[The Outskirts of Ironhold - Day One of the Descent]
We departed through the city's rear gates, leaving behind the domesticated glow of the blue bioluminescent fungi. Ahead of us lay the "Lower Wilderness"—a realm where the light of civilization died a jagged death. There were no paved roads here, only a treacherous, precipitous trail that twisted through forests of towering, toxic mushrooms and obsidian rock formations that jutted from the earth like the serrated teeth of a buried god.
I walked at the head of the column, but not as a leader. I was a pack animal.
"Move, you piece of filth!"
CRACK!
The segmented metal lash of a whip bit into my bare back. The skin tore instantly, a spray of hot crimson painting the stones behind me. I didn't scream. I didn't even flinch. I continued to trudge forward, leaning my weight against the thick hempen ropes that dug into my collarbones. Behind me, I dragged a massive wooden sledge laden with the battalion's supplies—heavy crates of iron rations, camping gear, and spare weaponry. Under the crushing gravity of the depths, the cart felt as though it weighed a ton, but I didn't stop. I was the "Royal Hound" now. And hounds were meant to pull the sleds until their hearts gave out.
Following in my wake were twelve soldiers, the supposed "Elite" of the Royal Guard. Their captain, Borjan, a dwarf whose face was a map of old scars and whose upper lip was split into a permanent sneer, held the whip with practiced ease. The others followed him, their loud, coarse laughter echoing off the cavern walls. They traded filth-ridden jokes, seemingly oblivious to the oppressive atmosphere of the wilderness. To them, this was a holiday—a sanctioned hunt. After all, they had the "Secret Weapon" on a leash to do the bleeding for them.
"Look at him," Turek, a bloated soldier with a grease-stained beard, jeered. He spat out the pit of a dried fruit, aimed perfectly so it bounced off the back of my head. "The King calls this thing a monster, but he pulls a cart like a withered mule."
"Maybe we should hop on the sledge ourselves?" another suggested with a mocking grin. "Save our legs for the real fight."
"A fine idea!" Borjan roared, his laughter jagged. "And if he tires, we'll hack off his leg and feed it to him for energy. Isn't that right, freak?"
I offered no response. I kept my gaze fixed on the uneven terrain beneath my feet.
[Regeneration: Active.] The burning laceration on my back began to knit itself shut, leaving behind a faint white line that would vanish within minutes. Laugh while you can, I whispered in the lightless chambers of my mind. The rhythmic clinking of the chains on my wrists provided the only soundtrack to my thoughts. Enjoy the path... because the return journey will be much quieter.
[The Whispering Forest - The First Night]
Hours bled into a singular, grueling march. The landscape grew increasingly alien as we entered the "Whispering Forest." Here, the fungi grew as tall as ancient oaks, secreting a viscous, blood-red resin that dripped like slow tears. The air hummed with a low-frequency vibration, a sound that mimicked the rhythmic breathing of a colossal, unseen giant. Visibility was reduced to a few meters; the shadows here were thick, possessing a weight and movement of their own. The guards grew tense, their hands drifting toward their sword hilts, yet their arrogance remained a shield against their rising dread.
"Halt!" Borjan commanded as we reached a slightly elevated plateau shielded by a crescent of jagged rocks. "We camp here. Tie the dog over there."
He gestured toward a solitary, wind-swept rock nearly twenty meters away from the camp's center, isolated in the clutching darkness.
Turek, the fat soldier, grabbed the lead chain connected to my heavy iron collar. "Come here, beast." He looped the chain through a rusted ring bolted into the rock and jerked it tight, testing the tension. As a parting gesture, he delivered a heavy-booted kick to my ribs. "Don't move. If I hear those chains rattle, I'll come back and carve that tongue out of your head."
I sat in the dirt, my back against the cold stone. Twenty meters away, they ignited a campfire using phosphor-stones. The scent drifted over to me—the aroma of salted meats, toasted bread, and the pungent tang of fermented mushroom ale. It was psychological torture. My body was screaming for calories, desperate to replenish the energy spent on dragging the sledge and fueling my constant regeneration. My stomach cramped with a sharp, hollow ache.
But they threw me nothing. Not even a scrap of gristle.
"To King Gorath!" they cheered, raising their flagons. "And to the riches waiting for us at the Core!"
They drank. And they drank heavily. As the night deepened, their military discipline dissolved into a haze of intoxication.
I watched them with unblinking eyes from the darkness.
[Target Analysis: 12 Soldiers.] [Status: Mild Intoxication (Decreased reaction time).] [Leader: Borjan (Seated by the fire, moderately alert).] [Priority Target: Turek (Heavy drinker, bladder full).]
An hour passed. Turek, who had finished half a jug by himself, staggered to his feet. "I need to... drain the vat," he muttered, his tongue thick and clumsy. He tripped over his own shield as he moved away from the fire.
"Don't wander too far, you idiot," a comrade laughed. "The Whispering Shadows might snatch you up!"
"I... I'm the biggest shadow here," Turek grumbled, unsheathing his dagger with a trembling hand as he wandered toward the edge of a lightless ravine to relieve himself.
He didn't walk toward me. He walked away, his back turned to the camp, his silhouette framed against the toxic mists of the abyss. This was the window.
I looked at the "Deep-Iron" cuffs on my wrists. They were thick, forged to withstand a giant's strength. Breaking them would cause a deafening metallic snap. But I didn't need to break the metal. I only needed to break myself.
Crack.
The sound was no louder than a dry twig snapping underfoot. I dislocated my own right thumb, collapsing the joint inward to narrow the profile of my hand. With a surge of sharp, white-hot pain—a sensation I had long since learned to compartmentalize—I coated my hand in a thin layer of blood and slid it through the iron ring. The skin peeled away in a raw ribbon, but my regeneration began its work before the blood could even hit the ground.
I was free.
Turek stood at the edge of the cliff, swaying, his back to the world. I moved. I did not run; I glided.
[Eyes of Sin (Level 1): Muted Footsteps.]
My body became weightless, a ghost in the red mist of the forest. I crossed the distance in three seconds. I didn't breathe. I didn't rustle a single leaf.
I appeared directly behind him. He reeked of sweat and cheap ale. He was humming a vulgar tune, utterly oblivious to the fact that Death had reached out to touch his shoulder. I didn't use a blade. I clamped my left hand over his mouth, crushing his jaw with enough force to prevent even a muffle. Simultaneously, my right hand gripped the base of his skull.
One swift, violent wrench.
Crunch.
The sound of his neck snapping was lost beneath the boisterous laughter of the guards by the fire.
Turek's body went limp instantly. I didn't let him fall. I caught his dead weight—which felt strangely light in my grip—and looked down into the swirling grey mists of the ravine.
"Safe travels," I whispered.
I let go. The body vanished into the silence. There was no sound of impact; the abyss was too deep for echoes.
I returned to my rock with the speed of a lightning strike. I sat back down, slid my hand back into the iron cuff, and snapped my thumb back into its socket.
Pop.
"Agh..." I exhaled softly. I rested my head on my knees and closed my eyes, feigning a deep, exhausted sleep. The entire cycle, from escape to execution, had taken less than sixty seconds.
[Ten Minutes Later]
"Where's Turek?" one of the guards asked, squinting into the dark. "Did he fall into a hole?"
"Turek!" Borjan barked, his voice laced with irritation. "Stop playing around and get back here!"
Silence. Only the eerie 'hiss' of the forest answered. The laughter died. The soldiers stood, their hands finding the grips of their axes.
"Find him," Borjan ordered, his tone now deadly serious.
They fanned out, their torches cutting weak arcs through the mist. They reached the edge of the ravine. "No sign of him, Captain."
"Did he desert?" "The coward... he probably got cold feet and tried to crawl back to Ironhold." "But he left his sword!" a soldier pointed out, indicating the blade I had deliberately dropped in the dirt.
Borjan approached me. He shoved a torch into my face, the heat singeing my eyelashes. I trembled—a forced, rhythmic shudder—and opened my eyes with a manufactured daze.
"Did you see anything?" he hissed, his eyes searching mine.
I looked around with vacant, hollow eyes. "I saw... large shadows... over there," I pointed a shaking finger toward a random thicket in the forest. "They were... whispering."
Borjan's face paled. "The Whispering Shadows," he muttered, his grip tightening on his whip. "They took him." He spat on the ground, a mixture of anger and superstitious dread. "Drunken fool. He made himself an easy meal."
He turned back to the remaining eleven men. "Back to the fire! Double the watch. No one—and I mean no one—steps out of the light."
They retreated to the flame, but the atmosphere had changed. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a heavy, suffocating paranoia. Every snap of a twig made them jump. Every shadow was a monster.
And I, in my dark corner, allowed a tiny, razor-thin smile to touch my lips.
[Remaining: 11]
I closed my eyes and, for the first time in days, I slept peacefully. For the hunt had finally begun.