**THE CHASE:**
The boy ran.
Corridor stone blurred past, moss-light streaking green along the walls. The cleaver stayed locked in his right hand—he'd grabbed it during the slide and his fingers wouldn't let go now even if he wanted them to.
The corridor no longer belonged to him.
Behind him the clicking came fast. Tick-tick-tick-tick—relentless, gaining.
The clicking hunted the space between his steps.
"Yeah… keep clicking. I'm thrilled."
The corridor curved left ahead. He took it at full speed, slapped his right palm against the wall and let momentum carry him through the turn faster than his legs alone could manage. The cleaver scraped stone as he swung wide. Sparks trailed behind him.
The clicking didn't slow.
A right turn appeared ahead, passage narrower than the last. He ducked his head and his shoulders nearly touched both walls as he squeezed through. The tight space forced him to adjust his stride but it forced the creature to adjust more—to angle that massive carapace, to scrape scythes against stone just to fit.
Half a second gained.
Another junction opened ahead, three paths splitting off into darkness. He took the middle without thinking—tightest opening—and heard the creature behind him smash through anyway. Stone cracking. Body too large for the passage. Scythes gouging parallel lines in the walls.
His left arm swung useless as he ran, throwing off his balance with every step. He tried to use it to steady himself against the next turn but the hand wouldn't grip. Just slid off stone. He stumbled, caught himself with his right hand, kept running.
The moss-light flickered green overhead.
The clicking was right behind him.
He cut left at the next junction without looking—
The world went white.
Something tore across his back. A diagonal slash, shoulder to opposite hip. The impact drove him forward. His legs kept moving but everything above his waist turned to fire.
He didn't feel the blade or the muscle. He only knew he was running — and burning. His shirt wet and warm. Breath refusing to come back the way it should.
The corridor opened into wider space. He stumbled into it, vision swimming, copper flooding his mouth.
Behind him, red slits locked on.
Scythes rising.
Then…
"Firebolt!" "Firebolt!" "Firebolt!"
Three shots, no pause between them.
Electric flame tore through the corridor, bright enough to burn ghosts into his vision.
The monster flinched, bulk twisting inside the narrow passage, scythes dragging hard against stone. Heat rebounded off the walls. Stone fragments burst outward. One limb scraped for purchase. The third blast staggered it — not wounded, just thrown off balance by too much force in too little space.
It pulled back half a step.
Bell came through at a dead run.
The creature filled most of the corridor, scythes blocking either side. Bell dropped low, slid beneath the obsidian limbs, boots grinding against ash. He rolled through the opening, came up beside the boy, Hestia Knife already raised.
"Are you alright?"
"Obviously not."
"Can you move?"
"I still owe that bastard one."
"…What are you planning to do?"
The boy's back screamed with each breath. The wound pulled wider every time his lungs expanded. He kept his eyes forward because he didn't trust himself to look away from the creature.
"Gonna lead this sucker to Floor 8. Wider section—been going in circles though. Any idea?"
Bell's gaze flicked ahead down the corridor.
"The Depot. This way. Open ground."
The boy nodded.
They bolted.
The corridor twisted ahead and they used every turn to their advantage.
Every narrow passage became a bottleneck where the creature had to adjust—had to angle that massive body, had to slow just enough for them to gain ground. At a sharp corner Bell stopped and turned.
"Firebolt!"
The shot forced the creature to redirect and they ran while it recovered.
The boy's legs felt wrong as he ran.
Heavy.
Each step took more effort than the last. His back kept opening with the movement.
Another narrow section appeared and he went through with Bell right behind. The creature smashed after them, scythes scraping parallel lines in stone, rage building in the way it moved.
The clicking changed behind them.
Slower.
More deliberate.
At the next junction the creature stopped. Didn't follow. Just stood there with red slits tracking them through the passage, not moving forward.
The boy looked ahead. Floor 8's wider corridors stretched out before them and he could see the Depot entrance in the distance.
The creature backed away slowly, red slits still locked on them. Not retreating. Just waiting. Assessing.
"It's not following," Bell said, kept his voice low.
"Seems like it…"
"…What should we do?"
The boy studied the entrance behind him. The corridor mouth where the floor dropped away into the Depot.
Bell caught on.
"The cliff."
The boy smirked.
"Go — get ready to flank. I'll bring that sucker right towards you."
Bell nodded and moved. Ran at the entrance and turned left. Just enough to fool the monster that he ran away.
The creature's slits stayed on the boy.
He locked eyes with the monster.
His back pulsed with each breath. Not sharp anymore — just constant. Like something had settled in and made itself at home. He'd stopped trying to breathe deep a while ago. Shallow was fine. Shallow kept him moving.
"Missed the spine, huh? Amateur." He shouted it with everything he had.
Slits narrowed.
Screeeeeeeech.
"Still angry? Come on then. I'm still here!"
It charged.
The boy backed toward the entrance, drawing it forward.
The creature came hard, all rage, not watching where the floor ended.
The boy reached the threshold first, slowing just enough to let the thing close the last few meters.
Bell stepped half out from cover, just enough to clear the shot — before it could read what was coming.
"Firebolt!"
It struck the creature square in the face—bright, blinding, right between the red slits. The eyes slammed shut. A howl ripped out, more pain than rage.
The boy was already under it, found the joint — the one they'd been trying to damage on floor 7 — and cut.
Not deep.
Just enough.
"Let's see if I can pull this off like her."
Deep breath.
He planted his right foot. His back screamed but he ignored it. Kicked full force into the compromised joint.
The joint buckled — not against its nature, but with it. The leg bent the only way it knew how, exactly when it couldn't afford to. Weight already shifted from the impact, momentum carrying it forward — nothing ahead but open air and five meters down.
It went over.
A hard thud echoed from below — scythes scraping, stone cracking under its weight.
Dust kicked up, then settled almost immediately.
It rose.
Red slits lifted from the Depot floor, locking onto them again, already tracing their next move.
"Should've stayed in bed today." The boy muttered.
They followed.
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