Far from the bizarre pair, in a cavern that felt more like a grave than a space meant for living things, the air was thicker, colder. The stone above was so high and so distant that it swallowed sound, the darkness a ceiling of silence. Walls, smooth where water had once carved its path, bled into jagged rock teeth that gnawed at the ground, a floor uneven, made to trip, to tear, to kill. The only music here was the slow, steady drip of water, like the ticking of a clock that had long since stopped caring.

"Cross Slash Attack!"

The shout came swift, cutting through the gloom, followed by the clash of steel and the guttural roar of something too large, too fierce to care about pain. Wounds opened across its massive frame—gashes that would have felled any lesser beast. But this one, this bull-headed titan, was something else. Kneeling now, blood dripping like a sacrament from its battered limbs, it did not bend in defeat. Its eyes, red and fierce, still burned with the fire of something more dangerous than rage—a will that would not break, even as exhaustion threatened to claim it.

The beast, hulking and enormous, swung its axe wildly, desperate to connect with the swift figure that danced just beyond its reach. Its broad chest heaved with labored breaths, muscles rippling beneath its bloodied hide. And still, despite the torn flesh, despite the agony that would have driven any other creature mad, it endured, as if the pain had become part of its very being. The axe, heavy and chipped, rose and fell, each swing more erratic than the last, yet there was something in the way it watched, in the way its eyes never left the blood-stained dagger of the man before it.

It was not just fury. No, behind the brute strength and the maddened slashing, there was something sharp, something patient. It could have turned, could have fled into the safety of the dark, but the bull-like creature stayed, forced its broken body to rise once more. It waited. Waited for the moment when the man would make a mistake, when he would come too close. Then, and only then, would the creature strike, and strike true.

"This ends now!"

The man lunged, swift as a shadow, his dagger flashing in the dim light, cutting through the heavy air toward its mark. His steps were quick, unpredictable, the kind of speed that had kept him alive until now. But no speed could outmatch the inevitability of the beast before him. The bull-headed giant, kneeling and bloodied, still held strength in its waiting, a silent predator behind the mask of a battered victim. It watched, patient, unmoving, as the man closed in, as the blade found its chest—flesh tearing, blood spilling, but it did not flinch. It did not retreat. Instead, it waited for that perfect moment when the man, for the briefest second, thought he had won.

And that was when the creature's massive hands, hands as large as the head they now sought, struck with the force of a mountain falling. The dagger, buried in its chest, was a small price to pay. A wound, yes, but nothing compared to the satisfaction that filled its being as it closed its grip around the man's skull. The pressure began slowly, almost tenderly, as if it were holding something fragile. Then came the squeeze, and with it the wet, sickening crunch of bone and flesh collapsing, the man's final, silent scream lost in the sudden spray of blood, fragments of his skull bursting like an overripe fruit.

The man's body went limp, the dagger still lodged in the beast's chest, his strength spent, his life extinguished in an instant so brief it felt unreal. And yet, it was real—too real. His comrades saw it, their voices breaking the stillness, the horror in their cries filling the cavern.

"Fang!"

They screamed his name, three voices blending into one desperate sound, but it did nothing to stop what had already been done. The headless body slumped, crumpling in a heap at the feet of the bull-like giant, whose bloodied chest heaved once more as it rose to its full, monstrous height. Its fingers, wet and dripping with the man's remains, flexed as it ignored the limp corpse now discarded beneath it.

The creature, now standing tall, hefted its axe with slow, deliberate movements, the blade rising as though lifted by death itself. It did not care for the lives it had taken. It did not care for the three remaining souls staring back at it with terror in their eyes. It cared only for the fight, for the thrill of the kill. And it was not done yet. Not by a long shot.

"Damn it! Fang, you fool!" The cry came from the woman, her voice cracking under the weight of grief. She stood there, trembling in her purple dress, hands shaking as she tried to wipe away the tears that blurred her vision, a mage powerless against the suddenness of death. Her heart beat against her ribs, too fast, too loud. And yet, there was no time to mourn. Not here. Not now.

"I'll avenge you, Fang!" came the voice of the long-eared man beside her, his face twisted with rage, eyes burning like embers as he clutched his bow. His hands were steady, though his heart pounded with fury. Vengeance was all that remained for him now, vengeance for the friend that lay headless and broken at the feet of that monstrous thing.

"Listen up, everyone! Don't falter!" The command sliced through the thick air, the one sound that gave them all something to cling to in the midst of despair. It came from the man wielding the giant sword, his voice sharp and clear. He had no time for sorrow, no time to feel the weight of the loss, though it hung heavy in the air around them like the stench of death. "Ben, keep him busy with your arrows! Luna, I trust your magic!" His orders were firm, not a question but an expectation, as if by speaking them he could force hope into the hearts of the others.

"Got it!" came the replies, almost in unison, though the tremor of fear still lingered behind their words. They knew what lay before them, the impossible fight, the blood already spilled, the blood still waiting to be spilled. And yet, they moved.

The swordsman charged first, the weight of his weapon barely slowing him as he barreled forward, a living storm of iron and flesh. His target—the creature's waist—was clear in his mind, but clearer still was the image of their late comrade's broken body, a reminder of what would happen if he hesitated, even for a second. To his side, the archer's fingers twitched on the bowstring, ready to unleash a flurry of arrows, just as he had before, as if repetition could somehow undo the horrors that had already played out. The tension in the string was nothing compared to the tension that knotted in his chest, a tight, suffocating thing, but still he aimed.

Behind them, Luna stood with her hands outstretched, trembling not from fear but from the power she called upon. Her lips moved in a silent chant, her mind focused, even as her heart wept. There was no time to falter. Not now. They moved as one, not because they believed they could win, but because they had no choice.

"Graaah!" The beast's roar rattled through the cavern like the crumbling of the earth, shaking the air as it gripped the dagger lodged deep in its chest. Its monstrous hand clenched the tiny weapon—so small it seemed like a splinter, an insult to its size, a nuisance more than a threat. The sword that had been swung against it earlier had felt just as insignificant, as if these humans thought they could pierce its hide with needles and toothpicks. And yet, the blood that leaked from its wounds made its body feel lighter, strange as it was, as though the weight of its own pain had been shed along with the blood it spilled. This lightness—this sudden awareness—was an opportunity, the kind that broke battles and left only death in its wake.

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"What is it doing—wait!" The archer's voice cracked through the tension, his realization too late, far too late to stop what was already in motion.

In a single fluid movement, the beast hurled the dagger. It flew not with the lumbering force of its size but with the swiftness of a viper's strike—silent, deadly, precise. The mage in her purple dress barely had time to blink before the dagger ripped into her stomach, its sharp edge slicing through flesh as if it were no more than paper. The force of it was unimaginable, a bullet to a sponge, her body barely absorbing the blow before it crumbled, folding inward. She felt the briefest sensation—a pressure, an emptiness inside her as the blade punctured deep, tearing through her innards with a brutal efficiency. Her stomach exploded, not with pain but with a hollowness so profound it stole her breath before she could scream. It was over in an instant, and yet in that instant, she knew everything. She felt the life pour out of her, felt the blood pooling beneath her as she fell to the cold stone, her fingers instinctively reaching toward the wound, though she knew, even before they touched the ragged flesh, that there was nothing left to save.

"Luna!" Their cries echoed through the cavern, desperate, anguished, but they were calling to a corpse. Her name fell into the ears of the dead. Her eyes, still wide with the shock of it, stared upward, unblinking, her lips frozen in the shape of a word that would never be spoken. The blood that had once flowed through her veins now spread across the floor, dark and thick, and her guts, slick and twisted, spilled out like coiled ropes, lifeless.

The beast did not spare her a second glance. Its eyes shifted to the remaining two, still standing, their weapon raised in defiance, their eyes gleaming with the same hatred, the same resolve that had filled the mage's heart only moments before. But they were frozen now, staring at the crumpled body of their comrade, and in that stillness, the beast saw its victory. It was not their strength, not their weapons that had challenged it—but their hope. And now, with her death, that hope was shattered, lying on the cold cave floor in a pool of blood.

"Bastard!" The archer's voice ripped through the thick air, raw with grief and fury, and he let loose another volley of arrows. They flew in a rain of death, each one aimed with deadly precision at the hulking creature that towered before him, too massive, too slow to evade them all. This had to be it—he would see to it that the arrows found their mark, that the beast paid in flesh and blood for what it had done. He counted them in his head: three, five, seven arrows, each one destined to pierce its hide.

It had grown tired of being this archer's target, tired from the sting of arrows tearing into its flesh, tired of being hunted by these fragile, foolish creatures since the dungeon had first formed around it. These humans—they were no different from the monsters it had fought time and time again, nothing but gnats swarming a beast, thinking they could strike it down. But the giant was done being struck.

With a sudden, guttural growl, the beast's massive hand slammed into the earth, and the ground trembled, rising in response to its will. The arrows that should have been buried in its flesh clattered harmlessly against a dome of clay, summoned from the earth itself, a shield born of rage and desperation. The arrows fell uselessly to the ground as the dome crumbled, revealing the giant beast—unscathed, untouched, and now more menacing than ever.

"No way!" The archer's voice wavered with disbelief, his eyes wide as the truth dawned on them all.

"Is that... Earth Magic?"

The words hung in the air, a realization that shattered whatever hope had lingered. The beast knew magic. Not only brute strength, not only mindless savagery, but magic, too. The humans had been fighting with all they had, and yet it still held more power, more tricks they could not match.

Before they could react, the beast lunged, moving with a speed that seemed impossible for a creature of its size, its eyes locked on the archer. He was the one who had been the most annoying, the one who had rained arrows down upon it again and again. Now, it was his turn to be hunted. The archer raised his bow, an arrow aimed directly at the beast's head. This time, there would be no mistake. But the beast was charging faster. Too fast, it evaded first three arrows with ease.

"You damned beast—"

It caught the fourth arrow in mid-flight, its massive hand closing around the slender shaft with a sickening ease. Before the archer could even comprehend what had happened, the beast drove the arrow into his shoulder, the force of the blow sending him staggering on his knee, the pain erupting through him like fire. Then came the kick—hard, brutal, and without mercy. The archer's body flew through the air like a broken training dummy, crashing toward the cavern wall, his limbs limp and helpless. Only the swordsman's desperate, last-second catch saved him from splintering against the stone.

But even that salvation felt hollow. For as they stood there, battered, bruised, and broken, they could all feel it—the hope slipping away, as fragile and fleeting as the breath in their lungs. This beast, this thing that they had thought was nothing more than brute strength and raw fury, had proven itself to be more. Magic. Intelligence. And an indomitable will to survive.

"Ben, you okay?" The swordsman's voice trembled, his hands shaking as he crouched over the wounded archer, both of them battered, their breath labored, ragged, the weight of the fight pressing down on them like the dungeon's walls themselves.

"I... I'm fine—" But the words were cut short, silenced by the earth itself, as a slab of clay, impossibly large, impossibly fast, rose from the ground and crashed down with a sickening finality. In that brief, flickering moment, the archer—Ben—pushed the swordsman aside, his last act not one of defiance, but of sacrifice. The swordsman stumbled, untouched by the weight of the slab that had fallen like a gargantuan landslide, sealing Ben beneath the earth. There was no sound, no struggle. Just the stillness of death.

"Ben!" The swordsman's voice broke, hollow, his chest heaving as the tears welled in his eyes. But even as he cried out, his words held no meaning in the cold, damp air of the dungeon. Ben was gone, and the beast—its hulking frame silhouetted in the dim light—paid no attention to the man's grief. It had no use for tears.

Its axe still in hand, the giant swung, a movement born of weariness as much as strength, the heavy blade cleaving through the air with a purpose that had grown stale. The swordsman, instinct alone guiding his trembling hands, raised his weapon in a futile defense. The clash of metal rang out, the force of the beast's strike driving the man back, his arms quivering under the strain. He leaped, desperate, scrambling away, his feet carrying him deeper into the shadows, into the maw of the dungeon's endless dark. He vanished, swallowed whole by the same dungeon that had claimed his comrades.

But the beast did not follow. It watched, eyes heavy with a fatigue that was not physical, but something deeper—something worn into its very bones. The battle was over. Another fight, another death, another survivor fleeing into the dark, clinging to a life that had already been hollowed out by fear. It had no desire to chase, no desire to kill for the sake of it. Victory tasted the same as defeat, bitter and cold. The humans would return, they always did. More bodies, more blood, more futile attempts to end it.

The beast knew this cycle well. They came with their arrogance, with their hope that they could win, that their numbers, their weapons, their magic could make a difference. But they died the same, full of terror, their faces twisted in the moment they realized it had all been for nothing. And yet, despite all this, despite the brutality it showed them, the beast knew its fight was no different from theirs. It fought because it had to, because survival was the only thing that mattered now. There was no bloodlust, no joy in the kill. Only instinct, only the endless need to survive.

It didn't know how it had come to this place, how the dungeon had swallowed it whole and forced it into this life of constant violence. But it was trapped, just like the humans. And though it fought them off, crushed them beneath its strength, it was only delaying the inevitable. More would come. They always did.

And the beast, as always, would have to fight again.