How did it come to this?
The Vraalmur ran, his claws scraping against the slick stone of the abyss's fourth stratum. The Kharis Larva clung to his back, her bioluminescence flickering wildly between red fear and white panic. Behind them, torchlight cut through the darkness—hunters, their voices hungry with greed.
"Damn it, catch it! That Vraalmur's pelt is worth a month's pay!"
An older mercenary led the pack, his voice grizzled with experience. The Vraalmur had been careless. They'd found his den.
He stumbled on the smooth, descending stairs, tumbling hard. The Larva slipped from his back, rolling into the shadows. He scrambled to his feet, snatched her up, and kept running.
The fourth stratum stretched before him—a place of old nightmares. He remembered the river, the tunnels, the things that lurked beneath the black water. But swimming was not an option. The hunters would follow.
So he ran deeper.
A young hunter hesitated, his voice trembling. "Boss… are we really chasing it into the fourth stratum? I can barely handle tier-three beasts!"
The old mercenary laughed, chest puffed. "Relax, kid. I've been down to the fifth stratum. You're with me."
"T-the fifth?! The one with the Great Fortress?!"
The old man's grin was proud, but the truth festered beneath—he'd only ever carried supplies for real elites.
Meanwhile, the Vraalmur reached a place that made his instincts scream.
Necranth.
The Inverted Root Graveyard.
A valley of hanging roots, petrified like the veins of a long-dead god. The air was thick with green mist, dense as congealed blood. Names were carved into the walls—scratched by nails, etched by bone. The ground was a mosaic of gray soil and shattered skeletons, bound together by carnivorous fungi.
No wind. No insects. Just the distant echo of screams that shouldn't exist.
The young hunter paled. "W-what is this place?"
One of the mercenaries sweat cold. "Gods… it's Necranth. Boss, we need to turn back—"
The old man spat. "Enough! You think a few stupid ghosts scare me? We've hunted the fourth before!"
But Necranth was not just a graveyard.
It was a place where the abyss remembered the dead.
And sometimes… returned them.
The first Bone Echo appeared as a distortion—a skeleton dragging itself along the wall, its jaw unhinged in a silent scream. Then another. And another.
Black Moss Herbs pulsed, skulls nested in their tendrils, their bodies shifting into flesh golems.
And above them all, a Velaria drifted—a veiled specter, her song a whisper that slithered into the hunters' ears.
"Run," the mercenary whispered.
But it was too late.
The abyss had noticed them.
The creature froze, watching as the hunters were swallowed by the mist.
The Larva pulsed gold-green against his spine—relief? Warning?
He could flee now. Leave the humans to their fate.
But Necranth was not a place of mercy.
It was a place of hunger.
And he was still inside it.
The hunters fought well—for humans.
Six in total: four seasoned mercenaries, the grizzled leader, and the trembling novice. They moved in practiced formation, blades cutting through the skeletal horrors of Necranth with brutal efficiency. The young one struggled, his hands slick with sweat around his dagger, but the others covered his mistakes.
"See? Not so hard, boys!" The old leader laughed, kicking aside a twitching Bone Echo. "Just another graveyard with fancy tricks."
Meanwhile, the Vraalmur wove through the chaos, his claws shredding through grasping fungal tendrils. The Larva on his back pulsed frantic colors—red panic, gold warning—her tentacles tugging at his spines as if to scream, "Run!"
But it was too late.
He arrived.
The air warped, the mist parting like a curtain before the towering figure.
2.2 meters of nightmare.
His elongated frame moved with unnatural grace, the tattered remains of a burial shroud floating around him like smoke. A featureless bone mask hid his face, but the Vraalmur felt his gaze—cold, ancient, hungry.
In his hands, the Final Lament—a scythe forged from abyssal ore and the crystallized screams of the dead.
One of the hunters, a grizzled veteran, finally noticed.
"Boss… we should go back," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Remember the stories about this place. About… him."
The leader scoffed, adjusting his grip on his axe. "Bullshit! Ghost stories for cowards. There's nothing here but—"
Silence.
The scythe moved.
The leader's face split cleanly in half, his expression still locked in mid-sneer.
"DEMON!" A hunter screamed—just before his intestines unspooled onto the bone-littered ground.
The remaining men broke, sprinting for the exit.
The novice had already bolted, his instincts screaming louder than pride. He'd seen the Guardian's approach—a flicker in the mist, then nothing—and dropped his pack, his sword, everything.
A wise choice.
The others weren't so lucky.
One by one, Mourh-Khazeth harvested them.
A mercenary turned to block—his arms fell first, then his head.Another tripped over a root—the scythe pinned him like a specimen, splitting spine from ribs.
The novice made it to the archway of knotted roots and skulls, gasping—
—just as the Guardian's blade sheared off his arm at the elbow.
He stumbled through, collapsing into the tunnel beyond.
Mourh-Khazeth did not follow.
He simply watched, his hollow mask tilting as the boy's whimpers faded. Then, like mist under moonlight, he dissolved.
The creature didn't wait to see more.
He ran, the Larva's panicked glow lighting the way.
For the first time, he understood:
He was nothing in this abyss.
Just another morsel in the dark.
The Vraalmur and the Larva fled the fourth stratum, their instincts screaming at them to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Necranth. They didn't stop until they found a new den—a cramped but defensible crevice near the border of the third and fourth strata.
It wasn't as spacious as their old crystal cave, but it was safe.
For now.
They adapted quickly.
The Vraalmur hunted Ghul-Teke, rock-skinned ambush predators that lurked on high ledges. Their hides were tough, but their underbellies were soft. He skinned them with care, lining the new den with their leathery pelts. The Larva helped, spitting acidic venom to weaken prey before he finished them off.
But the Vraalmur knew the truth now.
If they wanted to survive—if they wanted to grow stronger—they couldn't just hunt beasts.
They needed human flesh.
And the Larva, pulsing with newfound hunger, seemed to agree.
Meanwhile, the novice hunter staggered into the camp, his face ashen, his clothes torn.
He collapsed at the entrance, his breath ragged.
Ysmera, the camp's iron-willed guardian, hauled him up by the collar. "What happened? Where's your team?"
The boy's voice was hollow. "The legend… is real."
As the healers stitched his wounds, he recounted the massacre in Necranth—the faceless reaper, the scythe that moved without sound, the way his comrades had come apart like meat under a butcher's knife.
Ysmera listened, her expression unreadable.
The next morning, the novice left. Not for another hunt—but for the surface.
His spirit was broken.
He would never descend into the abyss again.
Back in their den, the Vraalmur curled around the Larva, their bodies pressed together for warmth.
The abyss had taught them a brutal truth:
They were small.
But they were learning.
And soon, the hunters would become the hunted.