Pale light streamed from a crack in the ceiling. Its ghostly shine lit the cavern, painting Havoc’s shadow across the wall. Cross legged on a bloodstained mat Havoc paced his breaths and allowed the light from above to fill The Midnight Urn.

As he felt both his anchor and core reach capacity, a shiver crept down his spine. Before they had ever met face to ghastly face, Annalise had accommodated his needs. He was deep underground where light from the suns had no right of claim. Nevertheless, that woman had readied the one place within the dreary cave where its all-encompassing gloom was penetrated from above. His anchor craved the radiance of night. Against all reason, Annalise had made that possible.

‘If she becomes my enemy…’ Havoc mumbled under his breath.

Without knowing more, It’d be silly to underestimate her foresight, he thought. Even when absent, he would not reveal to her his intentions.

Opening his eye, he reached into a satchel at his side. Rummaging within, he pulled biscuits and preserved strips of meat from the bag and began to eat. The biscuits were dry. Before they could be consumed, he dipped them in a bowl of crumb filled water. If they ever had taste, it had surely soaked into the bowl. As he bit into the flavourless lumps, his mouth salivated at the thought of the scraps he and his sister had scavenged from the wanton bakeries and wasteful tea houses outside the boarders of the slums. Stale and grimy as they had often been, they were well worth the derisive stares, cast stones, and violent usherings away he and his sister could scarcely afford.

The meat was not much better. Even with his great strength, it was a challenge to chew. From its flavour to its texture, he unconvinced Annalise had not peeled a tempered leather boot for his subsistence. Even still, it was food, the only food he had come across since he entered the Chamber of Inherence. To his tongue’s protests, his stomach’s demands took precedence.

It had been one week since he located the shelter. Upon entering, he had collapsed on the ground. His harmony spent, his body exhausted, his mind fatigued from the endless strain of ever-present danger, he could not have willed himself from the hard surface. Sleep was quick to welcome him. His was a dreamless slumber. When he awoke, his core surged with his dualistic harmony and a full day had been spent.

Still wounded from his journey, he had summoned The Thirsty Edge and filled it with power. The crimson blade had flared that second day. Warmth flowed into his body, and his wounds were healed. But when the blade grew dull, thin cracks chipped its length.

He ventured out on day two, battling deeper into the cave. On his return, the cracks widened. The Thirsty Edge was breaking. Each use of its restorative powers widened its fractures. He knew it would not be long before the blade would disintegrate

He was already sparing in its use. Though his reserves harmony dwarfed that of his previous condition, the blade was still costly. Learning of its perishability, he reserved healing for only the most dire afflictions. Having spent the previous six days exploring the cave, discovering new and terrible threats, the most dire afflictions were not as uncommon as he had anticipated.

His hand returned to the satchel to retrieve a stack of papers. Spreading them in front, he leafed through the pages before taking one and sliding the other papers to the side. Unfolding the page, he unravelled a map. With a pencil, he added marking to the sketch.

Though he referred to it simply as a cave, in truth, it was a labyrinth. From his place of safety, the cave spiralled out in every direction. A stark contrast to the narrow passage leading to small chambers he encountered before. Broad pathways stretching towards vast expanses was the true nature of his setting. He had remained underground, but it was no less vast than the domed heavens above.

In the days spent exploring, he had trekked several paths. Unable to traverse any path to its end and return the same day, the segments he explored deeply impressed upon him the enormity of his task.

Annalise had not lied when she told him he had been at the entrance. She had also spoken truthfully when she said he was weak. Though he was sure he had reached the second step, he was equally sure it was not sufficient…

His power had grown significantly. When facing a slasher-spawn, he was now able to match its strength without use of his anchor. Their raw brutality was their only boast, with that advantage neutralised, many had felt the cut of his blade long before they had the chance to cry out. The green, yellow, or sometimes, red-skinned scratchers, were more of a nuisance than a threat. Their danger lay in their numbers. Havoc had wandered into a nest of dozens. He did not leave unharmed, but he left all the same without sparing a single monster in his departure. If they were the only creatures of the cave, he would not be concerned. Though they should have been only monsters he would need to face within the Cell, his destiny had been changed, and his challenges alongside.

There were real monsters deeper within. Demons from which he could only run. Along one path, he encountered a stone giant. Composed of boulders stacked one atop another, the creature loomed with a man-like shape. It wore no armour and carried no weapon, for the living mountain was a fortress unto itself. Each step it took sent tremors through the ground, imprinting the stone beneath with the sheer force of its stride. Lashing out with all his strength, Havoc was not able to scratch its impenetrable surface. With a single swipe of the giant’s hand, he was hurled towards oblivion. Straining to heal Havoc, the Thirsty Edge teetered on the brink of annihilation. An “x” carved into his map marked the dwellings of that creature. He would not venture that path again.

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No path was without danger, but safety had long become relative for Havoc. Trails terminating upon the insurmountable were crossed from the map. Of those, there were a few. Directions merely crossing the terrible were dotted with crudely drawn skulls, and the tunnels leading to weaker grotesqueries were boarded with a ring. They were his hunting grounds. In such spaces, he would slaughter monsters, devour the glow of their remains, and grow in might.

At the start, his gains were significant. His core had expanded at a monstrous pace. But having taken the second step of his servant Inheritance, his growth began to plateau. Tracing a trail on his map, his finger settled on more hazardous terrain.

I don’t have a choice, he resolved, his stomach churning at the thought.

An abomination stalked the grounds. He had encountered it once and wished to never do so again. Abominations were insane, but theirs was a lucid mania. Distinct from the spawn of the Dungeon created from the dispersed spirits of the fallen mingled with malice, abominations had a soul. Twisted, broken, but sentient nonetheless. As Annalise had phrased it, even in death, none could escape the Dungeon...

They had been people once. Not human—at least not necessarily. Nevertheless, they had lives of their own. They hoped and prayed, dreamed and wondered. Desecrating their prayers, the Dungeon stole their dreams and exchanged them for madness. Their hopes contorted into envy, and their wonder was displaced by rage. They were monsters of the most dangerous sort. The kind which could delight in their monstrosity.

The White Temptress had taken true pleasure in her cruelty. From neck to waist, she took the form of a woman, while her lower half was that of a serpent. Her hands were feminine, her fingers, delicate, yet they ended in claws. Viciously sharp, bone white, the Temptress had screeched a detestable laugh as she sliced Havoc’s back during his retreat. She was large. Tangled within her own tail, her true length could not be determined, but Havoc suspected if the creature could stand, she could not be contained within any level of the cave. Most distressingly, the Temptress was alluring. With her forked tongue and her rows of needle-like teeth, she could not be said to be beautiful. Yet, there was a charm to the serpent. When she had first set her sights on him—speaking her name into his mind— by dint of will alone was he able to duck beneath the deadly lash of her tail.

‘Worrying about it won’t help,’ he whispered. It had to be done. Returning the map and his papers to his satchel, he stood to leave the chamber.

***

A viscous, emerald orb hurtled towards Havoc. He rolled from its path. Faintly registering the hiss of acid melting rock, he returned swiftly to his feet and charged his assailant. It would take time for the scaly bastard to do that again. Corrosive as it was, he had killed his way though enough of the fiends to know their limitations. Thirty seconds. It was all the time he had, but more than he needed. Blade in hand, he closed in on the armoured toad. Its scales were hard, but it could not withstand the cut of his blade. Not with the force he could now exert. The spawn’s lined eyes widened at Havoc’s approach, and it leaped. Its feat as impressive as it was futile, when the overgrown amphibian cast its shadow over him, he darted upwards to meet it. Its underside unguarded, The Thirsty edge melted though its gelatinous stomach, bathing Havoc in its putrid contents.

Not as dreadful as death nor as pleasant as a punch to the face. That is how he summarised his, roughly, three hour journey deeper into the cave. Downwards, he went. Winding trails, steep landings, and precarious climbs across treacherous cliffs marked his progress. Where he went, novel dangers waited. Whether it was named before, Havoc had dubbed his most recent location as The Marshland Cavern.

From where the water sprang, he could not tell, but every depression pressed into the stone ground housed a puddle. Every pit held a pond, and in the craters were lakes. Some clear, crystal. Mercifully refreshing. Others were browned and reeking a foul odour. It was to one such pond that Havoc approached.

Cupping his hands into the muddied waters, he washed himself as best he could. It was far from cleansing, but mire was to be preferred over the mucilaginous discharge of the toad’s ruptured gut. Like a thing birthed from a swamp, he was drenched in muck. His eyes darted to a clear lake nearby. It was tempting, but he had learned to only risk those waters when dehydration demanded. He was not the only being to grow thirsty in the Marshland…

Returning to the glowing remains of his kill, he sat and absorbed its light. It provided more substance than the little he could draw from the scratchers and slashers, but by inches not feet. Still, for what lay ahead, he would take what was offered with gratitude.

‘It won’t be easy…’ He muttered under his breath. His nails dug into his palm. He pressed the tight ball of his hand into his lap. With his other hand, he covered his face and sighed.

Killing The White Temptress would be his greatest challenge yet. She was powerful, for certain, but Havoc had grown confident in his abilities. Her true danger hid beneath her charm. She had made him hesitate. In a battle to the death, there was no room for such luxuries. The cost was too steep; he was not willing to pay.

‘Her hold on the mind isn’t absolute… Maybe…’ His voice trailed. The cold, wet and filth carried with it stark reality. It had seeped though his skin, entered his blood and muddied his mind. Barely surviving his first encounter with the abomination, he could not help but curse the delusion that made him believe he would emerge victorious. Narrowly escaping a single blow before fleeing to safety was vastly different to slaying a beast able to halt his every move. She was the perfect counter to his heritage. It would not help to anticipate an attack he was unable to avoid.

‘Madness! Complete madness!’ His grip tightened across his face. ‘What choice do I have?’

The cave spread in many directions, but only three led towards the Spirit. One was guarded by the stone giant. It was impassable. The second, hordes beyond numbering. From his high place, he witnessed their legions. It did not matter how far he had come. Confronted by such numbers, he could only turn back. The White Temptress guarded the final passage…

There was no way around, only through.

Cross-legged, he sat. Chest expanding, chest contracting, he focused on his breaths. They wooshed a precious sound. He counted them wondering how many he had left. No longer were they a function, they were a resource. A limited one. So enraptured by their fluttering tune, he had nearly missed the accompanying beat.

He pulled open his eyes and followed the sound. It was distant but unmistakable among the stone horizon. Drawing closer and closer a bird thrashed its wings,. Summoning the Thirsty Edge, he raised his stance, but as the many eyes of the bird came into focus, his alarm turned to confusion. When his sight settled on the sack held between the owl’s talons. that confusion became bewilderment.