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Chapter 5 - The Guardian of Roots

The crystal cave had become a home.

Our curious Vraalmur and his Kharis Larva companion had settled into a quiet rhythm—hunting, resting, exploring. He'd torn apart jagged minerals to fashion a crude nest, lining it with the hides of carrion beasts and the soft chitin of abyssal worms. The Larva, content, pulsed golden as it fed on rare crystals, its bioluminescence casting gentle shadows on the walls.

But the abyss was never still.

During their wanderings, they noticed a change.

Humans, More of them. Stronger.

Armored in steel that gleamed under the stratum's eerie glow, wielding weapons etched with runes that hummed with power. Mages chanted spells that wove etheric light into the air—beautiful, deadly. And they were descending—not into the third stratum, but deeper. Into the fourth.

Something down there had drawn their attention.

Something dangerous.

One day, while exploring, the Vraalmur stumbled upon a place that made his skin prickle.

A massive stone archway, its surface carved with runes and grotesque reliefs of creatures that defied reason. The air here was different—thick with the scent of damp earth and something sweetly rotten.

Beyond the arch, the ground was covered in abyssal grass, soft underfoot. And in the center of it all—

A colossus.

It stood twelve meters tall, its body a tangle of roots, hollow logs, and pulsating moss that glowed a sickly green. Where its face should have been, a spiraling hollow gaped, exhaling warm vapors that smelled of withered flowers.

Its arms hung like dead branches, but when it moved—

CRACK.

The sound of a thousand trees snapping at once.

Around it, Nyeliths—small, bark-skinned creatures with crowns of living flowers—flitted like fireflies, their emerald eyes flashing violet as they sang.

And at its feet—humans.

"What the hell is a Thur'Ael doing in the third stratum?!" roared a scarred axeman.

The fire-mage from before—Jack—hurled flames at the Nyeliths. Their shrieks pierced the air as their delicate bodies blackened and curled.

"Burn those damn pests, Jack!"

The Nyeliths' song turned to agony, their petals crumbling to ash.

The Thur'Ael reacted.

Its massive arm swung down, roots erupting from the ground like spears. One warrior was impaled, his blood watering the abyssal grass.

The axeman charged, his blade biting into the colossus's leg—but the wound sealed instantly, moss knitting over the gash.

The Nyeliths' remaining song twisted—no longer soothing, but commanding.

The Thur'Ael's back split open, releasing a cloud of spores.

The humans coughed, their eyes glazing over. One dropped to his knees, smiling as vines slithered around his ankles, pulling him into the earth.

"No—! Don't breathe it in!" Jack screamed, but it was too late.

The colossus lumbered forward, its lament a sound of forests dying.

The Vraalmur watched from the shadows, his claws digging into the stone.

The humans fought hard. The axeman fell, buried alive. The archer fled, his mind broken by visions. Only Jack remained, his fire sputtering as roots coiled around his legs—

—until the Thur'Ael crushed him underfoot.

Silence.

The Nyeliths gathered around their guardian, their crowns blooming purple—mourning.

And for the first time, the Vraalmur understood:

This was not a beast.

This was the abyss fighting back.

The colossal Thur'Ael retreated, its roots dragging like mournful serpents back into the earth. The Nyeliths followed, their crowns now a somber purple, their song reduced to whispers.

The Vraalmur waited until the last tremor of the guardian's steps faded before slinking forward, his Kharis Larva clinging to his back.

They approached the crushed remains of the fire-mage—the same man who had fled from the crystal lizards, only to meet his end here.

Justice, perhaps.

The Vraalmur sniffed at the mangled flesh, then bit in.

The taste was electric.

Not just blood, not just meat—magic. It crackled on his tongue like stormwater, flooding his veins with something alive. His skull ached, visions flashing behind his eyes:

A boy (this man?) laughing as sparks danced on his fingertips.A tower of black stone, where robed figures chanted over flames.The scent of burning parchment, the sting of failure.

Then—clarity.

His thoughts sharpened. The abyss's whispers grew louder, more distinct. The Larva's color shifts—once meaningless—now carried nuance.

Human flesh—fresh, steeped in magic—was the abyss's truest feast.

He nudged the Larva, urging her to eat.

At first, she hesitated. Her kind consumed minerals, not meat. But she trusted him.

She absorbed a shred of the mage's flesh—and convulsed.

Her gelatinous body rippled, colors strobing violently: white panic, red agony, gold euphoria. Tentacles lengthened, then retracted; spines erupted, then melted away.

The Vraalmur froze. Had he poisoned her?

But then—stillness.

The Larva reformed, her glow brighter, her movements purposeful. She leaped onto his back, nestling against his spines with a new, almost playful energy.

She was awake.

The abyss had rules:

Weak things stayed weak.Strong things grew stronger.

But human flesh—especially those touched by magic—broke those rules.

It didn't just nourish. It transformed.

The Vraalmur bared his fangs in something close to a smile.

His Larva was no longer just food.

She was pack.

The two creatures fled the battleground, the weight of the colossus's presence still prickling their instincts. The abyss had shifted—something ancient had stirred, and neither the Vraalmur nor the Larva wished to linger in its shadow.

The journey back to their crystal den felt shorter this time, the path almost welcoming compared to the horrors they'd witnessed. But just as the familiar glow of their cavern came into view—

They were not alone.

A boy stood in their path.

Clad in leather stitched from abyssal beasts, his face half-hidden behind a bone mask, he watched them with a single, piercing green eye. At his hip hung a runic dagger, its edge humming faintly. His cloak—black as the void between stars—rippled as he tilted his head.

Confusion.

The boy's gaze locked onto the Kharis Larva, its bioluminescence pulsing gold against the Vraalmur's spines.

Why was it riding another creature?

Why wasn't it being eaten?

Then—a voice, sharp as a whip-crack, echoed through the tunnels.

"Lirin! Damn brat, get over here! The clan leader's waiting!"

A taller figure loomed in the darkness—a man whose presence drenched the air in dread. His hooded cloak mirrored the boy's, but his sword, curved and etched with violet runes, throbbed with a malevolent energy. A respirator fashioned from abyssal bone obscured his face, its hollow eyes staring into nothing.

The boy—Lirin—flinched. With one last glance at the creatures, he turned and vanished into the shadows, leaving behind only the echo of his curiosity.

The Vraalmur didn't wait to see if the man would follow.

He ran, the Larva clinging tightly as they dove through fissures and scrambled over rocks, not stopping until the crystal den's glow enveloped them.

Safe.

For now.

In the quiet of their sanctuary, the two creatures curled together, the events of the day settling like sediment in the abyss's endless dark.

The Vraalmur licked his fangs, still tasting the mage's magic. The Larva shimmered, her colors shifting in patterns too complex for before.

They had survived.

They had changed.

And the abyss—vast, unknowable—had just revealed its first true secret:

They were not the only ones hunting.

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