[Previously called water troll, river troll, or freshwater troll, it was named River Scrag or simply Scrag by the adventurer and renowned scholar Undur Nabazarr, who noted that while it possesses regenerative abilities similar to trolls, its other characteristics differ. The adventurer's guild later adopted the name Scrag, and it has since become the common term used among adventurers.]
On the moonlit bank of a river, two large eyeballs move back and forth above the water, scanning the surroundings. Blinking thick eyelids rapidly to avoid missing any movement, they react with quick motions disproportionate to their size, responding to the faint rustle of a river rat on the bank or the splash of a fish snapping at an insect on the water's surface, rolling their eyes vigilantly to keep watch.
The eyes belong to a Scrag. Though near a deep river, this monster, standing over 8 cubits(4 meters) tall, can crouch with its knees bent and keep just its head above the water's surface.
It was a night with two moons, but the Scrag's form, hidden beneath the dark river under the shadows of trees and grass, with only part of its head and eyes exposed, could not be illuminated.
The Scrag's eyes clearly spot a black bear on the opposite riverbank. Its long limbs and webbed feet allow swift movement through the water. If it wished, it could approach silently and attack the bear. But the Scrag does not.
Bears always fight back. Unlike deer or reindeer that merely thrash, bears claw with their talons and bite with their teeth.
The Scrag's wounds heal quickly, and its blood flows only briefly before stopping. Still, the pain of torn skin stings, so the Scrag decides against attacking the bear and waits a bit longer.
The tastiest prey is a horned deer. The antlers, though hard, have a peculiar blend of bitter and sweet flavors when chewed, with a pleasant aroma. Biting into the flesh and snapping off the tip of an antler with its teeth is so delightful that the Scrag feels an urge to shout and leap with joy.
For some time, the Scrag sits in the water, knees drawn up, occasionally rolling its eyes toward rustling sounds.
Disappointed when the awaited deer does not appear, the Scrag moves to the opposite bank. It glides slowly under the water's surface, using its long limbs to propel itself downstream. As it nears the opposite bank, a sound reaches its ears.
A strange animal cry echoes through the quiet night by the river. Twisting its body underwater, the Scrag swims back toward the source of the sound.
At the riverbank, it sees a creature tethered by a rope around its neck. A fat body with short legs, a thick neck, a snout protruding forward with a large nose, and a curly, twisting tail. It was a pig.
Perhaps left alone in the dark riverbank or irritated by the rope around its neck, the pig occasionally squeals and circles the wooden stake it's tied to, sniffing the air as if wary of something approaching.
The Scrag had eaten a pig before. It was a quiet night like this one. Slowly blinking its large eyes, it recalls that night. Unlike tonight, when an animal's cry drew its attention, that night it was the clattering sound of something jingling that piqued its curiosity, prompting it to emerge from the water and walk toward the noise.
When it reached the source, it found a cart moving along the road. The lantern attached to the cart made it clearly visible from afar. The monster's feet moved in rhythm with the cart's rattling. As the Scrag drew closer, it saw a man in tattered clothes, drowsily staring ahead while driving the cart.
The man, startled by the dark shadow before him, rubbed his eyes and looked up at the approaching figure.
In the lantern's light, the Scrag's skin gleamed bluish, tinged green with moss, wet and glistening yet rough and bumpy. Though damp, its cracked, coarse skin looked as tough as tree bark even to the naked eye.
Its long arms dangled below its knees, and one of them reached toward the man. Between its wrinkled fingers, moss and waterweed clung.
"Aaaahhh!!"
At the man's terrified scream, the Scrag bared its teeth and grabbed the cart's wheel, lifting it. The wheel broke with a snap, and the braying of a donkey thrown to the ground echoed. When the lantern shattered, spilling oil that caught fire and blazed, the Scrag, startled, slammed the lifted cart down onto the flames.
Seizing the moment, the man, thrown off balance, quickly pulled the fallen donkey to its feet, mounted it, and vanished with the donkey into the darkness.
As the Scrag turned toward the man fleeing with the half-broken wheel, it heard an animal's cry.
Drawn by the unfamiliar sound from the broken cart, the Scrag cautiously approached. The animal, perhaps injured by splinters from the shattered cage, wailed in pain.
Was it the smell of blood? Hunger? Or annoyance at the loud cries? The Scrag tore through the poorly nailed wooden cage, and its protruding snout clamped onto the animal's neck. The sweet taste of fat and blood filled its mouth. The sensation of teeth piercing through hide. The ecstatic taste of meat. That night's memory was etched deeply in the Scrag's mind.
The scent and sound of the pig, rooted in that memory, made the Scrag's eyelids tremble and its eyes widen. Its eyes bulged as if they might pop out, and sticky saliva dripped from its mouth.
'That taste again, that sweetness from before!' The Scrag's mind was filled with such thoughts.
The Scrag swiftly reached out and grabbed the pig. As it pulled the struggling pig toward itself, an arrow flew and lodged into its hand. Then a sharp pain struck its back.
Sticky blood gushed out, flowing down its hunched back to its shoulders.
"Hahaha! Rude, you were right, the beast showed up!!"
A warrior in an old metal helmet stepped back, avoiding the spurting blood, his metal armor clanking.
Another arrow flew from the darkness, embedding in the Scrag's chest. Then another. Feeling the pain in its chest, the Scrag swiped at the arrows, snapping them.
"They said Scrags heal wounds quickly, and it seems true."
From the direction of the arrows, Rude emerged, holding a bow in one hand and a torch in the other. Beside him, another figure stepped out from the dark, unlit by the torch, pushing through the grass.
Unlike Rude, who wore leather armor and no helmet, this adventurer was clad in sturdy half-plate armor and metal gauntlets. Through the open helmet, a bushy beard, a blunt nose, and a large scar near his eye were visible.
His furrowed brow and sharp, focused eyes suggested he was preparing for the battle ahead.
As the two approached the Scrag, the blood from the wound on its back had stopped flowing, and the wounds with broken arrows were pushing out the arrowheads, healing as they dropped to the ground.
"Reinhold, use fire! Barild, healing magic!"
At Rude's command, the heavily armored warrior stepped back briefly, pulling a glass bottle from a pouch on his belt. He poured the liquid onto his weapon and sparked a flint to ignite it.
"Now you can't regenerate, you monster."
While Rude, Reinhold, and Barild fought the Scrag, Gravel was flying above the area. Searching for a floating island in the vast, unknown skies of this world felt futile, but it was a task Gravel justified as reconnaissance and information-gathering around Froikton. On free days, like today, flying to the distant outskirts of the city had become Gravel's routine.
As Gravel returned to Froikton after covering the intended area, small orange lights flickered in the darkness below.
"Adventurers?"
Too far to discern, Gravel decided to approach. Lowering altitude toward the lights, Gravel saw three adventurers battling an unidentified monster.
'A river troll? First time seeing one in this world… Well, there were dire wolves and goblins, so…'
Several arrows were lodged in the monster's back, some burning while still embedded in its flesh. The adventurers seemed to be struggling.
The heavily armored adventurer's armor was dented or broken in several places, with large and small wounds visible where the armor had fallen away. Blood flowed from these wounds, yet he stood closest to the monster, enduring its attacks with a shield.
Another adventurer wielding a blunt weapon had wounds as well, though not as severe. The archer, shooting from a distance, had fewer injuries and dodged the monster's attacks with agile movements, continuing to strike.
'If this keeps up, they'll be wiped out…'
The monster seemed to have the upper hand against the severely injured one and the two tiring adventurers.
Burned wounds weren't regenerating, but the monster showed no major injuries. It swung its arms tirelessly, attacking the adventurers with unrelenting vigor.
'I have to help!'
Watching from the sky, Gravel descended into a nearby forest and began moving toward the riverbank where the adventurers fought. Neither too fast nor too leisurely, Gravel traversed the dark forest, pushing through branches and grass while pondering.
Judging by its appearance, the monster was likely a troll or a similar creature. The adventurers' use of fire suggested it was a weakness, and the rapid regeneration of wounds was a troll trait. Even if it wasn't called a troll, the approach would be the same.
A suitable fire spell could handle it, but there were onlookers. From Gravel's time in Froikton, magic users were rare in this world. The spells cast by some Froikton adventurers were only at the level of Grand World's 1st or 2nd level magic.
Likely due to the city's safety and predominance of novice adventurers, Gravel hesitated to use high-level magic in front of others without knowing the extent of this world's magical capabilities.
What would be a spell within the common sense of this world, one that wouldn't draw attention? Or perhaps, even outside Froikton, this world's magic was limited to Grand World's 3rd or 4th-tier spells, and Gravel's assumption of being an exceptional magic user was mere arrogance.
Such thoughts complicated Gravel's mind.