant layer of dread behind.
[Congratulations! Quest Completed: Eat the Turd]
Reward: Nothing
I survived. But at what cost?
Marin twisted them sideways just as a forked bubble of methane shot up, colliding with the wave's lip. They spun into another topspin, slicing through the foam and landing with improbable uprightness on a trailing swell.
Archibald, however, was already climbing the next rising wall of sludge. The wave was taller, heavier, a surge that seemed to defy gravity. Sir Archiboard skated across its surface with exacting elegance; Archibald leaned into its troughs, twisted through its peaks, each movement measured like a waltz.
Marin eyed Archibald's wave with a mixture of respect and exasperation. He murmured to himself, "next time, we don't wait for the swell to pick us. We get in front. We catch the bigger wave first."
Blorbo sighed. He prayed the big waves didn't have big turds.
The next wave came. The conch blared again, high and commanding, and from the fetid depths a new swell began to rise. This one was different: older, heavier, and somehow angrier than anything before.
"No more waiting," he muttered, gripping Blorbo's legs with a vice-like intensity. "We're taking the lead."
Blorbo felt himself lean forward involuntarily, a kinetic surge coursing through his grain. Marin shifted his weight like a conductor commanding a furious orchestra, shoving and torquing with all the force of a horse carriage barreling through mud—except the mud was green sludge, and the carriage was a very unwilling dinner table.
"Charge forward!" Marin bellowed.
The world blurred. Water splashed and slapped against his sides with bone-jarring intensity. Foam and fungal scum whipped past him, slapping, smacking, smearing.
[-2 HP]
The whiplash alone made his corners groan and shiver. This is… too much physics! Slow down!
The wave hit them like a battering ram. Blorbo's belly slammed into the frothy surface, water and slime lashing across him, smacking him repeatedly as though trying to teach him humility. The whiplash rattled his internal framework, but Marin leaned into every bump and slap, bending and twisting Blorbo with expert precision.
[-2 HP]
Yet somehow, they climbed the monstrous wave, slicing through the top with a diagonal cut, tumbling over the crest and landing upright on a trailing froth. The swamp roared, bubbles bursting in chaotic approval, mud and algae spraying like confetti.
Blorbo felt Marin's triumphant grin radiating through the handles. We did it… we actually caught the big one first.
However, too much ambition had consequences. A misjudged torque sent them slightly off-angle. Marin's center of gravity shifted precariously, and for a heartbeat, Blorbo felt the familiar twinge of panic radiate upward. He assessed the situation, calculating grain alignment, centrifugal force, and the wave's unpredictable rhythm. A five-degree lean forward… that should stabilize him.
He hesitated for a split second, letting the idea settle in his inverted mind. But he can stabilize himself, can't he?
Do I really think I know more than a three-time knighthood surfing champion?
HELL YEAH I DO!
Blorbo activated Adjustable Angle.