The air in the dungeon was damp, carrying the earthy scent of stone and decay. Their footsteps echoed quietly as they made their way through another dark corridor, dimly lit by the flickering blue of enchanted torches that clung to the walls like frozen flames. Despite the eerie silence and the lingering tension that came from knowing monsters could be lurking around any corner, Amukelo and Pao walked side by side, speaking softly.
"These dungeons are weird," Amukelo muttered, his eyes scanning the jagged ceiling above them, "but... ultimately, I prefer it so much more than fighting humans."
Pao looked up at him, her expression softening. "Yeah…" she murmured, "and honestly, it kind of seems like the very existence of these things is painful. Like they were never meant to be alive to begin with."
Amukelo nodded slowly. "Yeah…" His voice was quieter now, more thoughtful. "With them, I don't feel like I'm killing someone who had a chance to do better. It's more like… ending something broken."
They walked for a moment in silence, the steady rhythm of their steps the only sound between them. Then, out of nowhere, Pao's eyes lit up.
"By the way," she said suddenly, her voice full of eagerness, "I can't wait until we continue our travels."
Amukelo raised a brow, her sudden shift of mood catching him off guard, but he couldn't help smiling. "Yeah," he said with a chuckle, "I'm also pretty excited. We're strong enough now to travel without a problem, but it's better if Bral heals a little more. Then we'll do that final push toward Silver Rank Seven."
"Exactly," Pao nodded quickly, her energy rising with every word. "But can you imagine? Different towns, different cultures, even different nations! Our father was talking about some alliance with the orcs… Can you imagine how cool it would be to travel to Ghorzaan?"
Amukelo gave her a side glance, grinning. "Yeah, to see how orcs react to people like us."
Pao beamed, completely lost in the idea. "Yeah! Imagine walking into one of their cities and just… seeing their way of life. The architecture, their warriors, their mages—" her voice dropped into a reverent whisper, "—all the unique grimoires they'll have…"
Amukelo laughed, unable to hold it in. "Haha, I can't. But I can imagine you standing in the middle of a magic shop, arms full of books, unable to choose one."
Pao turned to him with a dramatic grin. "Choose? No, no, no. I'll buy all of them."
He shook his head, still smiling. "Then we better start doing harder quests, because if they're as expensive as the last ruby grimoire, we're going to have to pool our entire guild's savings for your magic obsession."
Pao gave a defiant little nod. "I accept those terms."
Their conversation was interrupted by the sudden sound of shuffling and an unsettling scraping from up ahead. In the half-lit hallway, a trio of Skinveil Thralls emerged, crawling along the walls with insect-like precision. The grotesque sheets of flesh they wore as cloaks fluttered like loose parchment in the dungeon breeze, and the glint of their spindly limbs caught the torchlight.
They lunged forward without a sound.
Amukelo reacted instantly. He stepped forward, unsheathing his sword in one fluid motion. The first Thrall leapt at him from above, but before it could land, Amukelo slashed through the air, catching it mid-jump. Its cloaked form dropped to the floor in two lifeless halves.
The second came from the side. Amukelo stepped to the left, narrowly avoiding the reach of its jagged limbs. As it landed behind him, he pivoted sharply, his blade finding its mark. Another clean kill.
The third, perhaps sensing danger, lunged toward Pao, but she had already raised her staff, a faint glow of water magic coiling around the tip of her staff. She cast a short-range wave, sending the creature sliding across the stone like a slug thrown across ice.
It crumpled into a heap, motionless.
Before any of them could speak, Bral called out from further down the corridor. "Hey, lovebirds," he said, his voice echoing through the stone, "try not to get too distracted, remember we're still in a dungeon."
Pao smiled as she dusted off her sleeve. "As long as I'm close to Amu, I'm fine."
That made Amukelo stop dead in his tracks, eyes blinking as he turned slightly toward her. A faint pink crept into his cheeks as he scratched his cheek awkwardly and looked to the side.
"Well... I have pretty good instincts," he said, trying to sound casual. "You know, from living in the wild."
From the back, Bao let out a loud sigh and planted a palm on her face. "You two are unbearable," she muttered.
"I think it's cute," Pao whispered under her breath, flashing a quick grin at Amukelo.
He didn't say anything, but the little smirk he gave her back was enough.
They continued walking, Pao's steps just slightly closer to Amukelo's than before.
They followed a narrow corridor carved into the stone, the air heavy and dry, the scent of blood and old ash rising with every breath. Their steps echoed in the deep, almost rhythmic—the only sound besides the occasional drip of moisture from the ceiling.
It was Amukelo who first froze in place, raising his hand.
"What's wrong?" Idin asked, lowering his stance slightly as the group came to a stop.
"I heard something," Amukelo said, narrowing his eyes ahead.
That's when they saw it.
It emerged from the far end of the corridor. A hunk of malformed flesh shuffled toward them, grotesque and unnatural. It stumbled as it moved, dragging one massive leg that seemed to be stitched together from what looked like melted bodies. Its entire form was bloated and sagging, as though the flesh had been overfilled and could barely contain whatever stirred beneath.
Its face—or what should have been one—was misshapen beyond recognition. A jaw hung open, slack and bent at an impossible angle, twitching as if trying to form words it no longer understood. A single eye bulged from the skull, huge and glassy, far too human in its expression, filled with a cloudy despair. Bones jutted through flesh in places that made no sense—some curved backward, others exposed entirely. The stench that rolled off of it was nearly overwhelming: rot, sulfur, burnt hair. Something inside it burned slowly like coal beneath damp wood.
But what caught their attention even more were the faint runes under its skin. They glowed from beneath its sagging hide, flickering like dying embers—disjointed, pulsing in patterns that felt wrong. They didn't belong to any known magic, and yet... they were there, buried under layers of stitched corpses and decay.
Bral instinctively stepped back. "Ugh… it doesn't look right," he said, voice tight.
Idin frowned, his eyes narrowed. "It kind of looks like… a ghoul. But it's like someone tried to make one and failed. Or did too much."
They all stared as it dragged itself forward. Not fast. Not threatening. Just… approaching.
Amukelo squinted. "Wait… is it… saying something?"
Bao, already reaching for an arrow, scoffed. "Saying something? It's a monster, Amukelo. Let's just kill it before it gets any closer."
"No," Pao said suddenly, her voice cutting through the tension. "He's right. It's saying something."
The creature halted a few paces away, twitching as it tried to lift its head. Its voice rasped, low and hollow—like a throat that had long since rotted, speaking from memory more than will.
"Th-the… son is fall… fallen…"
It paused. A spasm racked its body.
"Go… God is… dead…"
A long silence followed. Pao let go of Amukelo's sleeve and took a shaky step back. Bral's hand went to his sword, and he whispered under his breath, "It's… blaspheming."
Idin didn't say anything at first, but his hand slid to his axe. "I don't like it," he said eventually, his tone dark. "Something is wrong with this place."
Amukelo looked around at the others. "Stay back," he said calmly. "Just in case. We don't know what it's capable of. It might jump, or explode, or—"
The thing took another twitching step forward.
"You… pe… pe… people…"
Its voice glitched, catching on invisible threads.
"Do… do you ha… hate God…?"
That one sentence sent a chill through the group.
Pao visibly tensed. Bral swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the grip of his blade.
Bao, her expression twisting in disgust, finally snapped.
"I can't anymore," she muttered. "It's too weird. Too wrong."
She reached into her quiver and pulled out a runic arrow. The glyphs along the shaft shimmered faintly with pale blue magic.
"Wait!" Bral said quickly, stepping forward.
But she had already drawn, loosing the arrow with a swift motion.
The arrow flew silently through the stale air and struck the creature in the center of its chest.
There was no cry. No roar. Just a low squelch as the arrow embedded itself—then, with a sudden and grotesque pressure, the thing exploded from the inside out.
A sickening sound of tearing flesh echoed down the corridor as bits of rotted tissue and fluid splashed against the floor and walls. A wave of that stench rushed toward them—sharp, acrid, almost tangible.
For a moment, no one moved.
Bao lowered her bow, exhaling sharply. "See?" she said, trying to sound confident. "It's gone."
But her voice betrayed her just a little. She wasn't wrong to act, but no one could pretend that what they just saw was normal.
They looked at the mess in front of them. Pieces of runed skin twitched faintly on the stone, some still glowing. A jawbone rested near the wall, the eye nowhere to be seen.