Flames howled through the narrow rock corridors, streaking along the twisted ceiling and walls like feral ghosts. Kalem swung his sword in savage arcs, fire trailing from the blade in violent arcs that cast flickering shadows across the corpses that now filled the path behind him.
"Just how many are there?" Kalem growled, his voice half-choked from the smoke and heat. His legs shook with every step, pain flaring with each motion, but he pushed forward, carving through the flesh-things that slithered and snapped and whispered in voices stolen from people he'd once known.
"More than you."
"Better than you."
"Dangerous than you."
"Ah, not this again," Kalem hissed, stomping down on the twitching remains of a nightmare that wore a face too close to Isolde's. The thing gave a wet, gurgled shriek before bursting into ash beneath his boot.
The air was thick with the stench of mana-burned meat, rot, and something sweeter—decay laced with memory. He could barely tell if what he was killing was real or illusion anymore. But he knew it didn't matter. If it bled, it burned. And if it burned, he could keep moving.
He staggered forward, heat crackling in his bones. The sword's crystal core was nearing exhaustion, its flickering aura sputtering more with each strike.
Kalem's eyes darted through the smoky dark—past ruined corpses and twitching remnants—searching for it.
His crate.
His gear. His lifeline. His fallback.
"Where was it?" he muttered, whipping around as a hissing echo burst from behind a jagged wall. "I dropped it… when I ran. It has to be—"
"The one you dropped."
"So clumsy."
"Always forgetting what matters."
He snarled, trying to ignore them. But the words were like hooks in his ribs, pulling at the part of him that remembered. The mad sprint. The breathless panic. His blood streaking behind him like a trail of guilt. And the sound of splintering wood—the crate tumbling down a slope of bone and ash.
Kalem wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his arm, breathing hard.
The firelight was dimmer now. His blade whined with each movement, the enchantments flickering. He couldn't afford another wave. Not without rest. Not without preparation.
The terrain ahead sloped down—a yawning chasm of twisted rock and flesh, veins of dull crimson mana throbbing like a heartbeat beneath the floor. He recognized the pattern now. This was a circle. A loop the Abyss used. A trap disguised as movement. He had been here before.
And somewhere, within this broken ring of rot and madness, was his crate.
He moved, limping but fast, weaving between the charred remains of corpses he'd burned earlier. He didn't look at their faces. He knew some of them were still watching. Some were still breathing in shallow, twitching motions, waiting to speak the wrong name, or the right one, or his own.
"I need it," Kalem muttered, half to himself. "The crystal vial, the binding wires, the mana hooks. I can't reach the gate's core without them. I won't get past the seal."
"You were never meant to."
"Just sit. Just rot."
"It's all you're good for now."
"No," Kalem snapped, striking his sword against the rock. The flames flared again, briefly. "Not yet."
The tunnel narrowed, and he followed the incline, descending further into a maze of collapsed stone and writhing veins. There were drag marks—his own, from days ago. Scorch trails. Blood. A crushed root patch where he'd tripped. It was here.
He stepped into the chamber.
And stopped.
The crate sat half-buried beneath a mound of bone-fused ash, broken open but not empty. Several weapons were gone—scavenged or destroyed—but there were pieces left. The mana cables. His gauntlet repair kit. A small blade he hadn't seen in days.
He knelt, ignoring the way the ground seemed to breathe beneath him. He dug through it, pulling parts free, ignoring the whispering that grew louder with each item he recovered.
"Why bother?"
"You'll lose it again."
"It doesn't make you strong."
"She didn't care what you carried."
Kalem froze at that last one. His hands curled into fists.
"I know," he said softly, not turning.
"I know," he repeated, louder now. "And I still kept moving."
The room seemed to pulse around him, the walls shivering in protest—or anticipation.
He slung what he could into a torn cloth from the crate, tying it tightly and hooking it to his side. Not ideal. Not organized. But usable. Enough.
Enough to face whatever came next.
"Now," Kalem growled, standing with a shaky breath. "Where's the next lie you want to show me?"
Silence.
No voices. Not this time.
The chamber behind him flickered with a soft, rising hum.
He turned slowly.
Another figure stood there, just beyond the ring of dying flame.
Tall. Vague. Shifting. Not a monster—not in shape. But its face…
It flickered like flame—sometimes Onyx. Sometimes Nara. Sometimes… himself.
Kalem stepped back, sword held low but ready.
"You're not real."
The figure didn't speak.
Instead, it gestured to the ground near its feet.
Kalem squinted. Another rune. Etched hastily. Bloody.
His name.
And another below it—one he didn't recognize.
But it looked… unfinished.
"Is that the next one?" Kalem asked.
The figure said nothing.
Then the lights dimmed again, and it was gone.
Kalem stood in the dark, breathing hard, sword crackling softly at his side.
He turned. Began to walk.
Back toward the gate.
Now with what he'd dropped.
And more than just weapons in his pack.