“Fuck it… They set us up.”

  A deep, authoritative voice echoed through the dark tunnel. The speaker was a tall, wiry man, his face obscured by a black mask painted with a sinister, grinning mouth full of jagged teeth. A small Roman numeral XI was carved onto his forehead. He gripped a long sword with a serpent-shaped engraving coiling around its hilt.

  “Thirteen. Status report. Spare me the optimism.”

  A pause followed, punctuated by the faint hum of fading magic. Thirteen adjusted his identical mask, save for the number XIII etched into it, before speaking.

  “Twenty-One’s chest cavity was compromised. I’ve put the organs back in place, but he’s a liability now. Forty is dead weight, blunt force trauma to the cranium. He’s breathing, but he won't be thinking anytime soon.”

  “Tch. Then we leave them for the crawlers,” a high-pitched, manic voice cut in. Twenty-Five was a blur of movement, spinning a short sword with such speed it hummed. He tilted his mask up just enough to reveal a pale, scarred chin and a tongue that darted out to lick a smear of soot from his thumb. “I can smell them, Captain. Fresh sweat and elven fear. Let me slip ahead. I’ll bring you their heads before the dust even settles.”

  He coiled his muscles to spring, but a gauntlet the size of a dinner plate slammed into his chest, pinning him against the damp stone.

  “Stay. In. Rank.”

  The rumble came from Eighteen. The giant barbarian stood over two meters tall, a living fortress of soot-stained muscle. He didn't look at the smaller man. His eyes were fixed on the dark void ahead, his massive shield unmarred despite having absorbed a point-blank explosion.

  Eleven didn't even look back. “Eighteen is right. That trap was surgical. We move in Diamond Formation. Twenty-Five, if you break rank again, I’ll let Eighteen use your skull as a whetstone.”

  “…Understood, Captain,” Twenty-Five hissed, though his eyes remained fixed on the shadows ahead.

  They advanced. The heavy thud of Eighteen’s boots provided a rhythmic counterpoint to the silence. Twenty-Five’s breath became a series of shallow, gleeful wheezes.

  “There… the little leaf-ear. I can hear her heart hammering against her ribs. I wonder if it tastes like spring rain.”

  In a blur of twitchy violence, Twenty-Five lunged. His blade sang as it pierced the silhouette in the dark, straight through the sternum.

  His laugh died in his throat.

  “What—?”

  Instead of flesh, his blade met empty air, the figure dissolving into a sticky, silken web that instantly coiled around his whole body.

  “You arrogant parasite,” Eleven snarled, his sword clearing its scabbard in a flash of silver. “I told you they were playing with us.”

  Thirteen stepped forward, his fingers weaving a pattern of cold blue light. With a wordless hum, the priest’s Mana dissolved the silk.

  Eleven clicked his tongue in irritation. “Tsk. Silkshade Phantom.” He narrowed his eyes. “Looks like we’re dealing with troublesome opponents.”

  “They’re just stalling,” grunted the squad’s scout, a stocky elf who looked at the webbing with professional disdain. “Cheap tricks won’t save them. They’ve got nowhere to—”

  He never finished. The air in the tunnel began to howl.

  “Brace!” Eleven roared.

  A torrential blast of water flooded the tunnel, merging with the raging winds. The narrow tunnel turned the elements into a pressurized piston.

  “Cowards!” the scout screamed, his boots sliding on the wet stone.

  Eighteen didn't scream. He simply slammed the edge of his shield into a fissure in the floor, anchoring himself like an iron pier in a storm. Eleven tucked himself into the giant’s shadow, his face a mask of cold fury as the vortex tried to tear them apart.

  Then came the structural groans. The ceiling gave way.

  CRASH. BRRRAK. THUD.

  “MY ARM! AUGH!” Twenty-Five’s sadistic glee had been replaced by a shrill terror.

  The floodwater had pinned the scout’s legs, and a massive slab of granite had finished the job. What was left of the elf was now part of the tunnel floor.

  Only Thirteen stood completely indifferent. A shimmering, translucent sphere of gold held the chaos at bay. He watched the scout die with the clinical detachment of a man watching an insect get stepped on.

  “The path is obstructed,” Thirteen observed calmly.

  “I noticed,” Eleven spat, stepping out from behind the shield. “Eighteen, clear it. Now.”

  The giant didn't use tools. He jammed his fingers into the gaps between the boulders and heaved. The sound of grinding stone drowned out Twenty-Five’s whimpering. With a single, precise arc of his longsword, Eleven sheared through the remaining overhead supports, forcing a controlled collapse that stabilized the pile so they could climb over.

  As they crested the rubble, a flicker of movement caught Eleven’s eye. A small, green-clad shadow vanishing into a newly created passage.

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  “A druid,” Eleven whispered, his eyes narrowing. “Clever little rat. He didn't just collapse the tunnel, he redirected the air currents to mask his scent.”

  He looked back at his battered squad. The dead scout, the injured Twenty-Five, and the impassive Priest.

  Whoever had done this hadn’t just fled, they had planned their escape.

  ***

  The world ended in a roar of falling stone and the suffocating spray of silt.

  The ambush had worked, but only barely.

  We didn’t look back to see if the cave-in held. We couldn't. Darwyn took point, his silhouette a flickering ghost in the dark, and we followed in a blind, rhythmic desperation.

  Time lost its meaning. One hour blurred into burning lungs, the next dissolved into iron-tasting blood and trembling legs. Every breath scraped fire from my throat. Behind us, the silence of the tunnels felt heavier than any noise, a predatory vacuum that kept us moving when our muscles screamed to stop.

  Muradin was a shell of himself. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps, his beard matted with sweat and stone dust. Orin’s usual spark had vanished, replaced by a hollow-eyed stare fixed on the heels of the person in front of her.

  Only the siblings, Darwyn and Elena, remained composed, their pace steady as if they weren’t feeling the same crushing fatigue.

  We ignored the denizens of the deep. We scrambled past chittering horrors in the dark, trading flesh for speed. Muradin took the worst of it, acting as a living battering ram to keep the path clear.

  “Just... a little further,” Darwyn’s voice was a rasp, barely audible over the pounding of my own heart. He had taken Muradin’s arm over his shoulder, half-carrying him forward.

  I didn't ask how far. I couldn't have processed the answer. I simply focused on the soft green glow of the Rejuvenation spell humming in my scepter, feeding the magic into Muradin’s staggering frame. I cast Galestride on impulse, enhancing his speed.

  “Ah, Erynd,” Muradin chuckled, a sound like grinding gravel. “Truly... a lifesaver.”

  I managed a thin, frayed ghost of a smile. “You can thank me once we’re safe.”

  The reprieve was short-lived. Elena suddenly skidded, her hand snapping up.

  “They’re gaining,” Elena said sharply. “At least three, maybe more. They didn’t all get buried.”

  The exhaustion that had been a dull ache turned into a sharp, electric spike of adrenaline. Our formation tightened instinctively. Muradin took the rear while I stayed close to support him.

  The tunnel narrowed, the air turning foul with the sulfurous rot of our destination.

  “Gloomspire!” Darwyn shouted.

  But the darkness behind us tore open, figures forcing their way through the settling dust, moving with disciplined speed.

  “Go! I’ll hold them off!” Muradin roared, skidding to a halt and planting his feet.

  “Don’t be stupid, we fight together!” Darwyn shot back.

  Muradin turned to him with a hardened gaze. “Listen, elf, don’t be as stubborn as I am. You know we can’t win this fight. It’s my job to keep you all alive. So get moving.”

  I stepped forward before Darwyn could argue further. “No. No need to argue, because we do have a chance.”

  I pulled a vial from my pouch, the liquid inside swirling with a violent, unstable luminescence. I held the Overcharged Brew up in my palm, the light reflecting in Muradin’s wide eyes.

  Darwyn caught on instantly. To give me a few seconds, he fired a series of Sticky Bombs at the tunnel ceiling and detonated them. A cascade of heavy rocks collapsed between us and the enemies.

  But they were prepared. In a flash, the rubble was blasted away.

  I didn't wait. I popped the cork and downed the brew in a single, jagged swallow. It tasted like pure oxygen and liquid fire. My veins pulsed with a sudden, painful heat as my Mana surged to a breaking point.

  Orin moved in sync with me, her hands already weaving the air. The Thunderstorm Vortex didn't just appear, it roared to life.

  A massive tempest appeared, tearing through the enemies from every angle and forcing them to stay back.

  “That won’t stop them,” she muttered, “but it’ll cost them time.”

  The temperature in the tunnel didn't just rise, it was purified. The shadows that had been our only friends were violently burned away as the ceiling of the passage seemed to dissolve into a halo of gold.

  “Erynd, LOOK OUT!” Muradin’s roar cut through the crackle of the vortex.

  I looked up, and for a heartbeat, my soul went still.

  The spark I had felt hum in the distance had found us. A massive sword of pure, incandescent white light, easily two meters long, materialized directly above me. It wasn't made of steel. It was made of solidified intent, radiating a hum that vibrated in my very marrow.

  It didn't fall. It judged.

  The blade descended with the speed of a falling star. I was still reeling from the Mana-burn of the Brew, my muscles locked in a spasm of overcharged energy. I was a sitting duck.

  CRACK-BOOM.

  The impact wasn't a metallic clang, it was a deafening roar of holy displacement. A shockwave of white fire and pulverized stone erupted, throwing Orin and Elena backward. Dust, thick and tasting of burnt air, swallowed everything.

  “ERYND!” Darwyn’s voice was a ragged scream, he sprinting through the white haze.

  As the dust began to settle, my vision cleared in agonizing increments. I wasn't dead. I wasn't even touched.

  Above me, a mountain of iron and flesh held back the light.

  Muradin lay sprawled over me, his heavy frame acting as a biological bunker. His massive tower shield was split down the center, the jagged edges glowing with fading embers of white heat.

  “Muradin…” I choked out, my voice lost in the ringing in my ears.

  Blood, dark and hot, seeped from the gaps in his armor, dripping onto my cloak. He had thrown himself into the path of a god-killing blow.

  “Don’t… just stand there… druid,” he wheezed, his voice a wet rattle. He tried to push himself up, but his left arm gave way, the shattered shield clattering uselessly against the stone.

  The sword of light flickered and vanished, leaving behind a scorched crater where Muradin had stood.

  “Darwyn, Orin! Please help carry him!” I shouted, the panic finally breaking through my shock.

  They didn’t hesitate. Together, they lifted Muradin, struggling under his weight but moving fast.

  Meanwhile, the lightning vortex continued to swirl, disrupting our enemies just long enough for us to escape.

  Elena led the way, Darwyn and Orin carrying Muradin, while I stayed at the rear, keeping an eye on our pursuers.

  “We made it!” Elena shouted.

  Gloomspire Hollow.

  The foul stench that usually made me gag now felt like the sweetest relief.

  At the entrance, five tunnel paths branched out before us. I immediately spotted the leftmost path, the one Darwyn had marked earlier.

  “Elena, mark another path,” I instructed.

  She nodded and quickly mimicked the mark on the second path from the right.

  “Eryndor, Mister Gwydion, where do we go?” Orin asked, panting.

  I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and pointed toward one of the tunnels.

  “Here,” I said with certainty.

  And without hesitation, we continued.