Waylon ran, the echo of his footsteps lost in the rising storm of chittering screeches behind him. The pale crystal in his hand pulsed against his palm like a second heartbeat, warm and rhythmic. His chest rose and fell rapidly, lungs burning with effort, but he didn't slow down—not even for a second.
The tunnel twisted and split around him, but the air was his guide. He felt it shift subtly through the darkness, his heightened senses picking up every whisper of moving air, every fluctuation in pressure. The current tugged at him, barely noticeable to most, but for him it was a lifeline. A compass pointing toward escape.
[Follow the wind,] he told himself, turning sharply at a fork where the breeze brushed his cheek. [That way leads out.]
The tunnel opened briefly into a wider chamber, but before he could take three full steps, a white glow flared to his right. Another ant. Its luminous forehead shimmered like a star in the darkness, casting long shadows on the cavern walls.
It shrieked and lunged.
Waylon's blade was already rising. He pivoted into the swing, letting instinct guide him. The mantis scythe met the creature's neck with a wet crack, sending the head tumbling as its legs collapsed beneath it. He didn't stop. He couldn't.
Two more lights blinked into existence down a side corridor. They'd seen the kill. They'd scented the blood.
Waylon growled through clenched teeth and sprinted again, taking the path where the air grew cooler, drier—closer to outside. Behind him, the clicking of mandibles and clattering of claws grew louder, closer, faster.
A shriek to his left.
Another ant dove from the shadows.
Waylon dropped into a slide, letting its claws pass just inches above his head. He rolled onto his feet mid-motion, sprang upward, and drove his blade up into its underbelly with both hands. The creature let out a sickening wail before collapsing, ichor spilling over the stone.
He ripped the blade free and turned to keep running, the glowing crystal clenched tightly in his other hand.
Despite the kills, the lights only multiplied.
Wherever he turned, whatever path he looked down—left, right, straight ahead—more lights appeared at the far edges of his vision. Tiny, glimmering orbs, swaying with the rhythmic gait of the advancing swarm.
[No matter how many I kill, they just keep coming.]
The thought didn't slow him. If anything, it sharpened his focus.
He darted through a collapsing crevice, vaulted over a jagged slab of stone, and sliced through the leg of another creature that tried to ambush him from a shadowed ceiling. It fell shrieking, legs twitching in a violent spasm as Waylon kept sprinting.
Every limb ached. His back throbbed. His legs screamed for rest. But the airflow was getting stronger now—noticeably stronger. The wind wasn't just brushing against his face; it was pulling at his hair, his clothes.
The exit had to be near.
He slid around a corner, nearly colliding with a wall, and burst into another tunnel, wider than any he'd seen so far. For a moment, he paused.
The breeze here was steady. Fresh. It carried hints of earth, of the open world beyond—dirt, grass, distant moisture. Hope surged in his chest.
Then came the sound again.
Chitter… chitter… chitter…
He turned.
The walls at the far end of the tunnel shimmered with dozens of lights. Dozens of white orbs, dancing in time to clawed feet approaching at a run.
His golden eyes narrowed. "Not today," he whispered.
Waylon's legs pumped like pistons, carrying him deeper into the widening tunnel, the roar of pursuit thundering behind him like an avalanche of bone and fury. The cold wind brushing his face was no longer a subtle guide—it was a rushing current now, pressing against him, promising freedom just ahead. But the promise came with a price.
The chittering grew louder. Closer.
He glanced over his shoulder—and his breath hitched.
A wall of white lights shimmered in the dark like a moving constellation, undulating with the synchronized movement of countless legs. Ants. Dozens. Hundreds.
Their shrieks pierced the air like jagged steel, reverberating off the stone walls, filling his ears with a chorus of war and hunger. Each one of them bore that same pale crystal embedded in its skull. Each one came for him.
Waylon tightened his grip on the mantis blade, its curved edge slick with dark ichor. His other hand clenched around the glowing gem he'd taken from the first fallen scout—it pulsed faintly, no longer warm, but heavy, like a stone carved from guilt.
An ant lunged from a side crevice with no warning. He turned and slashed, the scythe-like blade carving a clean arc through its neck. Another pounced from behind, and Waylon spun, ducked low, and drove the blade into its underbelly. Blood sprayed, hot and black.
He was moving again before the body hit the ground.
[They just keep coming,] he thought, panting, sweat stinging his eyes. [No matter how many I kill—there's more.]
Another appeared from the ceiling this time, claws extended. Waylon leapt aside, rolling as it crashed into the stone, then turned and hacked down, splitting its skull like overripe fruit. Its legs twitched once—twice—then went still.
Three more darted from the shadows, flanking him. One slashed at his arm—he twisted, letting it graze him just enough to duck beneath its claw and sever its leg in response. The second snapped its mandibles inches from his throat, but he brought the blade up just in time, burying it between its eyes.
He moved like a machine, body guided by instinct sharpened through pain. The blade arced, cut, deflected, again and again. His heart pounded, lungs screamed, but he fought on—because stopping meant death.
And still they came.
From the ground, from above, from the sides—ants swarmed like a tide, filling every crevice, every tunnel, driven by some terrible collective will. The tunnel behind him was nearly filled with writhing, skittering bodies.
Waylon staggered back, feet slipping in the slick ichor of his latest kill. He raised the blade again, chest heaving. Muscles burned. Every inch of him ached. He swung low, cleaving through another insect's spine.
[It's just like the mantis,] he realized suddenly. [Even strong, even skilled—it was outnumbered. Overwhelmed. Torn apart.]
The memory flashed—jagged mandibles ripping the mantis's body to pieces, its limbs dragged in different directions as it shrieked and struggled in vain.
And now he was the one standing alone, surrounded by countless hungry enemies, the walls crawling with them, the air vibrating with their cries.
Waylon screamed as he brought the blade down on another ant, cleaving it in two. He stumbled backward, parrying another blow, spinning, slashing, dodging—but the swarm tightened.
His movements were slower now. Breaths shorter. Limbs heavier.
He cut down one. Two. Three.
But for each that fell, two more emerged. Lights filled the dark. Dozens more approaching from the far side of the tunnel, their glow like a rising moon across a battlefield.
Waylon gritted his teeth, mouth tasting of sweat and blood. "You're not taking me," he hissed, swinging wildly, defiant.
But the truth clawed at the edge of his mind.
He couldn't kill them all.
And with this in mind, Waylon ran, breathless, his chest heaving with each step as his legs tore across the stone floor of the tunnel. His lungs burned. His muscles screamed. His ears rang with the relentless chorus of chittering legs and shrieking cries that chased him through the darkness like a curse that would never relent.
The swarm behind him was a tide without end, their white crystal foreheads blinking like stars in a living sky. Every ant he killed only seemed to summon ten more. Their numbers were endless. Unstoppable.
And still—he ran.
The tunnel walls blurred past him, a smear of rock and shadow. His feet pounded the stone, slipping now and again in slick patches of blood—his or theirs, he didn't know. His arms were trembling from the endless swinging of his blade, coated in ichor that still dripped down his wrist. The pale gem he'd torn from the first scout ant pulsed in his grip, dull and warm, a grim reminder of why they were chasing him.
[Just keep going,] he told himself, jaw clenched, lips dry and cracked. [Don't stop. Don't fall. Don't die.]
He took a sharp turn, banking hard against the wall as he followed the subtle tug of air brushing against his skin. The pressure was growing stronger. The wind now whistled in the tunnel, kicking up dust and grit as it poured past him.
[That's it. It has to be close.]
Another ant burst from a crack in the wall beside him—he didn't look. He just swung, instinct guiding the motion. The mantis blade screamed through the air and tore through its skull in a single, practiced stroke. The creature dropped mid-leap, limbs twitching.
Waylon didn't slow.
The tunnel sloped upward now, rising sharply, forcing him to dig his heels in and drive himself forward. He was wheezing. Gasping. His vision blurred around the edges, the bright glow of his eyes flickering erratically as blood and sweat stung them.
Then—light.
Not the glow of crystals. Not bioluminescent fungi. But real, searing sunlight.
It poured down from a wide opening ahead, illuminating the tunnel in a golden wash. Waylon's heart leapt, and with one final, ragged cry, he threw his entire body forward.
He burst out of the tunnel like a bullet, breaking through into the open air. Blinding sunlight hit him like a hammer, forcing his eyes shut as he stumbled into the brightness. He tried to slow down but his body couldn't take it anymore—his legs gave out.
He tripped. Fell. Rolled across rough dirt and grass before coming to a stop on his back, gasping for air. His chest rose and fell in violent bursts, the mantis blade slipping from his hand, the pale crystal tumbling into the grass beside him.
Waylon opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the assault of the sun. It was midday. The sky was a radiant blue, filled with towering white clouds drifting lazily overhead. The air smelled clean—so clean—and warm. Birds chirped faintly in the distance. The world… was beautiful.
He turned his head—and the beauty shattered.
Behind him, erupting from the side of a massive, earthen hill, came the swarm.
A yawning hole in the side of the mound vomited forth hundreds of glowing white lights, each one embedded in the head of a monstrous ant. They poured from the opening like floodwaters, their claws tearing at the ground, their shrieks a chorus of death.
Waylon tried to scramble backward. His arms flailed behind him, his heels digging into the earth as he dragged himself away. But his body had nothing left. His strength was gone.
The ants drew closer.
Dozens of them reached the edge of the hole and began racing down the mound straight toward him. The sunlight caught their polished shells, making them shimmer like white-hot blades of obsidian. The ground trembled beneath their collective march.
Waylon whimpered, the sound dry and hollow. He stared up at them, eyes wide, unable to look away. [This is it. I made it out… just to die here.]
The closest ants opened their jaws wide, screeching in anticipation as they reached him.
Then—fire.
A roaring wave of flame tore through the air above Waylon, a blinding wall of red and gold that scorched the sky. It passed just inches over his body, the heat searing his skin and sucking the air from his lungs. The sound of it was deafening—like a dragon exhaling its fury.
The ants never reached him.
The fire struck them head-on, engulfing the front line instantly. They exploded into ash, their bodies disintegrating mid-stride. The next wave crashed into the wall of flame and met the same fate—creatures that had once hunted him without mercy were turned to dust in an instant.
Screeches of agony filled the air, then fell silent as the last of the swarm vanished into smoke.
Waylon lay there in stunned silence, eyes wide, mouth agape, his chest still heaving from exhaustion. The world had gone quiet again. The only thing that remained of the horde was a trail of smoking ash and blackened earth leading down the hill.
His body shook violently, muscles twitching beneath him. He turned slowly, the heat of the fire still lingering on his skin, and looked toward the source of the flame.
There—silhouetted against the sun—stood a figure.
Humanoid. Tall. Cloaked in long robes that fluttered in the wind, with a presence that made the air itself hum with tension. They stood a short distance away, arms folded across their chest, face hidden in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hood.
Waylon stared, trying to speak, but no words came.