Leaving Shadowreach for the Depths felt like peeling back a layer of grime to find another, more disgusting layer just beneath it. The squad–Sable, Warrick, Urgar, and their newest member, Mitch–trudged past the uninhabited outskirts of the city. While Shadowreach was dangerous, living without the safety of numbers was a deathwish.

Brilliant stars from the permanent night sky lit the muddy path beneath their feet. The glowing spires and distant candles of Shadowreach faded as they neared one of the main shafts leading below.

These shafts were ancient, their origins whispered to Mitch through half-forgotten memories. They descended through the cracked crust of the earth, diving straight down where the Abyss had once broken through generations ago, belching forth hellspawn.

A great maw of jagged metal loomed before them, and even before stepping inside, Mitch could feel the weight of the earth pressing down from all sides.

The rusted metal elevator shuddered to life. It creaking loudly as it descended. Bent beams groaned, and the grated floor felt uneven beneath Mitch’s boots. Chains rattled overhead, pulling them down, slow and heavy.

The starlight above vanished, replaced by sickly green glow from enchanted stones flickering weakly from the walls. Shadows leapt and twisted across burnt stone, the flickering light casting everything in sharp, jagged shapes. The air was damp, thick, and pressed from all sides.

No one spoke. Just the clank of metal and the groan of the cage.

Mitch’s nerves tensed with each jolt. But the deeper they went, the more familiar it all felt. It tugged at something within him. Like the darkness was calling.

Feels like coming home…

With a final bang of metal on rock, the elevator stopped, and the oppressive air of the Depths enveloped them. Tight rock corridors stretched out in every direction, barely wide enough for two to walk side by side.The only light came from small, dim glowstones embedded in the walls at irregular intervals, casting a pale greenish hue over everything. Shadows clung to the jagged surfaces like living things, making it hard to tell where the darkness ended and the rock began.

Everywhere, thralls toiled. Hollow eyes fixed on nothing as they followed various orders. Some hefted heavy bags into carts that moved on their own accord. Others chipped away at walls with relentless persistence, carving new tunnels into unknown directions. These weren’t people. Not anymore.

Just failing bodies forced to continue eternal work. Their bosses, hidden necromancers, managed them like machinery, and hid themselves away from prying eyes.

Sable scowled at the thralls with a look of pure contempt. “It’s disgusting,” she spat, her voice dripping with venom as she led the way down the corridor.

Mitch didn’t ask, but his memories allowed him to understand enough. As a Patchling, she was also a creation, but she had a will, and a mind.

It was well known, however, that Patchlings did not possess a soul. Their bodies, stitched together from so many parts, couldn’t anchor one. You couldn’t just force any old soul into a patchwork of flesh. It would tear itself apart.

Sable’s shoulders stiffened as they passed a thrall dragging a heavy sack. The dim green light caught the faintest twitch in her jaw, there and gone in a heartbeat. She didn’t look back.

A pang of empathy washed over Mitch as they wound through the narrow black-stone passages. To exist without a soul…what kind of existence was that?

Sable steered them towards the habitable part of the underground. The Front, where Abyssal monsters were forever beaten back by mercenaries, was not their target. A rotation of Crae's were there as a permanent fixture. Fighting until they had their fill of guts and money.

Grimmers lurked in the corners, barely visible as they scavenged in the shadows. In the glowstone's weak light, their eyes gleamed with wicked malice, scuttling like rats, their hunger more unhinged down here. Most of all, their gaze lingered on Mitch, watching him with unsettling intensity.

Without warning, a man appeared from the shadows, his face hidden beneath a tattered shroud. He blocked their path, his hand lifting to point straight at Mitch.

“Pay up, boy,” the ghastly voice demanded.

Collectors?! Down here too?

Mitch froze as pressure built in his chest. The Collector began his casting, and Mitch felt the souls inside him thrashing, fighting to stay anchored. They clawed at the walls of his core.

Sable moved faster than the Collector’s skill. Toward the man in the dim light, she flicked her hand.

Thin metal wires shot from her fingers, glinting in the green glow as they spiraled toward the Collector. In an instant, they wrapped around him, coiling like a serpent.

The Collector thrashed, his casting interrupted, as the wires bit into his flesh. His guttural scream pierced the air, but the wires only tightened, sinking deeper with each twist of Sable’s wrist. Blood flowed, staining his robes as the wires dug into muscle, then wrapped around bone.

Mitch stood frozen, breathless.

Is this what her Skill is? Holy shit.

He felt an odd mix of awe and discomfort watching her work. There was something ruthless and effortless about it, like she wasn’t even trying. She’s done this before. Too many times to count.

It wasn’t fear he felt—not quite. But her cold efficiency left him questioning just how far he’d have to go to keep up.

With a final twist, the wires sliced clean through, and the Collector crumpled to the ground in a heap of tissue and cloth.

Sable brushed her hands together, winked at him, and stepped over the remains. “Looked like you needed a hand,” she said as continued down the winding passageway.

Mitch opened his mouth to say something, but Urgar waved him off and tramped after their leader. “Spare the thanks, lad. Ain’t the first, and won’t be the last.”

Mitch exhaled, his chest tight. What the hell have I gotten myself into? These are the Skills that people can have?

Warrick, silent and stoic as usual, grunted behind him, deep voice echoing off the walls. “Move on. It’ll be worse as we get deeper.”

That’s it. I’ll just kill every Collector.

Dark humor filled him as he was left staring at the remains of the Collector. Mitch thought about the possibilities.

If I just get so strong that no Collector can face me, what happens with my Abyssal Debt? Agony’s Embrace permanently enhances my strength, and I also get stronger from having souls in my core…Just how strong do the Collectors get?

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

His team moved on without him. Mitch used Abyssal Vault to siphon off the flesh and soul. The Shadowshroud growled low in his mind, like a hungry pitbull tugging at its leash. He could feel its demand, its desire to feed.

Not now, he thought, pushing back against its urge. It huffed in frustration, but settled, waiting for its chance.

Soon, Mitch promised it.

Settlement Amount: 14(+1) Souls, 0 Credits, 1(+1) Flesh

The black tendril of the soul slotted into his core, along with the flesh. A hum of power radiated through his body from the gain. The mingling souls roared in approval, demanding more. Shaking the eerie feeling he just couldn’t get used to, Mitch continued on with his new squad.

Through the cramped corridors, Mitch sensed that eyes still watched. Veterans stared out from their small shops carved into stone. Citizens of the Depths avoided bodily contact with anyone with practiced ease, but he caught many side-eyed glances at him.

Extreme wariness filled the air as non-thralled miners slumped back to their pitch black dwellings after back breaking work.

Urgar broke the silence. “Can’t blame ‘em for staring. Not every day they see a fresh face walking down here.” His grin gleamed in the dim light. “Don’t worry, lad. They’ll like you better once they think you’ve survived a few days.”

Sable snorted. “That’s optimistic.”

Mitch grunted, shaking his head in fake bluster he wanted to project. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Warrick’s low rumble cut through. “Keep moving. The faster we’re out of sight, the less we tempt anyone stupid enough to try something.”

Finally, they approached a small inn carved into the stone, its doorway low and unassuming. A weathered wooden sign hung from the cave’s roof. They had arrived at the Carved Cave Inn.

Mitch felt the shift as soon as he slinked through the small wooden door after Warrick. The air here was different. A rough warmth compared to the cold, black corridors outside. The inn was carved into the jagged, dark rock of the Depths, but the walls told a story.

Hand-drawn sketches covered every surface, battles against the Abyss sketched in white-chalk lines. Crude, but powerful. Each stroke dedicated to the violence of the past, a reminder of what lurked beneath.

The murmurs inside were low but constant. Gruff miners with soot-streaked faces leaned over their drinks while cloaked figures slouched in corners. Despite the rough crowd, there was a strange sense of belonging here. The warmth wasn’t from traditional fire; instead, a perpetually burning face flickered from the fireplace with closed eyes.

The innkeeper behind the bar was a grizzled old man with a scarred face and gray ashen skin. As the group approached the bar, the man straightened up, wiping his hands on a stained cloth. Examining the newcomers, his gaze settled on Mitch, eyes widening with an odd recognition. The innkeeper’s mouth parted slightly, and he gave a subtle, respectful bow.

“Welcome,” he murmured, his tone cautious and eyes never left Mitch’s hair. Sable paid for their lodgings by transferring the man credits with a wave of her hand over the innkeepers, her expression impassive as ever.

Looking around the bar, Mitch noticed some older patrons stealing glances at him, their eyes lingering on his white hair. It seemed to draw attention like a beacon for some, even more than the giant sword strapped to his back.

He followed Urgar and Warrick further inside, stepping past clusters of scarred patrons huddled in conversation. The three men settled at a table with their drinks. Mitch drank a stout ale alongside Urgar, Warrick opted for a pink fruity liquor in a dainty glass. He decided not to comment on the large orc’s choice.

“Where’d Sable go?” Mitch asked the duo, noticing that their leader had disappeared.

Warrick snorted, taking a quick sip from his tiny cup. “Sable? She keeps to herself. Always has, always will.” He leaned in closer, entire fist wrapping around his glass. “And trust me, you’d be smart to let her. Girl’s got her own demons. Don’t think anything funny with that one.” The giant orc sipped his pink drink, smacking his lips at its taste. “Mmmm. Delicious.”

Urgar grinned, tossing back his own drink before leaning forward conspiratorially. “Aye, lad. Sable’s not one to cross. She’s good to have on your side in a fight, but beyond that, best to leave ‘er be.” He tapped his fingers on the table rhythmically, nervous energy leaving his body as he eyed the other patrons. “’Sides, don’t need to be pokin’ your nose in places it don’t belong, eh? Gotten me into more trouble than I care to tell,” Urgar gave him a wink to let him know he was mostly joking.

Mitch leaned back, letting the low murmur of voices and the clink of steel tankards wash over him. He had been a loner before being murdered and thrust into this new body. Sitting amongst a group, surrounded by the hardened types and the gritty hum of life in the Depths, he felt something unexpected settling over him–comfort.

The Depths were a far cry from the open sky and sprawl of Shadowreach, but somehow, in this cold, brutal place he felt like he could fit in. It was a place where he could lose himself in the chaos of battle and forge ahead, proving himself. A place where power mattered above all else.

Or so he hoped.

As Warrick and Urgar fell into their own conversation, Mitch excused himself and made his way to his room. The narrow hallway was almost too small for his shoulders, and the faint light cast by the glowstones flickered.

The door was low, forcing Mitch to duck as he stepped inside. It was a tight fit, barely wide enough for his shoulders to pass through. He pushed it open with a creak, the hinges groaning in protest. The sound reminded him of his friend now gone, Hathgar. Nothing dwarven made would ever creak.

The room was as small as the entrance, with no windows, just solid rock walls that seemed to press in from all sides. A single faint glowstone embedded in the ceiling cast a weak, ghostly light over the cramped space.

Mitch dropped his backpack to the floor. It held his only possessions: a canteen, an extra pair of black pants, and a shard of broken glass.

Here goes nothing.

On the small, lumpy bed, a folded piece of paper caught his eye. He crossed the room in a single step, and scooped it up. Unfolding the note, he read the message scrawled in the jagged script.

The old blood remembers, and will answer when called.

Mitch’s heart pounded, a chill running down his spine. He wasn’t sure who left the note or what it meant, but something about the message resonated deep within him. The Souls in his core pounded in his ears. Riled by the message, they awoke a part of him he hadn’t yet discovered.

As if on cue, a surge of cold power flowed through him, and the souls within him shifted, listening to him. A flicker of control bloomed in his chest, twisting, coiling, ready to spring forth and assert itself. The sensation settled deep inside him like a dark promise.

The notification hit, filling him in on what had just happened.

Affliction Skill Gained

Dominion of Shadows

Level 1

Exert control over lesser Abyssal beings. True obedience must be granted willingly.

Usage of this Skill may attract the attention of beings from the Abyss.

Mitch closed his eyes, focussing on the strange sensation. For a moment, he felt the weight of the Depths bearing down upon him. His very being demanded obedience from the shadows below, and if he was reading the skill correctly, those he influenced had to accept his leadership willingly for the best effect.

This wasn’t just strength; it was authority. An influence that made the Souls within him sit up with their backs straight, as if he called upon them to do his bidding.

Looks like the Souls within me have already accepted it…What am I becoming?

Sinking into his bed, Mitch ran his fingers over the words. The instinct and choices he made had led him here. To this moment. The Collectors would keep coming, and he had to do something, anything other than let them torture him with no retribution.

This, however, added something deeper. Connected to the strange memories and the power he now wielded. The Depths and his own gut had called him here, and he would answer.

As Mitch layed back on the bed, staring at the flickering glowstone above him, a grim determination settled over him.

He would no longer flinch from the Collectors. Tomorrow, he would fight harder, dive deeper, and uncover the secrets buried in the earth.

Time to get to work.

Mitch thought over everything that he had to do as he reached for a small item in his backpack. He pulled out the glass shard and stabbed his palm slowly, shooting tiny bumps of power into himself with Agony’s Embrace.

Kill the Collectors. Save the souls. Grow stronger. Find the knife. Unlock the door. End whoever started this.

But it wasn’t just about him anymore. Warrick and Urgar—rough as they were—had his back in a fight. And Sable? She’d already saved his life once. If he wanted to survive, it wasn’t enough to grow strong for himself. He’d need to keep them alive too.

His palm dripped blood onto the rough sheets as he planned. The Depths and the Abyss had much to teach, and he was ready to learn.