The final echo of the beast's collapse did not die a natural death; it was smothered by the sudden, rhythmic grinding of heavy machinery. From the shadows of the arena's perimeter, the massive iron portcullis groaned upward, its rusted teeth retreating into the stone ceiling.
A full battalion of the Royal Guard emerged. Twenty dwarves, forged from the very granite they inhabited, marched forward in a phalanx of interlocking shields and jagged spears. They did not rush. Their movements were measured, dictated by a terror so profound it manifested as a suffocating silence. Their eyes, narrow and sharp under the brims of their steel sallets, remained fixed on my hands—hands still slick with the viscous, obsidian ichor of the slaughtered monstrosity. They saw the carnage I had wrought, and in their stiff-backed posture, I read the truth: they weren't here to escort a hero; they were here to contain a plague.
I stood amidst the ruins of the monster, my breath coming in ragged, searing hitches. The atmospheric pressure of the "Eyes of Sin" had finally subsided, leaving a vacuum of agony in its wake. Every muscle that had been forcibly unraveled and rewoven during the transformation now screamed with the protest of torn silk. My vision flickered, the edges of the world fraying into a dull, throbbing gray.
Should I slaughter them? The thought was cold, detached, a whisper from the darker corners of my mind. Twenty soldiers. In my current state, even with the exhaustion gnawing at my marrow, I could bridge the gap in a heartbeat. I could paint the arena floor with their stubborn, mountain-born blood before the first spear could even find its mark.
But then, what? I would remain a ghost in this subterranean labyrinth—a prisoner of geography with no compass and no key. Knowledge was the only currency that mattered now, and the King held the purse. Intelligence had to override the primal urge for violence.
I forced my fingers to uncurl. With a calculated sigh, I allowed my knees to buckle, my body swaying as if the last vestige of my strength had evaporated. It wasn't entirely an act; the fatigue was a heavy cloak, but I made sure the fall looked more pathetic than it was.
"He's spent!" the captain barked, his voice cracking with the strain of his suppressed fear. "Bind him! Now, before the devil wakes again!"
They descended like vultures. There was no dignity in the capture. A heavy boot, reinforced with steel plating, slammed into the small of my back, driving me face-first into the slurry of mud and monster gore. Another soldier pressed a massive, fur-lined knee into the nape of my neck, grinding my cheek into the filth. They pulled my arms back with a brutality born of insecurity, the cold bite of "Deep-Iron" shackles snapping shut around my wrists. These were not ordinary restraints; they were heavy, dense, and hummed with a low-frequency vibration that seemed to drain the very essence of one's vitality.
"Get up, you filth!"
I was yanked upward by the chains, my shoulders popping in their sockets. I kept my head low, my hair matting with blood and grime, obscuring the predatory gaze I kept fixed on the floor. I watched their boots, noted the cadence of their march, and memorized every turn of the lightless corridors as they dragged me toward the heart of the mountain.
The Sanctum of Greed
I had expected the grandeur of a throne room—a cavernous hall where the King would look down from a seat of power. Instead, they dragged me into a private chamber that reeked of decadence and stale fat. This was King Gorath's personal sanctuary, a room overflowing with the spoils of a subterranean empire: rare wyvern pelts draped over basalt pillars, heaps of unrefined gold ore sitting in corners like common trash, and the overwhelming scent of roasted meat.
King Gorath did not look like a monarch. He looked like a parasite that had grown too large for its host. He sat upon a stone divan cushioned with the thick white fur of a polar bear, his hands glistening with grease as he tore into a charred slab of meat. He didn't stop eating when I was thrown at his feet. He merely paused, his small, beady eyes scanning me with a mixture of clinical interest and profound disgust.
"He smells of rot," Gorath muttered, wiping a trail of fat from his beard with the back of a calloused hand. "Foul, corrupted blood. Did you not think to wash the animal before bringing it into my presence?"
"Forgive us, Majesty," the captain stammered, bowing so low his helmet scraped the floor. "We thought it best to bring the asset immediately, as per your decree."
The King rose with a ponderous slowness. He began to circle me, tapping the stone floor with a scepter made of solid obsidian. He was like a merchant inspecting a beast of burden in a slave market. He used the tip of his scepter to poke at my shoulder—the one that had been dislocated and had only just begun to knit itself back together. The pain was sharp, but I didn't flinch.
"Strong," Gorath whispered, more to himself than to me. "Mindless, perhaps. Brutal, certainly. But strong. Exactly the kind of tool that doesn't mind getting its hands dirty."
I remained silent, my pulse a slow, steady drumbeat against the iron of my shackles. "Why am I here?" I asked, my voice sounding like grinding stones. "I killed your champions. I cleared your arena. Do you want me dead, or do you want me fed?"
Gorath let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh—a sound devoid of humor. "Your life? Your life isn't worth the stone you're bleeding on, Fallen One." He turned toward a massive, ancient map etched into a cured hide hanging on the far wall. It depicted a vertical cross-section of the world, a terrifying descent into a central point marked with a crimson sigil.
"In the center of our world... at the deepest point where the mountain's roots touch the void... lies The Nucleus." His voice lost its edge of mockery, replaced by an insatiable, trembling greed. "The Old Core. The relic placed by the 'Creators' to anchor the weight of the world, to reflect gravity itself. Legends say that the one who controls the Nucleus controls the very air we breathe. It is the key to the Surface."
I looked at the map. The "Nucleus." The heart of this gravity-cursed prison. "You want me to go there."
"Not alone," Gorath snapped, his eyes flashing. "I am not so foolish as to hand the fate of my kingdom to a monster like you. The Nucleus is guarded by the Sentinels of the First Era. Colossi of living stone that do not know death. They are immune to the weave of magic and can crush entire divisions under their heels. I have lost thousands trying to breach the inner sanctum."
The King stepped closer, his breath smelling of fermented ale and iron. "But you... you have those red eyes. You have a body that refuses to stay broken. You are the perfect scapegoat. The perfect distraction."
He pointed a thick, sausage-like finger at me. "You will accompany my elite guard. Your sole purpose is to engage the Sentinels. You will be the shield that bleeds so my men can pass. But hear me well, Hound: when you reach the Nucleus, you are not to touch it. You are not to mar its surface or attempt to claim it."
"You said the goal was to break it," I countered, my eyes narrowing. "To free your people from the weight."
Gorath laughed again, and this time, his soldiers joined in—a chorus of mocking, jagged sounds. "Such a simple mind. My sorcerers will 'deconstruct' the seal. We will transport the Nucleus here, to this palace, where it can be properly... managed."
The lie was as thick as the grease on his face. He didn't want to free his people. He wanted to harness the Nucleus to turn his kingdom into an impregnable fortress, or perhaps to turn himself into a god of gravity. He wanted the power of the Surface, but he wanted it all for himself.
"And my price?" I asked, ignoring his deception for the moment. "What do I get for being your hound?"
Gorath looked at me with pure, unadulterated disdain. He reached into the silver platter on his table, picked up a gnawed, half-eaten bone, and tossed it onto the floor. It skidded through the dirt, stopping inches from my knees.
"Your price?" Gorath sneered, his lips curling into a yellow-toothed grin. "Your price is the privilege of breathing for another day. And if you succeed... if you bring the Nucleus to me... I might even grant you a feast that lasts for two whole days. Isn't that a royal mercy? A hunting dog needs its meat, after all."
The room erupted. The guards roared with laughter, slapping their armored thighs, pointing at the "beast" who was being offered a scrap of garbage for his life. They saw an animal. They saw a mindless engine of destruction that could be pointed at a target and bought with a bone.
I stood perfectly still. I didn't look at the bone. I looked at the King. In that moment, a strange, crystalline coldness settled in my chest. I loved these kinds of enemies. The ones who mistook silence for submission. The ones who believed that because I was in chains, I was powerless.
I leaned down slowly. The laughter reached a crescendo; they thought I was reaching for the scrap. But I didn't touch the bone. I ran my fingers through the dust beside it, feeling the grit of the mountain. I stood back up and looked Gorath directly in his milky, arrogant eyes. A look that caused his laughter to die a slow, strangled death in his throat.
"I accept," I said, my voice a whisper that seemed to carry more weight than the mountain itself. "I will bring you... exactly what you deserve."
"Get him out of here!" Gorath shouted suddenly, his bravado momentarily failing him. "Prepare the expedition! Move toward the Depths immediately!"
As the guards seized my chains and dragged me back into the dark, echoing hallways, I felt the symbol in my eye throb—a dull, hungry ache. It was incomplete, as the boy had said. It was a word half-spoken, a letter half-written. But as I looked back at the King's closed doors, I knew how the sentence would end.
You want the Nucleus, Gorath? I thought, a dark smile finally touching my lips in the shadows of the corridor. I will bring it to you. But prepare yourself... for the price will be heavier than your throne can bear.