The air was thick with damp rot—the kind that clung to skin, that sank into bone. And beneath it, something sweeter.
Decay.
Reich breathed through his nose. Slow and measured.
His bare feet pressed against warped wood, slick with moisture. The floor was uneven—full of splintered planks and unseen drops.
He stayed still.
The silence was a lie.
A low vibration thrummed through the wood beneath him, barely perceptible. But there. A presence.
Something was coming.
His eyes traced faint slivers of light leaking through cracks in the walls. Not enough to see—only to hint at movement.
Shadows stretched. Then twisted unnaturally.
Reich moved.
Each step calculated. Silent. His fingers brushed the wall—rough stone, ancient and undisturbed.
Then—metal.
A rusted iron rod, embedded in the stone. Fixed. A direction.
He followed it.
A stairway emerged, spiralling downward. Deeper.
The air changed.
Colder. Heavier. The weight of something unseen pressed against him, neither wind nor presence—but a pressure that filled the space between his ribs.
Then—the first sound.
A scratch.
Soft and faint.
Then another.
Chitin against stone. Rhythmic. Patient.
Reich swallowed. His hand twitched toward his chest—a useless reflex, as if he could still his own pulse.
The scratching grew louder. Closer.
Then—it stopped.
His breath caught.
Silence. Not emptiness. Something worse.
The kind that came when something was listening.
A click.
Low and guttural.
Reich felt it more than he heard it—a vibration in his bones, curling deep in his ribs.
Another click.
Closer.
The scent of something wet, something rotting, seeped into the air.
He moved.
Two steps at a time, feet barely touching the stone, breath caged in his throat.
The bottom came too fast. He stumbled, catching himself—knees jarring against cold stone.
His hand brushed metal.
A hilt.
Rust coiled around his fingers. The blade, half-buried in dust and time. He gripped it anyway.
The clicking returned.
Not one. Many.
The wet scrape of legs in the dark.
Reich turned. Slow. Deliberate.
He already knew what he would see.
The first spider stepped into the light.
Its legs moved with eerie precision, black glass gleaming under the faint glow from the cracks above. Too still. Too patient.
Not a predator in pursuit.
And it wasn't alone.
More shapes peeled from the darkness. Eight glowing eyes locked onto him in unnatural synchronization.
But they weren't attacking.
They were waiting.
For something else.
A vibration rolled through the floor.
Deep and measured.
Like the toll of a distant bell.
Reich's jaw clenched.
The spiders weren't waiting for him.
They were waiting for something bigger.
The air rippled.
The vibration came again. Heavier. Pressing into his skin.
Then—the hiss.
Low and wet. Rolling from the shadows like a breath drawn from lungs too large to exist.
The spiders stepped aside.
The thing moved.
At first, Reich's mind rejected what he saw.
The shape was too large, warping at the edges like it didn't belong here.
Its form flickered, as if reality itself was trying to erase it.
Its carapace shone wet with thick, viscous fluids, heat radiating from its body despite the cold pressing from the walls.
The clicking grew louder.
It wasn't just moving.
It was watching.
The weight of its gaze pinned him in place.
Reich had seconds.
The dais at the far end of the room was his only high ground, but the creature was already shifting.
He moved.
It didn't charge.
It didn't have to.
It was studying him. Calculating.
A predator that already knew it had won.
His grip on the sword turned white-knuckled, rust flaking away like dead skin.
The spiders remained still. Their glowing eyes locked onto him, not with mindless hunger, but with something worse—understanding.
He wasn't just prey.
He was being observed.
Watched.
Judged.
The creature moved—not forward, but around him.
Circling.
The floor beneath trembled. Each step, a low, resonating pulse, a hum that crawled up his bare feet like sickness.
Something bigger stirred beneath them.
The walls felt closer. The air thicker.
Reich's mind raced.
The stairs were too far. The room was too small. The creature was too fast.
His only advantage was the dais. If he could reach it, he'd have a moment to think.
But the creature would follow. Would corner him.
There was no escape.
Only the fight.
His grip on the rusted sword tightened. The metal was too light. Too weak. A weapon in name alone.
Not enough.
The creature sensed his shift in stance. Its mandibles twitched, head tilting at an unnatural angle.
As though amused.
Then—it lunged.
Reich moved.
Too slow.
The impact came like a hammer to his ribs. It hurled him back—breath stolen, body weightless.
Pain. Immediate. Raw. Too much.
But it was also power.
A fire burned in his chest. Hot. Consuming.
Berserk activated.
He pulled himself up. Gasping.
His body already knitting itself back together.
The creature watched him.
Waited.
Not mindless. Not animalistic.
It was really studying him.
Reich swallowed, heart hammering. He had to take control of the fight.
A thought formed—not a plan, not something practiced. Just instinct.
Let it hit you.
But just enough.
Berserk grew stronger with every hit. But pain was still pain.
He shifted his stance, forcing his body to stay loose, to roll with the next attack instead of bracing against it.
The creature moved.
Reich stepped into the attack, trying to angle himself so the blow barely clipped him.
He moved with the strike, but too late—miscalculated the weight, the angle, the force. The impact smashed into his shoulder, a shockwave of pain exploding through his ribs. His body twisted, airborne for a heartbeat before crashing against the dais. His arm snapped, useless.
For a moment, the world blurred red.
The creature didn't rush him. It was waiting. Watching.
And then—it tilted its head.
As if it understood what Reich was trying to do.
As if it found him… amusing.
Reich sucked in a breath, forcing himself upright. His arm snapped back into place before he even had time to feel it break.
He wasn't good at this yet.
But he could keep trying.
The pain faded, and the fire in his chest grew.
The creature lunged again.
This time, he didn't try to dodge outright.
This time, he let it hit—just barely.
The glancing strike sent a shockwave of pain through him, but it was manageable.
And Berserk grew stronger.
His grip on the sword tightened.
The creature lounged at him again.
Reich met it head-on.
He wouldn't get it right this fight. Maybe not the next one, either.
But maybe one day, he would.
The creature struck again.
The impact sent a jolt of pain through his ribs, not enough to break them, but enough to make him stagger. Enough to make Berserk surge.
His sword lashed out—fast and instinctive. The rusted blade scraped across chitin, barely leaving a mark. Not deep enough. Not strong enough.
The creature didn't recoil. It didn't even flinch.
It simply tilted its head again.
Amused.
Reich's breath came sharp and ragged, the fire in his chest burning hotter. Stronger. But still not enough.
The spiders around them shifted.
Reich lunged, sword flashing in the dim light. The creature twisted its body, not dodging—redirecting. His blade scraped harmlessly across its side again, the movement so precise it felt effortless.
It's adapting.
Reich's stomach twisted. The thing was learning.
And it was doing so faster than he was.
It retaliated. A limb snapped forward, and Reich raised his buckler still a bit too slow.
The impact sent him skidding backward, his vision whiting out from the force. His shoulder screamed as he hit the stone, but before the pain could fully register—his body repaired itself.
Instant. Perfect.
Berserk flared, igniting his veins with power.
But it wasn't enough if he couldn't land a hit.
He forced himself up.
The creature's movements were still too controlled, too smooth.
It wasn't just fighting him. It was testing him.
Studying how he moved. How he reacted.
It wasn't out of survival. It was something else.
The spiders weren't just watching. They were judging.
The creature wasn't just fighting. It was training.
Not him. Itself.
Reich wasn't the only one learning here.
Reich's gut twisted, the weight of understanding hitting harder than any blow.
He wasn't the test. He was the threshold.
A measurement. A number. Something to be surpassed.
The creature wasn't trying to win. It was trying to improve.
The next attack came faster than the last.
Reich gritted his teeth.
Glancing hit. Take the pain. Make it count.
The strike clipped him again—a sharp explosion of pain, a warning, a lesson.
For a heartbeat, his body screamed at him to stop. To step back. To protect itself. To run.
But Invulnerability denied him weakness.
Berserk denied him choice.
He twisted, sword flashing up.
This time, it landed.
Not deep. Not enough to kill.
But enough to make the creature recoil.
Enough to make it acknowledge him.
The wound hissed as thick black ichor oozed onto the floor.
The creature went still.
For a moment, so did Reich.
The air between them shifted.
The spiders moved closer.
Their eyes glowed like dying embers in the dark.
Then—the creature did something it hadn't done before.
It lowered its body.
Reich's breath caught.
It was changing.
Reich felt it before he saw it.
A shift in the air.
The limbs didn't just lengthen—they peeled apart, flesh splitting open like unfolding petals, revealing something sharper beneath.
Tendons reknit, muscles realigned, a body sculpting itself into something better, something stronger.
Each shift came with a wet, sickening crack, like bone snapping in reverse.
Its stance dropped even more, not wild, not reckless. Calculated and precise.
Reich's stomach twisted.
The spiders chittered.
Excited.