Chapter 15- Sigh, Gotta Get More Power
A wet, throaty cough ripped from Yuuta’s dust-clogged throat as his trembling, three-fingered green hand finally broke through the surface. It was like touching salvation—or at least the nearest thing to it when your lungs felt like they’d been scooped out and replaced with powdered stone.
"F-Fuck... finally..." he wheezed out, pushing harder. Every movement sent sparks of pain crawling through his fingers, which were still bleeding from dozens of embedded stone shards. His green skin, usually glossy and smooth, now looked like cracked pottery. Dry, dusty, flaking. Even his knuckles had split open from the frantic, clawing dig to survive.
He pushed again, cursing in short, sharp bursts with every inch. His legs strained beneath him as he hoisted himself through the makeshift bunker’s stone slab ceiling. The slab gave one last grinding protest before shifting with a dull thunk, dislodging a curtain of fine dirt and pebbles that rained onto his shoulders and head.
Yuuta groaned, spitting a clump of sand out from his mouth. "Fucking pigs... bury me alive, huh? The nerve—like I’m some common frog stew!"
His eyes were still shut tight, squinting against the sting of the dust that filled every crevice of his battered frog body. He slowly opened one eye, then the other, inch by inch like peeling apart old scabs.
All he saw was brown-grey.
The air was thick—almost chewy—with dust. It swirled in choking clouds, the sun completely blotted out. No light pierced the heavy atmosphere. Even the smell was oppressive: burnt earth, charred stone, and something foul, probably pig blood.
Yuuta blinked rapidly. The grit scratched his eyeballs, but he refused to close them again. His bulging frog eyes darted through the fog, scanning the canyon’s ghostly remains.
"Shit..." he muttered. "Looks like a frog massacre."
He wasn’t exaggerating either—he looked like a disaster survivor who’d crawled straight out of a mudslide. His skin was caked with fine, grainy sediment. Dust clung to his arms, his back, and his thighs. His hands—oh, his fucking hands—were a horror show. Still bleeding, still twitching, still loaded with sharp little bastards digging into his muscle with every flex.
He looked down at them and winced.