It could have been days, months—time lost meaning in this place where shadows stretched long and whispered secrets from walls carved by hands unknown. Robin’s beard had thickened, each untrimmed strand an unspoken testimony to time slipping by in the dark, the dungeon’s silence swallowing him whole. They had hunted Hundsteins, carved through dang-goras, scavenged whatever the dank stone halls would offer. Survival became a rhythm, a pattern as relentless as the drip of water from unseen cracks. Each footstep blurred into the next, the path always dim, always shifting, always unknown.
“Be careful now, human!” Minona's voice drifted down, half-mocking, nestled in the tangled mess of his hair. “Last time you let things get this quiet, we nearly got turned into dinner.” Her tone was light, too light for what lurked in the silence around them.
Robin moved cautiously, muscles tense under the weight of her words, but the quiet pressed down on him like a shroud. Shadows twisted on the jagged walls as Minona’s faint glow flickered above. They passed deeper still, each step careful, calculated, the air heavy with something unseen. The cave opened suddenly, the walls peeling away to reveal a cavern vast and sprawling. Uneven terraces stretched downward, the stone worn and ancient, marked by time and water that once flowed through, now long gone. It was a place that remembered, even if Robin didn’t want to.
But he did remember—he remembered the last time it had been this quiet.
“It’s not my fault for wanting a little peace,” Robin muttered, voice low but defensive, his eyes scanning the shadows for movement that wasn’t there, as if the dungeon itself had ears. “In fact, you should be thanking me for how quick we escaped.”
“Escape?” Minona scoffed, her tone dripping with scorn from her perch atop his head, the soft hum of her light mocking him. “You gain power from slaying Hundsteins and yet you talk of running?”
“I killed one on the way out, didn’t I?” Robin shot back, his voice rising in frustration. “Guerilla warfare isn’t simple, you know!”
Minona’s hum deepened, a spark of curiosity lighting in her voice. “Guerilla, is that what you call it?” Her interest flickered like her glow, mischief sliding back into her tone, playful, prying. “The battle techniques of your world are quite fascinating… go on then, tell me.”
The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of wet earth, as though the dungeon itself had exhaled a breath long held beneath the surface. Moss clung to the slick stones, the loose gravel shifting treacherously beneath his feet with each careful step. Even the nimblest of assassins would falter here, Robin thought, his breath filling his lungs with that musty, almost decayed scent. His muscles tensed as he felt the shifting rocks underfoot, his body hyper-aware of the sharp edges that lined every path, the jagged drops waiting with a quiet, patient malice.
The faint drip of water echoed through the cavern, a steady rhythm that blended with the distant moan of the wind snaking its way through the dark, hollow places of the dungeon. That sound, the lonely echo, stretched across the stones like a ghost's cry—until it was interrupted, sharply, a crack in the stillness by a closer, more immediate sound. Low, feral, a hiss that crawled up his spine.
“Tell you what?”
Robin stopped. For a moment, he thought perhaps it was only the wind shifting again, twisting itself into new shapes, but the sound was wrong—too alive, too hungry.
Minona, nestled in his hair, grew quiet, the air between them thickening as though even she had sensed the shift. She floated upward, silent as a shadow, eyes narrowing. The dang-goras he’d seen before, the ones that churned the earth with their strange roots and bulbous forms, unsettling as they were, could never have made that sound. No, they were prey—he realized now—something else, something far more dangerous, ruled this dark place.
“…Nevermind—” Minona’s voice came, thin and sharp as a knife's edge. She darted suddenly away, urgency dripping from her every movement. “Above!” she warned, her voice distant, the glow of her light shrinking as she flew further, faster, away from him.
And that’s when he saw it.
Above him, in the shadowed heights of the cavern, something moved—a flash of scales caught in the dim light, just as Minona's warning came. Robin’s eyes followed the movement, catching the dark, coiled form clinging to the jagged stalactite like a predator poised to strike. It was too late to react, not in the way he'd hoped. His body tensed, legs locked, rooted in place, as he watched the creature spring forth, uncoiling in a single fluid motion. It hurtled toward him, jaws wide, fangs glistening in the low light. For a moment, Robin thought it was just an oversized snake, some twisted creature from the dark places beneath the earth. But then its wings—leathery, vast—unfurled, a grotesque elegance that seemed to mock the air as it held itself aloft, hovering for just a moment before dropping lower, closer.
This was no mere serpent, no simple beast. This was something else, something that owned the air it moved through, the ground it hunted on. Robin’s pulse pounded in his ears, the thrum of it mingling with the distant drip of water and the creature’s low hiss, the sound of its breath slithering out between sharp, jagged teeth.
And its eyes—cold, calculating—locked onto his, as if marking him, reading the weight of his every movement. It didn’t just want to kill him. It wanted to break him, to devour him whole, piece by piece, with no more mercy than a wolf stalking a wounded deer. His feet stayed planted, his muscles tight and ready, yet inside, he felt the fear twisting, coiling in his gut.
This thing, this winged serpent, held all the power of the skies and the earth, and it knew it.
"What the hell is this thing? Snake? Venomous?" Robin's voice edged with the strain of readiness, eyes never leaving the creature.
"Omitaid!" Minona’s voice, quick, sharp, like a blade cutting through his panic, "Natterwing. No venom—an attack!"
No sooner had the words left her than the thing moved again, its body twisting through the air with unnatural speed, its long form curving in a sudden, violent somersault. Robin’s breath caught as the creature used its momentum, turning that grotesque body into a weapon—an enormous whip that came crashing down, aimed squarely at him. There was no time to think, no plan or tactic, just instinct. His body moved on its own, muscles tightening, reacting, pulling him just out of reach as the thing smashed into the ground, sending a cloud of dust and debris spiraling into the air. He barely registered how close he’d come to death until he saw the crater left where he’d stood only moments before.
The absurdity hit him then—the sheer madness of it all, the way this beast toyed with him, moving through the air like some executioner waiting for the right stroke. But there wasn’t time to dwell on it, not with the danger so immediate, not with the creature looming, preparing for another strike. His hand found the dagger at his side, the familiar weight of it steadying him, a small comfort in a world that had long since abandoned any semblance of reason. He twirled it once, twice, before crouching low, eyes narrowed, waiting for the next move. This thing, whatever it was, meant to kill him.
“Use this dust bomb!” Minona's voice, sharp with urgency, cut through the chaos as she tossed him the dust-compacted sphere. Robin grabbed it without hesitation, hurling the thing with all the strength he could muster, aiming to blind the creature, to clog its vision and scent with that thick cloud of dust. For a moment, it worked. The serpent reeled back, its massive wings folding defensively over its head, shielding its eyes. Dust hung heavy in the air, obscuring everything around them.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
But then, in a sickening instant of realization, Robin saw it. The Natterwing wasn’t just a brute—it could think. The creature flapped its wings with brutal force, dispersing the dust in wild gusts, clearing its sight like it had learned this trick before.
“Please, please don’t tell me this one’s actually smart!” Robin’s voice cracked, frustration edging into something close to panic.
“Maybe it knows wings aren’t just for show,” Minona shot back, her voice too playful for the situation. “Unlike that ridiculous hair.”
“It’s a beard!” Robin snapped, desperation leaking through the bravado. “A beard! I’m a man, and men have beards!”
“Watch out—”
Before Minona could finish, the creature was upon him again, its fangs bared, jaws snapping with savage precision. There was no time for banter, no moment to breathe, as the Natterwing came at him with relentless speed. Its body, massive and sinewy, moved with a speed that shouldn’t belong to something that size, each attack quicker than the last, a blur of muscle and scales. Even the stalagmites, once solid, crumbled under the onslaught, shattered by the force of the serpent’s strikes.
Robin’s heart hammered against his ribs. He dodged, barely, each move scraping him closer to death. His legs burned, his breath came ragged, and the realization crept in—this thing wasn’t just strong, it was fast, faster than he could keep up with. And worse, it was smart enough to focus solely on him, ignoring the floating light that was Minona entirely. It was a fight that had no end, a fight of endurance, the kind he despised.
He wasn’t going to last.
“It’s become pretty clear, this snake doesn’t give a damn about you, Minona!” Robin’s voice cut through the air, as sharp as the situation demanded.
“Huh, what are you getting at?” she huffed, her light flickering with irritation.
Boastful, always boastful, and Robin knew how to play her like a fiddle. “A light ball isn’t exactly a feast for something that hungry.” His words hung in the air, taunting.
Minona’s light dimmed, just a flicker, but it carried the weight of her simmering pride. “Now, now,” she seethed, “I can’t accept that. That’s offensive.”
Perfect. That was the crack Robin needed. “Good,” he said, barely containing a grin. “Then let’s show it just how wrong it is. I need you to unleash your fury—no holding back. Make it as hot as you can, Minona.”
“My flaming wisps? That’s all you need?” Her voice was tinged with a hint of surprise, but she didn’t hesitate. Ten blazing spheres ignited around her, flickering with violent intent. “When do I drop them?”
“Perfect.” Robin drew his dagger, the weight of it familiar but almost insignificant against the behemoth before them. “I’ll keep it occupied.”
“Huh? Where do you think you’re going, human? Hey!” Her words trailed off as Robin dashed toward the beast.
The Natterwing had recovered, coiling its massive body, jaws wide open, a lunge ready. Robin charged, heart pounding, already anticipating the serpent’s crushing force. Its clumsiness was evident, the fangs that snapped at him missing more often than not, but its bulk, its sheer mass, caused destruction in its wake. Each failed lunge obliterated rocks and stalagmites, turning his cover to dust, but that same dust clouded the air—cover Robin could use.
The serpent’s scales gleamed, each one a shield against the debris and shrapnel its own fury created. Robin’s dagger was a mere pinprick compared to the gaping maw, the razor-sharp fangs that threatened to tear him apart. The Natterwing’s hunger drove it, a relentless force, all instinct and malice, hunting its prey with the fury of something starved of living flesh.
Robin bolted from rock to rock, the serpent’s relentless pursuit turning him into little more than desperate prey. There was no opening, no break in the onslaught of fangs and scales, of wings that battered the air and body that smashed the earth. He’d faced humans stronger than him before, ones that wanted his head on a spike, but never a flying serpent that seemed to defy nature itself.
The dust swirled thick around him, clogging the air, filling his lungs, but his overgrown hair and tangled beard filtered the worst of it. He used it, as he always did, waiting, calculating. The Natterwing’s bulk moved with too much force, too much wild energy—leaving blind spots. And Robin seized one, striking from beneath, his dagger finding its way into the thick scales, plunging into what he hoped was the serpent’s throat.
But the blade didn’t sink deep enough. The beast let out a shriek, thrashing violently, sending Robin flying into a pile of debris. Pain shot through his body, his ribs screaming as he crashed against the rocks. He cursed under his breath, clutching his side.
“Damn it,” he growled, spitting blood, “should’ve learned more about snake anatomy.”
“Hey, human! Still breathing?” There was something in Minona’s voice—a flicker of concern, almost unfamiliar to both of them.
“Minona, now!” Robin barked, urgency tightening his throat, blood and desperation mingling in his words.
Without hesitation, she descended like a meteor, her blazing wisps trailing behind her in a burning arc. The incendiary orbs, glowing with volatile fury, latched onto the Natterwing’s wings, igniting its feathery expanse in a savage blaze. The flames, hungry and unforgiving, consumed the creature with a vengeance. The serpent screeched, a terrible sound that echoed through the cavern, its body thrashing wildly in a desperate attempt to escape the fire eating away at its flesh.
“It’s running!” Minona shouted, her voice laced with both alarm and the faintest hope that this might finally end.
The Natterwing’s massive form twisted and coiled, trying to retreat, trying to flee the hellfire that Robin and Minona had unleashed upon it. For a moment, victory seemed tangible—close enough to touch, close enough to believe. The burning serpent, once so mighty, was now writhing in agony, its wings no longer a symbol of power but of downfall, melting under the assault.
“Not for long!” Robin growled, his voice ironclad with resolve, the fire of battle burning as fierce inside him as it did on the Natterwing’s wings.
With the tide turning, his dagger felt lighter in his grip, his body moving not from instinct but from purpose. The predator had become the prey, and Robin—battered, bruised, but unbroken—wasn’t about to let it slip away.
With every ounce of grit and desperation surging through his veins, Robin lunged. His dagger, worn and battered like him, found its way into the serpent’s thick, armored scales. The Natterwing bucked, its body twisting in frantic waves, wings shredded and charred, but still moving, still fighting for life. Robin felt the blade wedge deep, stuck in the thick hide, refusing to budge, and for a moment, doubt flashed through him. He had failed, he was sure of it, failed to strike where it mattered most.
The serpent’s body flailed beneath him, each wild thrash threatening to fling him off, to send him crashing into the jagged debris, to end him right here. Robin’s grip slipped, the dagger locked in flesh, his fingers numb from the shock of the impact, but he refused to let go. He slammed his fist into the beast’s eye, once, twice—anything to keep it still, anything to stop its thrashing. The creature screamed in agony, a sound so primal it nearly drowned out Robin’s own pain.
For a brief, terrifying second, the serpent’s strength almost won, its desperate wriggling threatening to hurl Robin to the cold, hard ground, but he hammered down with all he had left. His fist met the eye again, and this time, he felt the soft give of something vital rupturing beneath the weight of his blow. The beast's thrashing slowed, its massive body convulsing, and Robin yanked his dagger free, gasping, heart pounding like a drum in his chest.
He stood before it, muscles aching, lungs burning, blood smeared on his face and arms—some of it his, most of it the serpent’s. The Natterwing was dying now, its once-fearsome wings hanging limp and useless, its monstrous strength all but spent. With what remained of his power, Robin raised the dagger and plunged it down, hard and fast, into the creature’s heart, or where he imagined its heart lay, praying that it would be enough.
The blade sank deep. Too deep. He knew it then—this was the final strike. The Natterwing’s body seized, a pitiful hiss slipping from its maw as it collapsed in a heap, like a tree felled by a storm. Purple blood gushed, the ground beneath Robin’s feet soaked in the serpent’s death, the air heavy with the scent of burning feathers and the bitter tang of the dungeon.
Breathing ragged, Robin staggered back, his body shaking, bruised, broken, and yet somehow still standing. Victory, hollow and bitter, settled into his bones. He looked down at the fallen beast, at the destruction they had wrought upon one another, and for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure if the cost had been worth it.
“I…” His breath came in shuddering gulps, each word laced with the exhaustion of survival, “I should have run… should’ve escaped….” But he hadn’t. He had stayed, and now he was left to reckon with the choices that kept him standing.