They didn’t howl again.

  They didn’t need to.

  The next sound came from everywhere at once—claws scraping stone, breath behind dust, a swarm’s weight shifting in the dark.

  Then stillness.

  Not absence—preparation.

  I took one step back.

  The Plateau didn’t send one.

  It sent twenty.

  The dust collapsed like lungs exhaling.

  Black shapes surged forward.

  No formation. No warning. Just velocity.

  My grip locked on the scythe.

  I didn’t think. I couldn’t.

  I moved—because death was already reaching.

  The first hit came low.

  I swept wide.

  Steel caught tendon.

  The leg split open like wet cloth.

  One dropped, twitching.

  Another clamped onto my shoulder.

  Teeth dug past fabric—flesh tore.

  I spun with it—momentum ripping it free—and crushed its skull against the floor.

  Bone caved in like rotten fruit.

  Three more rushed.

  I don’t remember how I dodged.

  I just remember blood—mine, theirs, coating the dust in dark streaks.

  The light was gone.

  The air stank of copper and rot.

  I wasn’t fighting.

  I was drowning with teeth.

  I stabbed—felt the blade grind through rib.

  Spun.

  Metal caught another mid-leap and split it from throat to sternum.

  One slammed me from behind.

  We hit the floor together.

  Its jaw locked onto my forearm.

  I felt tendon shift.

  I screamed and drove my knee into its gut until something cracked.

  Then I kept going.

  They were on all sides.

  They moved like water.

  Like hunger.

  I kept moving.

  Because if I stopped—

  I’d die.

  Number seven caught the scythe across the knees.

  The bones split backward.

  It shrieked until I pinned it and split its head like firewood.

  Number ten bit into my thigh.

  I could hear it suck the wound.

  I brought the haft down, again, again—until its mouth stopped twitching.

  Number twelve tore a strip from my arm.

  Blood ran slick.

  Grip faltered.

  I clenched harder.

  I couldn’t lose the scythe.

  They didn’t come in waves.

  They came like lungs exhaling rage.

  By fifteen, I couldn’t feel my left hand.

  By eighteen, the floor was a butcher’s basin.

  I swung and slipped—cut one open across the belly.

  Its guts steamed against stone.

  I almost vomited.

  No time.

  Then nineteen.

  Jaw dislocated, chest caved in.

  Still tried to crawl.

  I stomped it flat.

  One left.

  It didn’t charge.

  It didn’t circle.

  It watched.

  And then it changed.

  Not with noise.

  Not with light.

  Just… wrong.

  Its skin flexed.

  Something shifted inside—like a carcass being reassembled mid-rotten.

  Two new limbs punched free.

  Hooked. Barbed. Almost elegant.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  It crouched lower.

  Balance perfect.

  Not instinct.

  Memory.

  I turned to face it.

  Scythe dragging.

  Arm hanging.

  Blood down both legs.

  This wasn’t a fight.

  It was the Plateau checking its math.

  It lunged.

  I moved.

  Barely.

  Claws came wide.

  New limbs shot underneath.

  I blocked high.

  One tore into my ribs.

  I screamed through blood.

  We hit.

  Rolled.

  My shoulder popped.

  It clung to me—teeth clicking near my throat.

  I jammed stone into its flank.

  Felt something burst inside.

  It shrieked like metal failing.

  We broke apart.

  Both shaking.

  The Plateau didn’t speak.

  The dust just watched.

  Then it charged.

  I didn’t dodge clean.

  It slammed my side.

  My back hit stone.

  My lungs wouldn’t open.

  I brought the scythe across—too wide.

  It ducked.

  Claws raked my side.

  Skin peeled open like fruit.

  I screamed.

  It came again—closer now.

  Smarter.

  Sharper.

  Then—connection.

  I don’t remember lifting the blade.

  Only that I struck.

  Once.

  Steel met bone.

  Gave way.

  Twice.

  Blood sprayed across my chest—hot, sticky, immediate.

  Three times before I realized I’d moved.

  The creature jerked.

  Shuddered.

  Something inside it tried to keep going.

  Then it dropped.

  Twitching.

  Empty.

  Final.

  Dead.

  I didn’t move.

  Not out of shock.

  Out of weight.

  The scythe hung in my hand.

  Not victory.

  Just habit.

  My fingers wouldn’t uncurl.

  Nerves shot through with pain kept them clenched in a death grip.

  I could feel the scythe’s weight now—

  Not as a weapon,

  But as a burden my body couldn’t afford to carry anymore.

  My lungs dragged air like it was wet gravel.

  My vision pulsed at the edges.

  I tried to take a step and staggered.

  The pain in my ribs came sharp and immediate,

  Forcing a ragged breath I hadn’t meant to take.

  Somewhere in the haze,

  I realized how much of the blood soaking me was mine.

  I wasn’t just tired—

  I was unraveling.

  Held together by instinct and anger.

  Mostly instinct.

  Twenty bodies lay around me.

  Some still twitched.

  Not alive—just nerves firing.

  Steam curled off spilled guts.

  One of them—the crawler—was split but not quite silent,

  Its final rasp bubbling in the back of its throat

  Before finally stopping.

  I turned slowly,

  Counting without meaning to.

  Burned the number into memory.

  Twenty.

  I had made sure of it.

  I needed to be sure.

  Because if I missed one—

  No.

  I hadn’t.

  I couldn’t have.

  I would’ve felt it.

  Would’ve died.

  The Plateau had gone quiet.

  No breath.

  No encouragement.

  No system voice.

  Just the grind of my teeth

  And the weight of twenty choices that had all ended the same way.

  And I was still standing.

  Barely.

  Not victorious.

  Just… next in line.

  I straightened, grinding through the hurt—

  Just in time to feel it.

  Not hear.

  Feel.

  A shift in the air.

  Like the floor was bracing.

  The dust parted behind the corpse pile.

  Slow at first—

  Just a shift in the shape of the silence.

  The dust didn’t swirl like air.

  It parted like something was pushing the world aside

  Just by standing there.

  Not footsteps.

  A pressure.

  A presence.

  The corpses weren’t obstacles—

  It stepped over them like they weren’t even real.

  Like it didn’t see them as part of its world.

  It stepped into view—

  Broad, low, and coiled like it had never lost a fight long enough to forget what fear felt like.

  Its hide was ridged and matted with black oil.

  Not blood.

  Something thicker.

  Every joint looked like it had been built to break something specific.

  Its shoulders flexed with a slow, deliberate rhythm—

  Breathing, but not strained.

  Not even close.

  It didn’t move fast.

  It didn’t have to.

  Just one glance and I knew—

  This thing only existed for correction.

  Thick shoulders.

  Bristled hide.

  A jaw built for ending things in one bite.

  Not hunting.

  Patrolling.

  Its eyes tracked me—

  Not with interest.

  With intent.

  It didn’t charge.

  It measured.

  And I understood, instantly—

  This thing didn’t care how the last fight ended.

  It had only come to clean up.

  My grip tightened on the scythe.

  The blade dragged behind me now,

  Leaving a smear through blood and dust.

  Every part of me screamed against the idea of fighting again.

  There was no strength left—

  Only wiring,

  Reflex,

  And the fact that dying here would feel like a waste.

  And yet,

  I braced.

  Blood down my leg.

  My arm half-dead.

  And this?

  This was the Plateau reminding me I wasn’t special.

  “Right,” I muttered, voice cracking.

  “Because twenty wasn’t enough.”

  It didn’t react.

  It just watched me breathe

  Like it already knew how I’d stop.

  (? 2025 joel C./ Anon~sama. All rights reserved.

  This chapter is part of the original work titled Aurora’s Never Ending Parabola. Do not copy, repost, or distribute without permission.

  If you see this story anywhere other than Royal Road under my name, it has been stolen.)