The path did not widen.
It tightened.
Arav followed the downward bend of Ashroot Hollow, each step heavier than the last as the air grew warmer and thicker. The roots overhead fused into dense arches, their surfaces slick with sap that pulsed faintly, as if the dungeon itself were breathing.
He slowed.
The aether here felt different.
Not chaotic like the upper tunnels—but concentrated. Pressurized. Every breath carried weight, and the faint threads of aether he sensed no longer drifted freely. They spiraled inward, drawn toward something deeper.
A core-adjacent zone.
Arav stopped at the edge of a natural opening.
Beyond it lay a wide chamber, its floor layered with interwoven roots thick as pillars. Pale fungus glowed dimly along the walls, casting uneven light over a central mound of hardened earth and bark.
The mound moved.
Slowly.
Vyomar growled low, body tense. The cub's instincts screamed danger.
Arav felt it too.
This wasn't a stalker.
This was territory.
He scanned the chamber carefully, forcing his breathing to remain slow despite the throb in his leg. There were no clear exits—only narrow side tunnels partially collapsed by roots.
Retreat would be difficult.
Fighting here would be worse.
The mound shifted again.
A deep sound rolled through the chamber—not a roar, but a vibration felt through bone and soil alike. The roots beneath Arav's boots trembled in response.
The dungeon answered its master.
Arav understood then.
The Gnawroot Stalkers weren't guarding the hollow.
They were feeding it.
This place wasn't just a nest.
It was a lung.
He backed a step—
The passage behind him collapsed.
Roots surged upward like coiling serpents, sealing the tunnel with a wet, grinding sound. Dust and splinters filled the air.
Arav froze.
No retreat.
Vyomar snapped his head toward the blockage, then back to the mound, ears flattened.
The chamber darkened.
Something rose from the center of the roots.
It unfolded slowly, layers of bark and sinew separating as a massive form pushed itself upright. Thick limbs anchored into the floor, roots weaving directly into its body. Its head emerged last—a grotesque crown of hardened wood split by glowing fissures of amber light.
A **Gnawroot Warden**.
F-rank.
But at the absolute ceiling of it.
The warden's presence pressed down on the chamber, not as force, but as inevitability. This was the axis around which the dungeon's lesser creatures revolved.
Arav tightened his grip on the ash-steel blade.
His leg throbbed.
His ribs ached.
His breathing was heavier than he liked.
This was not a fight he would win quickly.
The warden's amber gaze locked onto him.
Recognition.
Intruder.
Threat.
Fuel.
The roots beneath Arav's feet twitched.
He adjusted his stance, placing his weight carefully, blade angled low, free hand steady despite the tremor running through it.
"Okay," he murmured quietly, voice calm even as his heart hammered. "So this is the center."
Vyomar moved to his side, smaller body low, ready.
The Gnawroot Warden inhaled.
The entire chamber shuddered as roots flexed and tightened, drawing aether inward in a slow, crushing pull.
Arav felt the pressure settle into his bones.
No tricks left.
No space to maneuver.
No one coming through the gate behind him.
Only one way forward.
He stepped into the chamber.
And the hollow exhaled.