The darkness did not rush him.
It observed.
Arav moved forward slowly, boots sinking slightly into damp soil that clung like it remembered past violence. Ashroot Hollow narrowed as it descended, stone walls fused with petrified roots that twisted inward instead of outward, as if the dungeon had grown teeth.
The air was heavy.
Rot.
Sap.
Iron.
Vyomar padded a step behind him, movements low and careful. The cub's suppression was absolute now—no aura, no pressure—only instinct and sharp awareness.
Then Vyomar stopped.
Arav froze.
A scraping sound echoed beneath his feet.
The ground burst open.
A long, bark-plated body tore upward in a spray of soil and splintered roots, jaws snapping shut where Arav's leg had been a heartbeat earlier.
He leapt back on reflex.
The beast emerged fully.
A **Gnawroot Stalker**.
Low and elongated, its body was layered in overlapping bark plates fused with sinew. Twisted root-horns crowned its skull, oozing pale sap. Moss clung to its spine, and its amber eyes burned with dull hunger rather than intelligence.
F-rank.
But hardened.
Arav drew the **short ash-steel blade** from his belt—plain, unadorned, issued for training. No binding. No enhancement.
Just metal.
The stalker lunged again.
Arav met it head-on.
His first strike went for the head.
The blade skidded.
The bark armor deflected it just enough.
Mistake.
The stalker crashed into him, claws raking across his thigh in a searing line of pain. Fabric tore. Blood spilled warm and fast.
Arav stumbled back, teeth clenched.
Real pain.
Not training pain.
The stalker pressed immediately, momentum brutal, jaws snapping as it surged forward again.
Vyomar moved.
The cub slammed into the beast's side—not with power, but weight. The impact knocked it just off-line.
Enough.
Arav regained his footing—but Vyomar paid for it.
A horned root clipped the cub's shoulder, sending him tumbling across the dirt with a sharp cry.
"Vyomar!"
Heat surged up Arav's spine.
Not a technique.
Not release.
Just reaction.
Red fire flickered along his forearm—uneven, unstable—warping the air without shape or control. The aether around him responded too eagerly, rippling outward before he forced it back down.
Too much.
Too fast.
The stalker recoiled—not in fear, but confusion.
Arav steadied himself.
Think.
Bark armor. Regenerative root tissue. Joints were softer. Undersides vulnerable.
He lowered his stance.
The stalker lunged again.
This time, Arav didn't retreat.
He stepped in.
The blade flashed sideways, short and controlled, biting into the seam beneath the creature's forelimb. Sap and dark blood spilled together as the limb buckled.
The stalker shrieked.
Its tail whipped around.
Arav tried to evade—
Too slow.
The impact crushed into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs and sending him crashing into the dungeon wall. Stone bit into his back as the world narrowed to pain and ringing silence.
The stalker turned, limping but furious.
Jaws opened wide.
Vyomar lunged again.
The cub clamped his teeth into the wounded limb, small body anchoring itself with stubborn ferocity. The stalker thrashed wildly, balance breaking.
That was enough.
Arav pushed himself upright, ignoring the scream in his ribs, and drove the blade forward with everything he had—angled low, precise, controlled.
The steel pierced cleanly through the creature's throat.
The Gnawroot Stalker convulsed once.
Then fell still.
Silence rushed back in.
Arav remained standing for a moment longer than necessary, chest heaving, blade slick with sap and blood.
His hands trembled.
Not fear.
Restraint.
He staggered back and sank against the wall, sliding down until he sat heavily on the cold stone. Blood continued to soak into the soil beneath his leg.
Vyomar limped over, shoulder scraped raw but eyes bright.
"You okay?" Arav asked quietly.
The cub huffed once and pressed his head lightly against Arav's knee.
Arav let out a slow breath.
"That one's on me," he murmured. "I rushed."
The dungeon did not respond.
It did not care.
Arav tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve and bound his thigh tightly, jaw clenched as pain flared again. The wound wouldn't kill him—but it would slow him.
And Ashroot Hollow was not finished.
Movement stirred deeper within the twisting passage ahead.
More scraping.
More weight shifting beneath the soil.
Arav pushed himself back to his feet, favoring his uninjured leg, blade held low but ready.
"So," he said quietly, voice steady despite the pain. "Lesson learned."
The dungeon listened.
And waited to see if he'd survive the next one.