Cal's form was hidden within the shadows, his breath a controlled whisper in the gloom. The afternoon light spilled inside, casting cascading shadows into the cavern mouth. The opening of the cavern was large with boulders lining the entrance, like teeth to a giant’s mouth.

Cal had descended past the molars into a wide tunnel a small descent past the entrance. The tunnel contained many offshoots at different angles and elevations, but he had felt the familiar force of a soul treasure coming from one of the paths and had made his way to the entrance of a small nook.

The nook was more cramped than the cavern, like being inside a clenched fist. Glistening stalactites hung down, more teeth in the earth's maw. The light was dim now, and a damp, mineral smell pervaded the air. Heart pounding, Cal edged further. His fingers brushed against the cave walls, uneven and slick with moisture.

The deeper he moved inside the nook, the stronger the pull of the soul treasure. His eyes scanned the dark ahead. A glimmer caught his attention. He squinted, focusing on it - the glow on the soul-structure fruit, an iridescent orb pulsing with unseen energy. Eyes narrowed to slits, he inched closer, every muscle taut.

A soft clicking sound teased his ears as his gaze locked onto the guardian of the coveted prize—a supposedly feeble butterfly that was, in truth, a sleeping scorpion baby clad in deceptive wings. "Damn," he hissed under his breath, a curse against the treacherous system that had cleverly masked the creature's deadly nature.

Heart hammering against ribs, Cal measured each breath, knowing full well the traps he'd laid out at the tunnel entrance were now useless. This was now a game of stealth and speed, not cunning engineering.

Then, quickly, Cal grabbed forward and seized the fruit. Fingers wrapped around its cool surface, trembling not from fear but the surge of adrenaline that flooded his veins.

"Got you," he thought, the words barely a sigh as he drew back, the prize secure in his grasp. The silent victory echoed within the confines of his mind, a fleeting triumph in a situation that promised only peril.

The antennae quivered, subtle yet laden with intent. A telepathic distress signal shot through the cavern's veined walls, finding its recipient in the shadows beyond. A distant chirp reverberated, high-pitched and urgent, a call to arms that pierced the stale air and reached into Cal's very core.

"Shit."

Cal had taken a risk by not silencing the offspring outright, but the level of sentience that the mother had displayed would have risked furious retaliation or chase if he managed to escape clean or triggered a trap in some way unexpected.

He steeled himself, fruit clutched tight, as his dread grew in a crescendo. Cal knew that his only chance was to backtrack to the wide tunnel entrance to force an aerial engagement to trigger the traps or to flee even deeper into the tunnels.

Cal dashed through the tunnels pulling his dagger out, while pocketing the fruit. Cal’s choice was obvious.

The mother approached careening through the cavern’s teeth—a hiss slicing silence, wings folding back to unveil the true monster beneath. Cal's eyes widened; the creature's agility, a deadly dance of nature and nightmare, was far beyond his estimates.

"Goddess be damned," he spat. His traps, a web of hope stretched thin across the tunnel heights, lay in wait for a foe that would never take flight. The scorpion-mother skittered, an elegant menace on the ground, each movement mocking the futility of his preparations.

Cal watched as the creature weaved underneath the snares with ease. The scorpion's grace a stark contrast to his own desperation. She was no fluttering prey, but a predator honed by evolution's cruel cunning.

He narrowed his eyes, stance shifting, mind scrambling for tactics untried. The scorpion-mother advanced, stinger poised like death's own promise.

Cal’s fingers flexed around his knife.

Cal’s perception of reality split. The air tensed, as two souls braced for collision. Cal was unfamiliar with this manner of attack, and while his perception of the scorpion’s soul wasn’t clear, he could feel its powerful will bearing down on him. He was also shocked by the sudden pain coursing through his very being.

Cal swore internally – these manner of attacks would be rendered meaningless in front of oversoul.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

In an attempt to stave off damage before the scorpion even arrived, Cal focused on his bloodlust and let loose as he gave into the pure desire for combat. Cal’s will was an exertion of his soul, and it would have to do as a stopgap defense. However, a roar would still be meaningless in front of a slice or jab, nonetheless. The force of the scorpion's soul attack sent a clash that brought ripples through his soul.

"Come on, then," he taunted, his voice steady despite the internal tumult.

An invisible battle unfolded immediately ahead of a physical confrontation. The scorpion came in testing Cal with its claws, in slow, but powerful snaps. Cal, with a range disadvantage waited for an opening to enter stabbing range. The scorpion swept with its left pincer, and simultaneously hammered Cal’s soul.

Cal pivoted, his lean frame coiling as the scorpion lunged. Muscles screamed, every dodge a dance with mortality. The stinger remained a quiet shadow gazing at him like a whisper of doom. Sweat beaded on his brow, each drop a testament to the strain, with the cool of the cave offering little relief.

As Cal jumped in to capitalize on one of the scorpion’s swipes, he observed the movement of the stinger. His blade sliced forward as a feint to draw out an attack, but the stinger was still.

His soul hammered instead, a pulsating shield deflecting the scorpion's psychic thrusts. Cal attempted to fight it off, but it demanded attention, energy sapping from his physical reserves with each spectral parry. He couldn't sustain both; his mind split between two fronts, the battlefield of the soul and the unforgiving earth beneath his feet.

"Concentrate," Cal commanded himself, drawing upon only his will to survive.

He left his soul to fend for itself, a bastion amidst the tempest, and turned his focus to the tangible threat before him. The scorpion's chitinous form proved an enigma of offense and defense, its wings tucked back, revealing the menace beneath.

The creature's attacks came as a torrent, and with each near miss, Cal's soul cataloged the cost—new aches blossoming where there had been none. His strategy morphed with necessity, his strong soul a lifeline.

Cal taunted the scorpion to attack, his mind fraying against the onslaught.

The scorpion's pincers snapped, seeking to grasp, to crush. But Cal was water, flowing around the traps of certain death, his training a rhythm ingrained deep within muscle memory.

Yet even as he sought advantage physically, his soul waned, the unseen guardian flagging under the unrelenting siege. With each blow dodged, another phantom lash cut at his essence, the pain a distant echo that threatened to crescendo into a roar.

His breath came ragged, a rhythm disrupted by necessity, his body pushed to the edge. And still, the stinger loomed, a harbinger of demise, ever-present and insatiable.

It came.

The scorpion lunged, its soul a vengeful storm against Cal's own and the stinger followed. The tempest broke upon him like waves upon a cliff—for the agony of Temp earlier mistake had carved him into something harder, something enduring.

Its wings, deceptive in their beauty, sliced through the air with lethal intent hoping to catch Cal off guard. Each beat was a blade, each flutter a strike aimed at his life. But Cal was not there; he was shadow, he was the whisper of a threat that never materialized slipping underneath the behemoth.

Cal had a dexterity superiority to this scorpion, barely staving him from execution. Underneath Cal sliced the scorpion’s undercarriage while rolling to find a spot near its center of gravity. He then used the ground for leverage and kicked.

Cal’s massive pool of strength came into effect and the scorpion shot upwards towards the snares and traps lining the top half of the tunnel.

The scorpion reeled, pain igniting fury in its compound eyes. Direhog tusks viciously buried into its carapace and all manners of nets tangled its claws. Cal braced for the backlash, for the inevitable desperation of a cornered beast. He could not relent, not now, not when victory hung by so slender a thread.

He danced back, a step, then forward, closing the distance to the weakening scorpion. His eyes sought the imperfection in its armor. He struck, his blade a silver flash in the dim light, meeting chitin with a satisfying crunch.

A flash of agony. An arrow burrowed deep through Cal’s hobbled direhog hide armour, its tip erupting from Cal's chest. His breath hitched, a strangled gasp lost in the cavern's maw.

"Damn," he gritted out, staggering, the pain a white-hot brand searing his senses.

Another arrow cleaved the air, a whisper of death grazing his ear. He ducked instinctively, a hair's breadth from oblivion. The scorpion, too, reeled — a third shaft quivering in its thorax, the point driven clean through.

"Who—" Cal started, but there was no time for questions. Only survival mattered now. He clutched at the embedded arrow, his fingers slick with blood, mind racing. The scorpion twitched and screeched as life ebbed away, struggling to unwind from the nets .

He sidestepped another silent assailant—an arrow biting the dust where he stood moments before. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the shadows, searching for the unseen archer. But focus split between adversaries made for a dangerous game.

Cal knew this hunt was over. The scorpion's demise was sealed; now, he only needed to escape the unseen bowman's aim. The hunt had turned, the hunter now the prey, and Cal Run would not be so easily fooled into the role of prey as well.

Cal lunged into the shadows, the cool dampness of the tunnel swallowing him whole. Each breath came ragged, his chest an inferno of agony where the arrow had claimed its territory. He couldn't afford hesitation; the bowman's patience was a clear testament to skill.

He panted, teeth clenched against the pain. The walls of the cavern closed in around him, slick with moisture. His hands brushed against the jagged stone, finding purchase in the darkness as he propelled himself forward.

The path twisted, turned, a serpentine route etched by nature or some otherworldly force. His mind warned of traps, of dead ends, but Cal pushed the thoughts away. There was only the next step, the next breath.