Another cycle in the abyss—if such a thing as "days" existed here—and the curious creature found himself wandering the third stratum, a realm of jagged hierarchies and human folly.
He had learned much in this place.
The humans sent their young here to hunt. Foolish. Their corpses littered the tunnels, half-eaten by beasts or left to rot in pools of their own stagnant blood. The third stratum was a graveyard of arrogance, where overconfidence met the abyss's teeth.
One of the dominant species here was the Karnash—four-legged monstrosities with serrated fangs and hides studded with jagged crimson crystals. They moved in packs, their maws dripping black sludge that dissolved flesh on contact.
The alpha of each pack was larger, its claws curved like scythes, its eyes voids that swallowed the weak light of the stratum. Humans hunted them for the crystals embedded in their hides, though the price was steep: For every ten hunters who faced a Karnash, only one survived. And even then, "survival" often meant dragging themselves back to camp with missing limbs or melted skin.
The creature had watched these battles from the shadows. The humans here were young, reckless, their armor patched, their blades dull. They fought like prey pretending to be predators.
One day, trailing a wounded hunter, he discovered their stronghold.
A fortified camp, ringed by spiked barricades and guarded by men whose auras prickled his instincts like static. These were not the greenbloods of the third stratum—they were veterans, clad in armor that gleamed under bioluminescent lanterns, their weapons etched with runes that hummed in the dark. Scars mapped their skin like battle hymns.
At the camp's heart stood a gateway—another artificial path, leading upward. To the second stratum, perhaps. He considered following it, but instinct warned him: Higher meant more humans. More hunters. More death.
For now, he needed a sanctuary, not a slaughter.
Later, he encountered the gelatinous beings again—the same mindless, glowing things he'd seen near the underground river. They pulsed lazily, their tentacles swaying as they oozed across damp stone.
Useless.
Or so he'd thought.
But as he observed, one of them brushed against a wounded rat. Where its golden fluid touched the creature's gashes, the flesh knit itself back together. The rat squeaked, nuzzling the slime before darting away.
The creature tilted his head.
Interesting.
The creature lingered near the gelatinous beings, their golden glow a flickering comfort in the abyss's gloom. Their healing properties might prove useful—if he could figure out how to exploit them without being dissolved himself.
But curiosity, as always, pulled him away.
A stampede shook the caverns. Dozens of beasts—Karnash, crystal lizards, even the mindless slimes—fled in blind terror. Their shrieks echoed through the tunnels, a chorus of pure primal fear.
What could frighten so many?
Against every survival instinct, he followed the trail of panic to the Great Pit, the heart of the third stratum.
And there, writhing in the darkness, was the answer.
The humans had names for the horrors of the abyss. This one, he would later learn, was called Nyx-Terath—a thing of nightmares given flesh.
It was a living blasphemy.
A mass of oily black tentacles, each lined with pulsating mouths that gnashed and whispered in a language that made his bones vibrate. At its core, a nucleus of obsidian scales throbbed like a diseased heart. Eyes—yellow, lidless—blinked in and out of existence across its form, appearing like pustules before vanishing again.
Its very breath was poison. The air around it shimmered with acid, eating away at stone and bone alike.
For the first time, the creature regretted his curiosity.
Every muscle in his body locked, his instincts screaming one command: RUN.
But it was too late.
One of the Nyx-Terath's floating eyes fixed on him.
He bolted.
His small legs pumped furiously, claws scrabbling against the rock. Behind him, the tentacles unfurled, moving with unnatural speed.
A searing pain lanced through his side—one of the appendages had grazed him, its touch burning through his skin like fire. He stumbled but kept running, his breath ragged.
Then—agony.
A second tentacle hooked his hind leg, its grip like molten iron. He thrashed, biting at it, but the Nyx-Terath's flesh was rubbery and resistant. The creature lifted him off the ground, bringing him eye-to-eye with one of its many maws.
Drool, thick and black, dripped onto his face. It sizzled.
This was it. He would die here, dissolved into nothing but another whisper in the Nyx-Terath's cacophony of consumed souls.
Then—it stopped.
The Nyx-Terath's many eyes twitched, all turning toward something in the distance. A new scent? A sound? The creature couldn't tell, but the grip on his leg loosened.
With a wet schluck, the tentacle dropped him.
He hit the ground hard, gasping. The Nyx-Terath ignored him now, its bulk slithering away, drawn toward some unseen fascination deeper in the third stratum.
The creature didn't wait to see where it went.
He ran, his wounded leg dragging, until the Great Pit was far behind him.
The burn on his side ached, the skin bubbling where the Nyx-Terath's acid had touched him. He needed to clean the wound, and fast.
His thoughts turned to the gelatinous beings.
Their golden fluid could heal.
And if he was quick—and careful—he might just survive this.
The creature limped back to the gelatinous beings, his side still searing from the Nyx-Terath's acid. The pain was a living thing, gnawing at him with every step. But he had seen what their golden fluid could do.
He approached one cautiously.
The moment it sensed him, its bioluminescence shifted—first to white (curiosity), then to red streaks (pain—his pain?). But as he crouched before it, the colors melted into gold and green, a soothing pulse.
A warm, honey-like secretion oozed from its body, coating his wounds. The relief was instant. The burning dulled, the blistered flesh knitting itself back together.
For the first time, he felt something unfamiliar—gratitude.
This thing was weak. Helpless. Meant only to be devoured.
And yet, it had saved him.
He made a decision.
With careful claws, he scooped the gelatinous mass onto his back. It didn't resist, merely glowing white again—curious, trusting.
Humans called them "Kharis Larvae", he would later learn. The lowest rung of the abyss's food chain.
Unfair.
If this fragile thing could heal, it deserved more than to be torn apart by mindless predators.
So he would protect it.
Together, they navigated the third stratum's horrors:
Scavenger packs, their jaws dripping with rot. The creature fought them off, his claws slick with black blood as the Kharis Larva clung to his spine, pulsing blue(alert) but unharmed.
Abyssal bats, their violet-eyed wings blotting out the ceiling. Some had disturbingly humanoid limbs, their origins a mystery. He moved like a shadow, the larva's glow dimmed to near-invisibility against his scales.
Then—a discovery.
A hidden crevice, tucked behind a waterfall of mineral sludge. Inside, the walls burned with crystalline veins—amethyst, emerald, blood-red quartz. The Kharis Larva detached itself, floating toward the largest geode. Its body merged with the stone, feeding.
Of course. These beings weren't just mindless blobs. They consumed minerals, their healing fluids born from the abyss's own veins.
The creature surveyed the cavern. No predators. No humans. Just the hum of crystal growth and the Larva's quiet, colorful pulses.
This would be their home.
A place to heal. To grow.
And perhaps—to become something more.