As they pressed deeper into the darkness, Arin felt it.
Something was wrong.
The air felt heavier—thicker—but welcomed their very presence.
Something shifted within Arin as he dvelved deeper into the pathway — a subtle pressure passively reacted within him and spread to the lesser serpents. He didn't notice it then.
Then he noticed the roots.
They crept along the cavern floor like thin dried veins, spreading across the pathway.
Arin's scales tightened.
Danger.
Not distant.
Not vague.
Immediate.
Yet desperation left no room for retreat.
This path was their only way forward.
Time dragged on, and hunger began to surface among the lesser cave serpents. Their movements grew sluggish.
Tongues flicked more often. Stomachs growled.
Arin halted.
The others followed instinctively.
Ahead of them lay the source.
At the center of the roots bloomed a single flower—small, delicate, and soaked in a deep blood-red hue.
Oleander.
Its petals glistened faintly, beautiful and lethal in equal measure.
The moment Arin's gaze fell upon it, his body reacted on its own.
Sharp, needle-like thorns extended from the end of his tail.
The lesser serpents didn't understand.
Hunger gnawed at their reason, eroding instinct, dulling thought. One by one, their bodies slid forward—unconscious, desperate.
Arin cursed under his breath.
The enemy noticed.
A root burst from the ground.
Fast.
Too fast.
It lashed toward the four serpents like a spear.
Arin's pupils shrank.
Time seemed to slow.
His gaze flicked sideways—searching, calculating—until he saw it.
Another root.
Close.
Within reach.
He didn't think.
He chose.
Arin hurled himself forward.
His fangs sank into the root with a wet, grinding crunch.
The moment his bite tore through it—
The attacking root twitched mid-air.
Just for an instant.
Then it slammed into the ground, missing its targets as dust exploded outward.
Pain lanced through Arin's jaw.
A hot, viscous liquid sprayed across his scales—green, reeking, alive.
He ripped himself free and recoiled.
The flower screamed.
Not with sound—
But with fury.
As the dust settled, the four lesser cave serpents—driven by ravenous hunger—lunged at the attacking root as if it were food.
Their jaws clamped down instinctively.
To Arin's surprise, the root—and the serpents along with it—was yanked upward, bodies twisting and flailing as the strange struggle unfolded.
As the plant struggled to tear them off, Arin saw his chance.
He lunged for another root.
His tail lashed violently, coils wrapping and tearing as he forced his way forward.
One root snapped.
Then another.
With every movement closer to the flower, its grip on the earth weakened.
Roots snapped beneath Arin's advance—one after another—its underground network collapsing as he pressed forward.
The creature thrashed blindly now.
Each severed root sent violent tremors through its body.
Its control faltered. Its movements grew erratic.
The battle had reached its end.
Powerless.
Surrounded.
What once hunted now became prey.
The blood-red flower convulsed as the starving serpents closed in, tearing into it without mercy.
Roots, petals—devoured alive.
There was no final scream.
Only hunger.
Everything was devoured.
Arin stared at what little remained.
A realization struck him.
"You were starving too, weren't you? Your roots were dried, your qi fading even before… well, let's leave it here."
His eyes hardened.
"It's the survival of the fittest."
The words had barely left his mouth when his jaws parted, and he spat a mouthful of blood-tinged venom onto the stone.
He froze. The bitter taste lingered, and confusion flashed across his face.
"Ah… it was poisonous."
Fury flared.
His body trembled. He collapsed.
Blood poured from his mouth as his
breathing turned ragged.
"Buy… five healing potions," he rasped.
The system didn't respond.
It felt as though the world itself was fracturing around him.
"Shop," he muttered, barely conscious.
Shop (E-Tier)
Refresh: 2
[Karma: 32]
Poor-Quality Healing Potion — Cost: 7 Karma
Still weak. Still diluted. May heal you… eventually.
Tastes like mud. But mud that heals.
...
Poison burned through him like molten glass.
His vision blurred, the world tilting as panic clawed at what little clarity he had left.
Poison.
His consciousness began to slip.
But through all the misery, a voice rose from within him—
his own.
A will to live.
A white void.
A man.
No—
a beggar.
A slave.
Hopeless.
Golden pins—countless of them—pierced through his body,
He could not move.
Could not scream.
Could not beg.
Then—
one pin trembled.
It shook.
Slowly…
it tore free.
And as it fell—
endlessly—
into the white abyss—