“Ahhh!” The cry tore itself from my throat as I stumbled forward—three steps into my ill-advised decision to ignore the voice behind the webs. The first step had come easily, as if the universe was still giving me a chance to pretend I didn’t hear it. The second step, though, came with the weight of hesitation. And the third? The third was heavy with guilt.

  I stopped, the echo of my footsteps swallowed by the damp silence of the tunnel. The hunger inside me roared, gnawed at my insides like a beast denied its prey. But louder still was the voice of shame whispering in my mind.

  “Is this what you wanted, Father?” I spat the words into the air, though no one was there to hear them. “Is this why you dropped me into this pit? So I’d be forced to choose—food or humanity? To abandon someone just for a chance to fill my stomach?”

  I clenched my fists, trembling from fatigue and rage. “I’m not saying I’m not tempted. I am. But if this is some twisted test… if you’re watching to see me break… then fine. I’ll starve. But I won’t become the thing you want me to be.”

  Perhaps he had even counted on this—on me turning back. And maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t defying him at all, but walking the path he had laid. But if I was going to lose, I’d at least lose as myself. Some part of me—some flicker of decency—had to survive this.

  I turned around. My stomach gave a protesting lurch, but I ignored it, stepping back toward the webbed tunnel. With the dagger gripped tightly in my hand, I began slashing at the thick strands. They clung to the blade, each cut resisting more than the last. Sticky and unnaturally strong, but no match for the dagger’s edge. I worked slowly, my arms shaking with effort, slicing through layer after layer until the passage finally opened up.

  It revealed exactly what I had feared. A nest. The remnants of a monstrous spider clung to the far wall—its grotesque body curled inward, still twitching in places despite being unmistakably dead. Its legs, longer than my arms, jerked spasmodically like puppets without strings. From a ragged wound on its abdomen, organic matter oozed like overripe fruit. My stomach, confused by the sight, clenched again—not from hunger this time, but nausea.

  There was no question: this thing was inedible, even for someone as desperate as I was. Maybe I could’ve used it to bargain with the bats in exchange for my crab, but even that hope crumbled. No one—bat or human—would want this foul mess.

  Shaking off the horror, I turned my attention to the real reason I came.

  There, suspended in the web like a broken doll, was a woman. Blonde hair matted with silk and dirt, limbs pinned awkwardly by the threads. When she saw me, she stirred suddenly, thrashing harder against the sticky cocoon.

  “Bitte nicht …” she mumbled, her voice so faint it was nearly drowned by my heartbeat. She looked away every time I tried to meet her gaze, her green eyes darting around like those of a frightened animal.

  She was terrified of me—and that made sense. Trapped, helpless, and then approached by someone half-mad and starved? I couldn’t blame her.

  “Hey,” I said, raising one hand slowly. “I know I look like a disaster. But could you quit wriggling for a second? You’re making it hard to cut you free. And, well…” I patted my growling stomach, “I have a very hangry appointment waiting for me.”

  Of course, she didn’t understand a word. If anything, she struggled harder. But then—my stomach betrayed me. A deep, monstrous rumble echoed in the chamber. She froze.

  I saw her eyes widen as she stared at me, clearly wondering whether she was about to become lunch. And then, slowly, her limbs went still. A strange truce had been struck. She would stop fighting, and I would stop looking like a threat.

  Taking the opportunity, I raised the dagger.

  Just as I moved to cut her free, a wave of dizziness slammed into me. I barely stayed upright. My body shuddered, legs trembling like twigs in a storm. I wasn't going to make it—not to the crab, not even through another sentence.

  Still, I could do this one thing.

  With everything I had left, I stabbed the dagger into the web beside her arm and yanked downward. It sliced cleanly, freeing her left hand. She blinked rapidly, stunned by the sudden liberation. But I was already collapsing.

  My knees hit the ground first, and I fell forward, gasping, the stone cold against my skin. The dagger clattered beside me, slipping from my bloodless fingers.

  I knew what was coming. Darkness crept in at the edges of my vision like ink dropped into water. But some stubborn, desperate part of me wasn’t finished. I reached out with what felt like the last flicker of my life, fingers brushing the blade’s hilt.

  Pain. Pure, searing pain shot through my hand as the dagger scorched my skin like it had been forged in fire. I screamed—a raw, animal cry—and felt the skin of my palm hiss and blister.

  And still, I didn’t let go.

  With a final, broken surge of effort, I flung the dagger toward the woman. Whether she caught it, I couldn’t tell.

  Because a moment later, the darkness finally took me.

  I collapsed, not onto cold stone, but onto a thick web that softened the fall—ironic comfort from the same trap I had just torn apart. And as consciousness slipped away, I could only hope that I had made the right choice.

  That, in the end, I hadn’t become the monster he wanted me to be.

  Stones.

  They come in many forms. Jagged and cruel. Smooth and deceiving. Tiny enough to slip into your shoe and break your will over miles. Heavy enough to shatter bones or crush the breath from your lungs. But there’s one thing they all share, no matter the shape, no matter the weight—they are all unbearable to sleep on.

  I think that’s the first truth I learned in this new world.

  I stirred awake on a bed of them—flat stones, sharp stones, biting into my spine and digging into joints already stiff with exhaustion. Sleep was a luxury that couldn’t survive here, not with the constant reminder of discomfort and pain gouging at you with every breath. And worse still, even if sleep came, it never stayed. Not when the stones whispered. Not when they scraped and clicked against each other like chattering teeth in the silence.

  "You just couldn’t wait to see me again, could you?" I hissed the words bitterly, as if they would echo back to the one I knew was watching.

  Because the truth is, stones are perfect for hurting.

  A stone in the hand is a weapon. A stone in a wall is a cage. A stone in flight, launched by ancient machines or divine wrath, can destroy a life—or make a point. And right now, I wanted nothing more than to drive one straight through that smug god’s throat.

  When I opened my eyes, I was greeted by the bleak, cold expanse of purgatory again.

  Familiar. Eternal. Lit only by the faint shimmer of lost souls—wisps of light that never dared drift too close.

  My body had returned to the version I remembered. Older. Stronger. The child’s form was gone, and in its place stood the shell I once knew. It felt like a cruel kindness, as though I were being allowed to wear my own skin again, if only temporarily.

  "Didn’t I wish for immortality?" I muttered, cold breath curling into the darkness. "Shouldn’t that mean I never die? So why… why am I here?"

  I hurled a stone at the blackness, the sound of its impact swallowed instantly by the void. It was a useless gesture, but I couldn’t contain the fury that boiled in my chest. Rage was still more comforting than fear.

  That voice, the one I loathed more than anything, finally answered.

  "I’m a god of death. You thought I could give you eternal life?" His voice was smooth—amused, even. Mocking. "You should’ve gone to the fairies for that. No, I gave you exactly what I promised: the absence of death."

  He said it like a gift. Like I should fall to my knees in gratitude.

  "And what exactly is the difference?" My voice cracked with venom. I didn’t want riddles—I wanted truth, and an escape.

  "Why not use that walnut-sized brain for a second and find out?"

  I clenched my fists. “Because I know you’ll explain it anyway. You love the sound of your own voice too much.”

  He didn’t laugh. Instead, he sighed with disappointment, like a father watching a child fail an easy test.

  "Imagine a human—twenty years old. Eternal life, but not invincible. A boulder falls on them—they die. Their body fails, and death takes them."

  I was about to comment—something crude, something about women and boulders—but the silence that stretched between us felt sharp. Razor-thin. I bit my tongue and nodded instead.

  "Now imagine someone for whom death is denied," he said slowly. "The body may fail. The soul may leave. But death will not claim them. If their body heals, they return. If not… they drift, lost and bound to the earth forever. A half-ghost. A whisper. A curse."

  Something cold wrapped around my spine at that. A vision bloomed—a woman wandering ancient ruins, her body long decayed, her soul screaming silently in the wind, bound to nothing but the memory of pain.

  I swallowed. Hard. “That sounds… worse.”

  "It depends ... But there are solutions."

  Then came the pie chart. A black circle, half in pitch, half in a darker abyss—an insult to logic and taste.

  "Solution one," the god chirped, half of the pie chart suddenly a bit brighter, "extraordinary healing! Even after death!"

  "Solution two: no ageing! No wrinkles! No need for potions or pretty lies!"

  I stared at the chart, unamused. "Do I still get beauty naps?"

  He ignored me.

  “So... if I die, I just come back here… over and over… until my body is repaired?”

  He nodded, with the enthusiasm of a child revealing a magic trick that involved setting the house on fire.

  “Meh,” I shrugged. “When can I go back? I made friends with some bats.”

  That caught him off guard. His moment of silence was delicious. I basked in it. I grinned like a child who knew they’d broken something valuable.

  But then his voice came again, smooth and oily. “You don’t even want to know what race you are?”

  "Not from you," I replied sharply. My smile faded. "Father... you could have made me anything. An adult. A warrior. Someone strong. But you made me a child. Was it really what you thought would benefit me… or just what turned your stomach in the right way?"

  He appeared behind me. Too close. His breath ghosted over my neck. I wanted to run, but even my soul trembled.

  “Does it matter?” he whispered. “I made your body. Crafted every detail. I could reshape your soul, I could… mold you into something better. Something obedient. Something pure.”

  My mouth dried. My hands curled into claws.

  "Would you still resist me then? Would you still struggle, if every thought you had was one I placed inside you?"

  I turned, slow and cold. My face was blank, but my mind was screaming.

  He smiled.

  And I knew then—this was not a god. Not truly. This was something worse.

  A craftsman of suffering. A curator of cruelty. And I… I was his unfinished work.

  "You cannot do that."

  I said it coldly, but there was a flicker of pride beneath my defiance. I had found the flaw—no, the crack—in his beautifully monstrous plan.

  "Human Rights Charter. Article Five." I almost smiled. "It's illegal."

  We both knew that wasn’t the real problem. We both knew I was grasping at irrelevant threads—throwing words like stones into a void just to delay the inevitable. He knew I was stalling, and I knew he knew, and still I kept talking. Because as long as I spoke, I could pretend I wasn’t drowning.

  His laughter broke the tension like a blade across glass—sharp, mad, and echoing in the endless dark.

  “And who will enforce that? The police?” he mocked, his grin dripping venom. “You think mortals or angels or whatever they call themselves would dare interfere? They don’t care about your race. And you’d be wise to keep your distance.” His voice turned colder, cutting. “You could burn in the purity of their judgment. They call it ‘justice’ now, I think. Amusing, isn’t it?”

  I whistled low, feigning boredom. Their naming sense really was atrocious. Who would worship beings so unimaginative they turned their divine weaponry into bureaucratic catchphrases?

  Still… he had a point. The gods had cast him into this liminal pit—this cage between death and return—and he had made me in his image, or something worse. I had no illusions: I was a walking provocation. Whatever pantheon ruled above wouldn’t welcome me, wouldn’t tolerate me.

  They would erase me.

  So yes—distance was wisdom. Even from him.

  Especially from him.

  That was my plan, plain and desperate: Stay alive. As long as I lived, he couldn’t tamper with my soul directly. His influence faded across the chasm between life and purgatory. Whatever grip he had in this realm, it faltered on the other side. That’s why he waited until I returned—to this place—to chip away at who I was.

  He had made me a body from nothing. That much I couldn’t deny. But a soul? A soul was something different. A soul was not his to forge—unless I died, again and again and again.

  And I would not give him the chance.

  "Whatever. I think I'm going now. Bye."

  My voice was flippant. Empty armor. I turned, walking toward the flickering procession of drifting souls.

  But I didn’t get far.

  His hand—too cold, too real—gripped my shoulder like a noose. “Again? Could you please stop showing me the cold shoulder like this?”

  There was pain in his voice. Real or manufactured, I couldn’t tell.

  But the audacity of it nearly made me laugh.

  Was he hurt? Was the god of death wounded because I preferred the company of bats to his eternal, soul-mangling affection?

  "Don’t worry," I said, my tone hollow. "We’ll see each other again. Always just a lifetime apart, right?"

  I turned to face him fully, eyes hard. "And you always hope that life will be short. You keep sending me to die—not once, not twice. Over and over, like some experiment. Like a dog you beat just to see if it’ll still crawl back."

  My voice cracked.

  "You need me to return here so you can twist me. But I get nothing. So tell me—if you could shape my soul like clay, why not just do it from the start?"

  He didn’t blink. Didn’t waver. He only watched me—cold and calculating.

  “Because,” he said slowly, “you cannot pass through the portal if my magic stains you. They would see it. They would stop you. But now… now it doesn’t matter. You don’t walk out anymore. You’re dragged. Automatically. As soon as your body knits itself back together.”

  He leaned in, breath curling like frost.

  "And that should be... any moment now."

  The ground beneath me began to tremble. My limbs grew light. The air thinned.

  "Good luck surviving," he whispered. "Because I intend to make it... exquisitely difficult."

  And then I was rising—again—just like before. Pulled by invisible threads into the unknown. No portal this time. No guidance. Just the cold vacuum of space opening up to swallow me whole.

  "That’s not very fatherly behavior," I spat into the darkness. "I thought you loved me."

  He didn’t deny it.

  He just smiled.

  "I do. And I will make you perfect."

  His voice shifted—twisting with hunger, with obsession, with love so corrupted it reeked of rot.

  "You will become the woman I dreamed of. The ideal. The final shape of my will. And when you bring me freedom..."

  He trailed off, eyes burning with terrifying hope. "Then you will see how deep my love runs."

  I shut my eyes tightly. Cursed him in every language I knew.

  I was tired. So tired. My soul scraped raw by this charade of life and death.

  I didn’t want to fight another crab. I didn’t want to gamble with my body, my mind, my self—just to exist.

  Dying once was enough.

  Twice was torture.

  And whatever he had planned next… I couldn’t afford to return to him. Not ever again.

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  There were two paths before me, both carved from madness.

  One: flee. Vanish. Hide in the shadow of cities, away from gods, monsters, and fate.

  Two: fight. Stand against every twisted beast, every divine assassin, every trial he threw at me. Win. Survive.

  Stay alive, and keep my soul my own.

  Neither option was merciful.

  Neither guaranteed freedom.

  But I would walk one of them.

  Because there are worse things than dying.

  “So tiresome…” The words barely left my lips, whispered more to the void than to myself. I had once loved silence, the stillness of a world untouched by urgency. I loved the long mornings where no one asked anything of me, the comfort of drifting beneath blankets while the world passed me by. I loved the stars, too—especially when they were mine alone to watch. But those moments, those simple sanctuaries, had been ripped from me like pages from a book I was never allowed to finish.

  Even my race had been stolen—my very identity dismantled and reassembled by cruel hands I never asked to touch me. And I… I had made a choice not to know. Not out of courage, but because I knew I couldn’t bear the truth. Not yet. Not while survival was still the only thread keeping me tied to this cursed existence.

  Survival. That primal, clinging instinct. It made you fight even when your soul had already surrendered. But eventually, even that reflex begins to erode—worn thin by disappointment, by repetition, by hopelessness. Yet still, I refused to show him weakness. That god—whatever he was—fed on vulnerability like a leech. He’d twist it, weaponize it, bury it deep inside me like a parasite. No, I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

  "Time to sleep, I guess."

  Not from exhaustion—though I was exhausted beyond comprehension—but because I had reached the sky's fragile threshold. It was the border between here and wherever souls vanish to when they’ve overstayed their welcome. I could feel my consciousness slipping, not drifting like a dream, but evaporating, as if I were being erased.

  And so I left—again. One world I never understood behind me, and another, stranger one ahead. The only constant across every threshold was the dull ache of desperation, clawing at me like some half-starved creature.

  When I woke, I didn’t feel reborn.

  I felt hollow, like I had been dragged across broken glass and stitched back together without anesthetic. My body was new, yes—but it carried the weight of a hundred deaths. My eyes barely opened, lashes fluttering like torn curtains in a dying wind. Drowsiness gripped me not like sleep, but like drowning—warm, suffocating, final.

  I knew, somehow, that if I closed my eyes again now, I would never wake up. I would slide too far into death, and there would be no coming back. Not without him. Not without his hand pulling me through, like a fisherman reeling in a soul already rotting.

  My vision was a swirling haze of color and shadow. But within it, I recognized her—the woman I’d saved. She stood not far off, beside some large brown thing, cradling something in her hands that glinted in the half-light. My dagger, probably. A gift from the bats. She hadn’t noticed that I was awake yet, but I could hear the tension in her movements, see the way she clutched the weapon—not with comfort, but with wariness.

  And then she spoke.

  “Ich mag Züge.”

  The words cut through the silence like glass. I didn’t know the meaning, but I didn’t need to. Her tone was like ice pressed to bare skin. Cold. Cautious. Hostile.

  Had she not seen me save her? Had she already forgotten the risk I took, the pain I endured? I was lying there, helpless, as vulnerable as a newborn, and yet she stared at me like I was the threat. She didn’t move to help me, didn’t ask if I was in pain. She just stood there… watching.

  And I understood.

  It wasn’t me she hated. It was what I was now.

  She didn’t know me. But she saw me—and what she saw must have been so abhorrent, so unnatural, that it eclipsed any gratitude. I had never wronged her. And yet, she treated me like I was contagion.

  I wanted to cry. Or scream. Or fade. But I didn’t have the strength to do even that. My hope—thin as paper—crumbled, and I let my eyes fall closed, resigned once more to the void, to the place where he waited.

  But before the darkness could claim me, something changed.

  A scent, strange and unfamiliar, snaked into my senses. It was… sharp, sweetly, vaguely metallic. It tore through the fog in my mind like a needle, just enough to draw me back. Not fully. Just enough to feel the creeping thirst in my throat and the slow, desperate struggle not to fade again.

  Then—hands. Not cold and cruel like his. Softer. Mortal. They pried my mouth open, and a rush of liquid fire surged down my throat.

  It was disgusting. Not in the way rot is disgusting, but in the way madness tastes. Like someone had boiled socks, metal shavings, and old herbs in brine and hoped it would pass for soup. My stomach recoiled, but my body drank. Somewhere in that horrid concoction was life—or at least the illusion of it.

  Seconds passed like hours. Then my lips parted, not by force, but by choice. I drank. I wanted to drink. I didn’t want to die.

  But just as the fog began to lift, just as the desperation ebbed, she pulled away.

  The brown flask vanished from my lips. She turned. She ran. One hand still held my dagger. The other, her strange brew.

  And her face—I never saw it again.

  If I had… perhaps I wouldn’t have hoped to meet her again.

  Perhaps I would have known better.

  Disappointment settled in like winter frost. I rolled my aching body upright and scanned my surroundings. We hadn’t traveled far. The stone walls around me were familiar, and there it was—the cave.

  The bats’ cave.

  With a heavy sigh, I crawled toward its opening and slipped inside. It welcomed me like a grave welcomes the forgotten—quietly, without judgment.

  The bats flew above in great numbers now, silent shadows that stirred the stale air. And somehow, in their presence, the crushing weight on my heart eased. They didn’t speak. Didn’t run. Didn’t stare.

  They just existed.

  Like me.

  And for now, that was enough.

  I had a roof—barely. I had shelter—temporarily.

  But most of all, I had space to not be hated, even if only for a while.

  And in this world, that was the closest thing to peace I was going to get. But a simple question kept nagging at my mind.

  How on earth… or whatever this cursed rock was called… did I expect to escape a place like this?

  It was suffocating—dark, vast, and endlessly unfamiliar. Underground, certainly, but how deep? How many layers of stone and death stood between me and the surface, between me and anything resembling safety?

  I didn’t know. But I knew I needed to get out.

  Frustration bubbled under my skin like a fever. I could still picture the woman, her silhouette vanishing as she ran away, far too fast for my weakened legs to follow. My limbs trembled with useless tension as I went through what laughably passed for “options.”

  Option one: Stay. Stay here and die slowly of thirst while the bats overhead argued over who got to pick my bones clean. Tempting, in the way giving up always is. But not acceptable. Not yet.

  Option two: Go. Venture deeper into this subterranean nightmare, risk facing whatever else lurked in these tunnels, and hope—hope—there was a path that led to light. To water. To freedom. Hope that didn’t feel like a punchline.

  But the truth was bitter. Venturing out might get me killed immediately. There were more of those crab monstrosities, surely. And the spider I’d seen earlier… just the memory of its corpse made my stomach twist. I’d been lucky it was already dead.

  “You aren’t going to help me, are you?” I murmured, mostly to the bats.

  They didn’t answer. They never did. They simply flitted overhead or clung to the cave ceiling, wrapped in their leathery wings like shrouds. Aloof. Uninterested. At best, they were passive companions. At worst, scavengers waiting for my end.

  Still, I had to admit—they weren’t mindless. One had brought me a dagger before. A gift? A test? Who knew. And, of course, they’d also stolen from me. Typical.

  One of them—a particularly bold little creature—perched now in my hair, tangled into the strands like a crown of mischief. It settled in comfortably, grooming itself as if this was its rightful place. I let it stay. We had an unspoken agreement: it didn’t pull my hair too much, and I didn’t shake it off.

  Though, to be fair, it had already yanked at my scalp twice. Rude little beast.

  Eventually, I squeezed out through the same crack in the wall I’d entered through, the bat still clinging to me like some grotesque accessory. My body ached with every movement, but I pushed on—rightward, toward the place I last saw the crab monster. Maybe the path was clear now.

  Carefully, silently, I crept to the edge and peered around the corner. The corridor was empty.

  They were gone.

  I exhaled—loudly, without meaning to. Relief. Fleeting, but real. The stone passage before me resembled more of a natural cave than the carved, smoother surfaces I’d seen earlier. It felt raw. Ancient. Alive.

  I turned away from the crab path and followed a different tunnel, one I hoped would avoid my chitinous friends. A fork greeted me after a few minutes of trudging, its side passage glinting faintly with the same eerie crystal light that pulsed from the ceiling like frozen lightning.

  I considered it.

  Then a scream tore through the air—feral, guttural, and far too close. It came from the tunnel I’d been about to take.

  Nope.

  I kept going on the main path, my every step slow and silent. I moved like a ghost, barely breathing, listening—always listening. That’s when I heard it: voices.

  Distant. Muted. But definitely voices. Conversing in some alien tongue I couldn’t understand. But they weren’t crabs. Or spiders. They spoke.

  Humanoid?

  I crept toward the sound, each footfall measured with painful care, until I reached a descending staircase carved into the rock. At the bottom sprawled a massive hall—wide and low, lit by flickering campfires that gave everything a flickering, demonic hue.

  What I saw below stopped my breath cold.

  Dozens of creatures milled about. They stood upright, but their forms were grotesque—barely human. They were only slightly shorter than me, but with disproportionately large, lumpy heads, pointed and hairy ears, and sickly green skin. Most of them were naked, unashamed. Their teeth jutted from their mouths like broken piano keys—twisted, black, sharp.

  They were feasting.

  Raw meat. Offal. Organs from beasts I didn’t even want to identify. Blood ran like water. Bits of viscera splattered the floor. In the corner of the chamber, a mound of rotting faeces steamed like a warning sign. My stomach turned violently.

  But worse—so much worse—was what lay at the centre of the hall.

  A bone field.

  It stretched wide, a macabre carpet of gnawed femurs and shattered skulls. Some bones still clung to scraps of rotting flesh. And in the middle stood a throne. No, not a throne—an altar to savagery, built entirely from bones. It rose almost two metres high, topped with a seat where a figure lounged like some grotesque god.

  He was different.

  Larger. Muscled. Clothed. His skin still that same fetid green, but his posture and presence radiated dominance. He gnawed casually on a severed arm, biting into it like it was a turkey leg. His throne was flanked by a metallic spear—far too well-crafted for beasts like these.

  That weapon… that was forged. Forged by someone with knowledge, with tools. A blacksmith. A civilization.

  Where did he get it? The answer scraped at my brain like claws.

  I ducked down, back against the stone. My breath caught. I was shaking. Not from fear—not just fear—but from something else. Something beautiful.

  A scent. Faint. Almost overwhelmed by the stench of flesh and rot, but unmistakable.

  It was…

  Perfect.

  Like rose gardens at sunrise. Like the incense at my mother’s bedside. Like standing beneath the auroras on a frozen night and feeling loved.

  It swirled around me like a dream, defying logic, enchanting every nerve in my body.

  And I panicked.

  How could something so wretched, so filthy, carry a scent so divine?

  I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to see. Whatever that smell was—whoever it was from—I didn’t trust it. I crawled back, hand over my nose, back around the corner until the grotesque symphony of odours lessened.

  And finally, my head cleared.

  My heart was still hammering, my throat dry, my limbs weak. But I was alive.

  Still trapped, yes. Still hopeless. Still a stranger in a world that didn’t want me.

  But for now, I had air. I had distance. And I had a little bat friend tugging impatiently at my hair like it had seen it all before.

  "Breathe in… breathe out… This world isn't only full of monsters. It's not. It's not. I just need to calm down… I can get out of here."

  The words felt hollow, like a chant spoken to keep the panic at bay rather than because I believed them. My chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, my vision swimming, and my thoughts spiralling. I was hyperventilating, hands trembling as they clutched my sides. My mental state wasn’t bad—it was breaking. Splintering into pieces like a mirror cracked by a scream.

  That day… I had seen them.

  Those grotesque things weren’t just monsters—they were predators. Enjoyers of pain. Cannibals. They devoured the flesh of their own, danced in the blood of prey, and crowned their chieftain with bones. He sat upon a throne of carnage, grinning like a god of rot.

  And the worst part?

  The crab hadn’t been an accident.

  The dead spider wasn’t a one-off anomaly.

  The screeches I'd heard earlier weren’t echoes of nightmares.

  This place—this entire world—was hell made manifest. A realm designed for cruelty. It hated me, wanted me dead, and I couldn’t even fight off one of its horrors.

  My knees buckled. I nearly crumpled.

  “… I just need to learn how to fight. Problem solved…” I muttered weakly, as if speaking it would make it real.

  But it wasn’t that simple, and I knew it. There were no training halls down here. No sparring partners. No time. If I tried learning the hard way—by doing—I’d die. Over and over again.

  Unless I found her again. The woman I’d saved. She seemed strong, capable… fast. But down here, with twisting tunnels and echoing cries, finding anyone again felt like trying to chase a shadow in a storm.

  Still shaking, I cast one last glance into the grotesque hall below.

  And he was looking back.

  The king.

  His gaze pierced through the firelight, locking onto mine with impossible clarity.

  I froze. Every nerve screamed at me to run, to vanish, but I was too slow.

  He grinned—too wide, too hungry—and seized his massive spear.

  Then he stood.

  A bellow erupted from his lungs as he shouted to his horde, his voice shaking dust from the cavern ceiling. I turned and bolted just as a gust of air exploded past me—his spear, hurled with godlike force, smashed into the stone wall ahead, embedding itself deep like a tree trunk rammed into mud.

  Had I hesitated, it would’ve skewered me. I would’ve died.

  I didn’t have time to marvel. From behind came the thunder of movement—guts flung aside, weapons lifted, bones crunched under dozens of stomping feet. The king, leading his horde, came after me like a tidal wave of bloodlust.

  Tears blurred my vision as I fled, the bat still tangled in my hair, flapping occasionally but otherwise undisturbed. It felt like some cosmic joke—a flying rat with better composure than me.

  I envied it.

  “I don’t want to die again,” I whispered, sobbing mid-sprint. “I don’t want to be torn apart. I don’t want to be eaten…”

  I didn’t want to be here. In this nightmare. In this mockery of a world.

  But I had no escape. No portals. No rescue. Just my legs, my mind, and a sliver of hope buried under a mountain of despair.

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  The king was still there. Not gaining on me—he was holding back, running with the casual, predatory gait of something that enjoyed the chase more than the kill. He wanted me to feel it. To know he could catch me at any time, but didn’t need to.

  Behind him, a sea of green-skinned horrors howled.

  I realized I couldn’t run forever.

  Even if I ran until my lungs burst, he’d still win. He’d catch me eventually—either when I collapsed from exhaustion, or when he grew bored of the game.

  So, I did the only thing I could.

  I grabbed the bat from my head and, as gently as I could while sprinting, tossed it into the air. It shrieked once, flapped its wings indignantly, and flew back toward the direction we’d come from. It turned briefly midair and gave me a look—of annoyance, of understanding, maybe even farewell—before vanishing into the darkness.

  I hoped it would live. I needed something in this world to survive.

  Then, through a haze of fear and adrenaline, an idea took shape.

  If this king was arrogant enough… maybe I could use that.

  I slowed. Just a little. Not suddenly, but gradually, as if my body were failing. I staggered. Let my arms dangle slightly. Let my breath grow ragged and loud.

  Let him think I was finished.

  He took the bait.

  I heard his laughter echo across the walls—deep, guttural, full of mocking glee. I stopped completely, turning to face him with trembling fists raised before my face. It was a challenge. Primitive. Desperate. But unmistakable.

  And I knew exactly what it would do to him.

  Because creatures like him—tyrants—never ignored a challenge. Not when it came from something weak. Something beneath them. Especially not when their horde was watching.

  He came to a stop a dozen paces away and slowly, theatrically, discarded his spear.

  It clanged against the stone like a bell tolling the start of a twisted ritual.

  Then he laughed again and spread his arms wide, showing his filthy, clawed palms. His jagged teeth dripped with spit. His black eyes sparkled with anticipation. He was letting me strike first. No defense. No fear.

  Arrogance incarnate.

  Just because I looked like a little girl now… did he think I was harmless?

  I stepped forward. One step. Two. Then I pulled back my arm.

  “Magical… Fist!” I shouted—and instead of punching him, I kicked him.

  Hard. Between the legs.

  The impact made a noise like a hammer hitting wet leather. He doubled over, eyes bulging, lips parting in a choked wheeze. His hands shot downward but froze halfway. His pride wouldn’t let him fully react, even to agony.

  I didn’t wait.

  I turned and ran.

  Two steps—just two—and that was all I got before his roar split the air.

  And then he was on me.

  He crashed into me like a falling mountain, knocking the wind from my lungs. I hit the stone floor hard, scraping my hands and knees, pain flaring across my body like sparks.

  But it was nothing compared to what came next.

  His weight pinned me, crushing, suffocating. My ribs creaked. My limbs kicked weakly, but it was like trying to lift a boulder with broken fingers. His arms wrapped around me like a bear trap, and his foul breath fanned across the side of my face.

  I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

  And as I lay there, pinned beneath this monster, all I could think was—

  “I failed.”

  But this wasn’t the end.

  Not yet.

  I screamed.

  It wasn't a cry of fear or surprise—it was a raw, primal shriek, torn from the very depths of my soul. Agony flooded my senses in a way I had never experienced before. Being poisoned had been awful, yes, but that was a haze—an abstract discomfort smothered in delirium. This pain, though… this was crystal clear. Every crushed rib, every shattered nerve was loud and real and merciless. My bones cracked beneath his monstrous weight like dried twigs underfoot. I could feel them give way, feel them shift and grind inside my body.

  And worst of all—I was awake. Fully, terrifyingly awake.

  Tears streamed from my eyes, blurring my vision and stinging my skin, but I was still conscious. Still alive. Still trapped inside a body that was actively collapsing in on itself.

  Then, with casual cruelty, he wrapped one massive hand around my throat and lifted me off the ground like I weighed nothing. My broken body dangled, limp and helpless, as my legs kicked uselessly at the air. My windpipe compressed under his grip, and panic clawed at my chest—until I noticed something strange.

  I couldn’t breathe… but I didn’t feel the desperate need to. My lungs screamed, but my body didn’t suffocate the way it should have. Something unnatural held me in this liminal state between breath and death.

  Our eyes met again.

  His glowed with a furious, burning red, like molten iron seething in a forge. And in that moment, I understood—what I had done to him, the humiliation I’d inflicted, the challenge I dared to make. I'd embarrassed him. In front of his followers, I’d reduced him to a groaning, doubled-over fool. Now, he didn’t just want to kill me—he wanted to break me, piece by piece, until I no longer resembled a being at all.

  He kept squeezing.

  But when my lungs failed to collapse, when I didn’t die the way he expected, frustration twisted across his grotesque features. He snarled, then flung me down like discarded garbage. My back hit the stone with a dull, bone-deep thud. I whimpered. He retrieved his spear, turning toward me with a slow, theatrical grin that promised only one thing: suffering.

  I couldn’t fight back.

  But I could speak. And sometimes, the stupidest words held the greatest power.

  “H-have you ever heard of the police?” I coughed, blood tickling the back of my throat. “Y’know… the guys in those ‘wheeoo-wheeoo’ cars?”

  He paused, just slightly. Still grinning. Amused. Curious, maybe.

  “I guess sirens work differently here,” I rambled, voice rasping through pain. “But whatever! They’ll come for you. Yeah. They’ll… they'll show up in their cop car and go—‘Bang! Bang!’ Right to your stupid green face. Crimes against humanity. Done. Game over.”

  He didn’t understand me, not really. Maybe he thought I was just muttering the nonsense of the dying. But I wasn’t talking to him—I was talking to myself. I needed to fill the space, to delay the inevitable. Each word was a moment longer I stayed alive.

  “And even if they don't come,” I went on, gasping between syllables, “there's… hotlines for everything now. Yeah. Telephone hotlines to fix your telephone. Isn’t that hilarious? You need a phone to fix your phone—what kind of messed up logic is that?”

  He tilted his head, bemused at first, then irritated.

  I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

  I talked through blood. Through agony. Through fear. I clung to my voice like it was the last thread connecting me to sanity. Because deep down, I knew: I was going to die. But I didn’t want to go out silently.

  And still, behind every nonsense phrase, there was a fire inside me—a stubborn, righteous flame that refused to flicker out.

  I hated him.

  I hated this world.

  And I wasn’t going to give him my fear.

  Then, the tip of the spear pressed against my chest.

  And slowly—agonizingly slowly—it began to pierce through.

  My scream this time was hoarse, wet, broken. I could feel it slide between my ribs, splitting bone and flesh alike. The pain was electric—white-hot and blinding. My left lung was the first to give in. I felt it rupture, felt the blood bloom inside, drowning me from the inside out.

  He paused… then moved the spear again. To the right.

  A fresh scream. Another puncture. Another lung.

  Blood poured from my lips. I coughed, choked, sputtered. My vision blurred again, not from tears this time, but from the sheer overload of pain. My consciousness was slipping like sand through fingers—but he wasn’t finished.

  With an almost childish glee, he plunged the spear into my abdomen. I couldn’t even scream anymore. Just a wet gurgle, a tremor of sound too weak to echo.

  But then—then—I laughed.

  I didn’t even mean to. It just slipped out. A bubbling, delirious giggle that came with blood and madness. I laughed at him. At myself. At the insanity of it all. And in that fractured moment, I saw him falter.

  His smile died.

  His face twisted, not in amusement or superiority, but in confusion and rage. His pride wouldn’t let me die laughing. Not like this.

  With a final roar, he raised his spear high—his muscles flexing, his red eyes seething with hatred—and brought it down in one brutal, decisive stroke.

  I felt it—barely—as the point drove straight through my heart.

  And then… silence.

  The pain vanished. The world blinked out. The darkness—cold, quiet, strangely familiar—wrapped itself around me once more.

  And I was gone.