The travel begins quietly, almost deceptively so.
Flat-bottom skiffs slide from the shallows of the Gelber and nose into the darker water where the current begins to press back. The hulls scrape lightly against submerged roots before drifting free. Oars dip in, wood cutting against slow resistance.
They enter Samel Swamp within the hour.
It does not announce itself with roar or fog.
It thickens.
The river narrows slightly, bends more often. Trees grow taller, their trunks rising straight before branching into layered canopies that filter sunlight into fractured beams. The water is everywhere — pooled between roots, gathered in still pockets beneath leaning cypress, sliding gently past the skiffs in a slow, insistent current.
The air smells of damp bark, green rot, and something mineral beneath it.
Men work in pairs on each skiff, backs flexing, arms steady as they row against the stream. It is not brutally hard. The current is not a raging force. But it is constant. It presses. It demands. After an hour, shoulders burn. After two, wrists ache. After a full day, exhaustion settles behind the eyes like fog.
No one complains.
They rotate.
Two days pass.
They move deeper.
Water is common — not a single wide flood, but an interlaced system of channels, shallow pools, branching offshoots. Tall trees exist in clusters, yet the spacing allows sunlight to scatter across the water's surface. It glitters in broken patterns, bright patches interrupted by shadow.
At the front skiff, two men with sharper sight scan constantly. One crouches low, peering at roots. Another stands slightly elevated, hand shading his eyes as he searches the tree lines.
The boats move in staggered formation.
Aldo's skiff remains central.
Onaga sits just behind him, notebook tucked into waterproof satchel, net rolled tight beside him.
Lei occupies the forward right flank.
Hano sits left flank, spear resting across his knees.
The river makes small noises.
Drips from leaves.
The faint slap of fish beneath the surface.
An insect hum near the ear.
Then—
A sharp hiss.
A dart slices through air.
It strikes the breastplate of a slave-soldier in the third skiff with a metallic ping and drops harmlessly into the boat.
For half a heartbeat, there is silence.
Then muskets rise as one.
"Contact!" someone shouts.
Without command, two shots fire.
The explosion of powder cracks through the swamp.
Birds burst upward in panicked clouds.
"Stop firing!" Aldo's voice cuts through the echo. "Hold fire!"
The muskets hesitate.
One more shot discharges late, wide into trees.
Smoke drifts between trunks.
"We are deep here…" Aldo continues, voice firm but not raised. "We do not have unlimited bullets."
Men breathe hard.
They obey.
Eyes strain toward the direction the dart came from.
Hano narrows his gaze.
Between two trunks — movement.
A figure in a robe.
Not peasant cloth.
Not noble fabric.
Something woven with feathers, bones, dyed fibers — decorated strangely, almost ceremonially.
"There !" Hano mutters. "Left tree line !"
Onaga's face darkens.
"We entered tribal territory…" he says under his breath. "We are ambushed."
Lei does not look frightened.
He adjusts his musket calmly, shifts his weight to account for the boat's sway, inhales once.
He moves half a step sideways for angle.
He fires.
The sound rips the swamp open again.
Far up in the branches, a body jolts.
Then falls.
It tumbles through leaves, hits water with a splash.
Aldo glances at Lei briefly.
"That was long range…" he says.
Lei lowers the musket.
"I counted drift." he replies simply.
Smoke thins.
The swamp quiets.
Too quiet.
Hano and Lei both sweep their eyes outward again, scanning not just the initial direction but every angle — roots, branches, shadowed water.
Onaga swallows.
"That's it?" he whispers. "Just one?"
No one answers.
The skiffs continue moving.
Rowing resumes.
Faster now.
Tension replaces fatigue.
Hano's gaze drops to the roots along the riverbank.
Something shifts there — subtle movement between tangled wood.
Above, leaves tremble slightly where no wind blows.
And Aldo sees it too—
The water.
Small waves forming against the natural current.
A pattern that does not match oar movement.
He leans forward and taps Lei's shoulder twice.
Lei follows his gaze downward.
The ripple grows wider.
Aldo murmurs. "Ambush in layers."
He straightens.
"Twenty men watch the roots!" he commands. "Twenty eyes above canopy! Twenty watch the water! Rest prepare for direct engagement!"
The formation adjusts mid-river without spoken command. Oars shorten their stroke. Boats angle slightly inward, tightening spacing so that no vessel drifts beyond supporting range. The current presses lazily against hulls, but the men compensate instinctively, small corrections keeping the line intact. Water laps against wood in uneven rhythms, disturbed now not only by current but by intent.
Muskets are checked again.
Hands move with discipline. Flints inspected. Ramrods withdrawn and returned. Powder flasks uncorked briefly, measured charges poured with care into waiting barrels. The smell of sulfur thickens faintly in the humid air. Fingers tamp wadding down with firm, practiced pressure. The repetitive metallic clicks of loading — ramrod striking barrel, lock snapping into place — echo across the boats in staggered rhythm. Not chaotic. Not rushed. A controlled cadence that travels from bow to stern.
The swamp seems to inhale.
Reeds shift though wind has not changed. The surface of the water trembles in thin, uncertain circles. Somewhere within the dense lattice of branches, something displaces weight from one foothold to another.
Lei lifts his musket again.
His movement is smooth, almost unhurried. The barrel tilts toward the far right treeline where leaves quiver out of pattern. He spots it — a flicker of darker fabric between pale bark, a silhouette where shadow should not thicken.
He does not wait for a dart.
He does not wait for a signal.
He fires.
The shot cracks violently across the stillness. Birds erupt upward from distant canopy. A second robed figure jerks backward from a high perch, arms flailing once before the body strikes a trunk and collapses downward, branches snapping in protest. It hits the water with a heavy splash and does not rise.
Beyond sight, movement increases.
Hidden figures shift positions.
The ripple in the water grows larger.
Closer.
Hano tightens his grip on his spear.
"Water's wrong…" he says low.
The wave swells, displacing current.
Then—
The river explodes.
A massive shape surges upward, jaws wide, teeth gleaming with river slime. A crocodile — far larger than any natural specimen — erupts beside Lei's skiff, its mouth angled toward him.
The roar is deep and wet.
"Down!" someone shouts.
Lei does not freeze.
He drops backward, boots slipping on the boat's edge, and leaps sideways toward exposed roots along the bank.
Two other slave-soldiers follow instinctively.
The crocodile's jaws snap where Lei stood a fraction earlier.
Wood splinters.
The skiff tilts violently.
Water floods over one side.
Gunfire erupts.
Not wild — concentrated.
Dozens of shots hammer into scaled hide as the creature thrashes half out of the river.
Smoke fills the humid air, stinging eyes.
The crocodile bellows, body writhing.
Long sticks — boat poles — thrust downward, soldiers using all their strength to drive them into softer underbelly.
The beast twists.
One skiff overturns entirely.
Men spill into waist-deep water.
"Back into boats!" Aldo commands.
The crocodile's head jerks once more, jaws snapping reflexively at empty air. Its armored hide flashes dark beneath the pale sky before the massive skull twists with violent force. Then it slams sideways into the water with a thunderous splash that sends sheets of muddy spray high into the reeds. For a heartbeat, the river erupts — churned foam, thrashing current, bubbles bursting at the surface.
Then silence.
Ripples spread outward in widening rings, distorting reflections of branches above. The overturned skiff drifts nearby, hull cracked along one side, oar floating loose beside it.
Lei clings to an exposed root at the bank, boots scraping against slick mud. He pulls himself up steadily, breath controlled despite the surge of adrenaline. Two others scramble beside him, coughing, fingers digging desperately into earth and bark as they climb clear of the water.
"Other boat!" someone calls.
They move quickly, disciplined even while soaked to the bone. There is no shouting, no frantic scrambling beyond what is necessary. Training overrides shock. Water streams from sleeves and trouser hems as they regain formation along the bank and the skiff's edge. One man secures a loose musket before reaching for the next hand. Another braces his boots against the hull to anchor himself.
Hands extend from the neighboring skiff without hesitation.
"Here—grip tight."
"On three. Pull."
They are hauled aboard with coordinated effort, wet fabric scraping against wood, boots thudding onto planks slick with river water. One nearly slips but is caught by the collar and steadied before balance is lost. Within seconds, they are upright again, breathing hard but controlled.
Aldo stands tall in his boat despite the sway, boots planted wide for stability. His coat drips steadily, but his gaze remains sharp, sweeping the waterline, the reeds, the overhanging branches.
The river here is relatively clear for swamp water — filtered by constant movement rather than stagnant pooling. Sediment settles gradually after the violent disturbance. Through the thinning cloud of silt, they begin to see it.
A shape.
Massive.
The crocodile lies half on its side beneath the surface. Still. Not floating yet. Just submerged enough that the armored ridge of its back breaks the water faintly, a dark, jagged line against the slow current.
Aldo studies it.
"That crocodile might be a shaman." he says quietly.
Lei wipes water from his face.
"It is…" he replies with certainty.
The decorated robed figures in trees.
The coordinated dart.
The timed water surge.
This was no random animal.
The river grows still again.
Too still.
Aldo does not trust stillness.
"Fire at it again," he orders. "Short volley. Confirm."
Several muskets fire into the floating mass.
Bullets strike water and flesh.
No reaction.
"Cease."
Smoke from discharged muskets thins gradually, unraveling into pale strands that drift low across the water before dissolving into the humid air. The sharp scent of powder lingers, mixing with river rot and churned mud. The surface calms inch by inch, disturbed currents smoothing into slow, deliberate flow.
The body does not move.
The crocodile remains where it fell, a heavy, silent mass beneath the surface, its armored spine barely visible through the settling silt.
Men breathe heavier now. Not panicked — but aware. Chests rise and fall with deeper pulls of air as adrenaline drains, leaving calculation behind. Water drips steadily from sleeves and rifle stocks. Someone wipes mud from his eyes with the back of his wrist.
One boat is gone.
Fragments of wood drift nearby, turning slowly in the current.
No casualties.
But that is calculation, not relief.
Aldo scans the tree lines again, eyes narrowing slightly as he traces each shadow between trunks. His gaze moves methodically — left bank, right bank, canopy above.
No further darts cut through the air.
No new ripples fracture the surface.
He studies the banks carefully.
No movement.
"Row !" he commands.
They resume movement.
Faster.
Oars bite into the river with renewed urgency, blades cutting deeper, pulling harder. The boats surge forward in tighter formation, hulls slicing through the dark water with sharper intent. No one speaks loudly. Commands are kept low, efficient, carried just far enough to coordinate without echoing into the reeds. The rhythm intensifies — wood creaking, water slapping, breath measured.
Behind them, the dead crocodile drifts slowly with the minor current, a fading shadow.
The tribe's ambush has failed.
Or perhaps it was only a warning.
Hano exhales sharply after several minutes, tension leaking from his shoulders in controlled silence.
"We won !" he says, almost triumphant.
Aldo nods once.
"We survived…" he corrects calmly. "And we used bullets."
Hano's smile fades slightly.
Aldo continues rowing, eyes forward.
"Each round matters for the Witch Enclave," he says. "This was not the primary objective."
The cost settles into the air.
One skiff lost.
Several rounds spent.
Energy drained faster than planned.
No deaths.
But the swamp has introduced itself.
Layered.
Intelligent.
Not mindless terrain.
Lei glances back toward where the crocodile sank.
Onaga stares at the tree canopy.
The boats press onward.
Sunlight begins to dim gradually.
Shadows stretch longer across the water.
The air cools slightly but remains thick.
Men rotate rowing positions with quiet efficiency.
The swamp continues around them as if nothing occurred.
Bird calls resume cautiously.
Insects buzz louder as evening approaches.
Aldo's mind runs through numbers.
Ammunition count.
Boat count.
Energy reserves.
Morale level.
He does not celebrate.
He does not curse.
He calculates.
The layered ambush cost them wood, powder, and breath.
The real enemy remains ahead — witches in enclave, likely organized, likely more disciplined than tribal shamans.
Night begins to settle once more between trees.
The sky above the canopy dims into muted violet.
Lanterns are not yet lit.
They row in low light.
Hano glances sideways at Aldo.
"You think they will try again?"
Aldo keeps his gaze forward.
"Yep." he says simply.
The answer hangs steady.
Not fearful.
Not dramatic.
Just factual.
They continue upstream.
Water presses back.
Oars cut forward.
The swamp swallows sound gradually.
And Company 204th moves deeper into hostile terrain — no celebration, no cheering — only quiet recognition that the first test has cost them something.
And the true battle has not even begun.